Jack Rutherford and Amanda Lacey Box Set

by Linda Coles

  “Say it, then.”

  “I don’t need to, do I? You already know.”

  He stood up straight, forcing his shoulders back with a crunch. His bones and sinews sounded like twigs on a forest floor being trampled over by walkers. He needed to see the osteopath again; the stress from Callum’s death was adding to his discomfort. He yawned to get some oxygen into his lungs.

  “I’ll get you a glass of water. Go and sit down,” Jean said, putting a comforting hand on her husband’s forearm. He did as she instructed and plopped himself onto the hard chair by the kitchen table. It scraped loudly over the tiled floor as it moved a couple of inches under his weight. Jean rejoined him, holding a glass for each of them.

  “We should contact Bryson,” he said. “He should be able to suggest who can help with this mess. We’ll need more than a trust lawyer if the police start looking out for their own. They’ll not be damned about the loss of our son, mark my words.” He was staring at a fly that had landed on the corner of the table and was now rubbing its legs together, cleaning itself. The bristles on its body twitched as it sensed the world around it. Maybe it would pick up on the sombre mood in the kitchen. Having tasted whatever it had landed on, the fly lifted off with precision, propelling itself forward at breakneck speed for something with a body and inner engine so incredibly small. Brian watched it soar into the air and out the open back door, where it had presumably flown in from in the first place. He felt like flying away somewhere himself, somewhere he wouldn’t have to deal with the shit storm that could well be ahead. There was no way they were going to accept anything but the truth, he vowed: the name of Callum Parker was not going to be buried, tainted or disrespected by dirty police officers.

  “How do you think he knew?” Nicola said. “I mean, that chap who came around last night and told us? And who was he?”

  Brian rubbed his chin. How indeed had he known?

  “Did he leave his name or contact details?” he asked her. “Do you remember? I was in a fog last night, still am really, as I’m sure you are. It’s been a hell of a twenty-four hours for us both.”

  Jean’s chair scraped on the tiles as she stood and walked to the pin board on the fridge. If she’d written it down, it would be clipped in place; it was the only way to keep track of things. He watched his wife scan the bits and bobs held in place with tiny plastic clips, but she didn’t pull anything off.

  “There’s nothing hung here,” she said, “so that means no. It would be here if they had.”

  She moved to sit back at the table, and the repeat shrill sound of the chair on tile made Brian wanted to yell out. His nerves were frazzled at the ends, but there was no point upsetting Jean with his own wants and needs; she was acting like a zombie herself.

  “I do have the name of the detective that came around, though,” she told him. “Perhaps I can call her. Perhaps she’d know who was involved?”

  It was a long shot, and Brian couldn’t see it being of use, but he had no better idea. Why on earth would the police know who had come to their house and informed them the man who’d killed their son was a police officer? It didn’t make any sense. A more sensible approach would be to return to the scene of the crime and knock on doors in the vicinity to find the visitor from last night.

  To pacify Jean, he said, “I’ll ring her, but first I’m going to get some air. I need to clear my head a little. Will you be alright on your own for an hour?” He looked at her puffy pink eyes and wished he could ease her pain, as well as his own. They’d clung to each other in grief when they’d returned home from the hospital, and he knew she also hadn’t slept much. No doubt they’d both collapse and take a nap together later.

  “I’ll be fine. You go. You look as exhausted as I feel. It will do you good.”

  With a weak smile, he gathered his car keys off the work surface and headed out into the morning air. It was still cool, but the day had high hopes of being another warm one; the sun was already working on burning through the puce-coloured clouds. He’d be back home by the time it did.

  It didn’t take Brian Parker long to arrive at the crash site. He pulled over onto the grass verge and got out and stretched his legs. The lane was covered with a canopy of leafy overhanging branches, the sunlight sparkling through as the breeze caught them and created gaps wide enough to give an almost magical light show. On another day, he’d have appreciated Mother Nature’s spectacle, but not today.

  The road was cleared of debris, though there was spray marker paint still visible on the tarmac; broken glass had been swept onto the side of the road, and it glinted as the sun caught it. Whose car it had belonged to he didn’t know. Maybe it was from a previous collision on another day. It didn’t look much like a crime scene; simply a crash scene. Nobody had died here; there was no blue and white police tape cordoning it off. Not now, at least. He stood by the grassy ditch and listened to the wind rattling in the leaves above. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes. Not a religious man, Brian found himself saying a prayer anyway, even though he knew it wouldn’t bring his son back. It did, however, bring fresh tears to his eyes, and he let them slip down his face unchallenged.

  Then, just like the fly earlier, the bristles on his own body sensed that the world around him had changed.

  Somebody was standing next to him.

  Chapter Twelve

  After Amanda had been taken off by DCI Japp, Jack took the opportunity to dig out the case file on the one he had been reminded of; he didn’t have anything else pressing. He was entitled to a lunch hour, wasn’t he? And who knew how long Amanda would be. He entered the details he knew of into the crime reporting information system, CRIS for short, and waited for it to do its thing. Since the case in question was around fifteen years ago, he didn’t need to go digging into dusty archives in the bowels of London. He was thankful; he hated mice. Several cases filled the screen and he scrolled down to find the one he was after. He made himself comfortable as he browsed through the scanned documents, clicking the print icon for the interesting or useful pages. He kept one eye on the door for Amanda, or worse, Japp, reappearing.

  He was about finished when he spotted Amanda entering the squad room, her cheeks flushed. He doubted she’d been having a good ol’ time in the broom cupboard, so that meant one thing. She caught his eye and waved backwards with a flick of her head for Jack to follow her. He hastily grabbed a manila folder off a nearby desk, scattering its contents onto the floor as he dashed to the printer and stuffed his freshly printed bedtime reading into it, all in a roundabout way of walking over to his boss. He didn’t want others knowing what he was interested in—not yet, anyway.

  Amanda raised a tweezered eyebrow in question at the mess he’d created in his wake, clearly wondering what he was doing with the folder. Jack ignored it. He caught her up as she left the room. In the corridor, she took a couple of loud, deep breaths and headed towards the canteen, Jack in tow like an obedient Labrador. Eventually she’d fill him in, he knew, so he didn’t bother asking what was afoot. The double doors were still swinging from someone else entering or leaving, and he caught them with his foot for Amanda. She still hadn’t said anything, though her obvious temper was dissipating. He held a plastic chair out for her and she flopped down like a sack of spuds. Designer suits didn’t maketh this woman. Amanda preferred functional clothing, including the Dr. Martens she wore each day, come rain or shine. You could, however, see your reflection in their gleaming, polished finish.

  “Tea or coffee? And are you having lunch in here?” he asked. There was a welcoming smell of pie and chips wafting from the kitchen, and Jack hoped she’d be joining him.

  “Tea, thanks, and whatever you’re having.”

  Jack grinned and headed over to place their order, carrying back two steaming mugs of tea. Fighting irons were in a metal holder in the centre of the table, and he took out two sets of knives and forks, placing one in front of each of them.

  “Thanks. Are you playing Dad?”

  “
Mrs Stewart is training me well,” he said, and smiled.

  “I can see that. She was a good buy, then, was she?”

  Amanda and her partner Ruth had organised for a housekeeper when Jack had found himself in hospital with appendicitis and they’d realised he needed a little assistance in the homemaking department. He’d never remarried after his Janine had died, and he’d desperately needed the guidance of a woman’s touch. Mrs Stewart was that woman now, though only on an employed basis. They did, however, go to lawn bowls together. But as Mrs Stewart was a good fifteen years older than Jack, Amanda didn’t think they’d become lovebirds anytime soon. She had made Jack happier at home, though, as well as more presentable and better fed.

  “I don’t know how I’ve managed all these years, looking back. I hope she’s not thinking of croaking it and leaving me for a while yet. Call me selfish, but it’s a pleasure to spend time at home again. The fridge is always full of goodies, like in the movies.”

  Amanda had relaxed a little, and Jack figured he could broach the subject of what had been rattling her after Japp’s summons.

  “What’s Jim-lad have to say, then? There was more steam coming from your ears than that kitchen behind me.” He figured he might as well give her a nudge.

  “The Parkers know about Dupin,” she said. “Don’t ask me who told them, but it’s out there. Japp has a press conference organised.”

  Jack had figured as much; it would have been only a matter of time anyway. Now it was out, though earlier than expected.

  “A neighbour, by chance?”

  “I’d say so. Or a leak. I’d prefer the former.”

  “I’ll find out who lives near the accident scene. It was bound to be a witness or a nosey neighbour.” He made a mental note to look up the inhabitants of that stretch of road after his pie and chips. He opened the manila folder by his elbow now and flicked through the top sheets, scanning the text and reacquainting himself with the case. It had taken place some years ago. Amanda sat silently, watching.

  “What’s the case about, then? I’m assuming it’s the one you mentioned earlier.”

  “It is. It goes back to my earlier days, long before you arrived on the scene. A rather different time to be a cop back then, the way we did things. Couldn’t get away with it now,” he said almost longingly. “Though sometimes I wish I could give the odd one a good slap or shake their bones until their teeth rattle.”

  When a pervert or murderer was sat opposite you with their brief advising ‘no comment,’ shaking their bones was only the beginning of what you’d like to do to them. Especially if children had been hurt or lost. Holding the file up in the air, Jack announced, “This is the file of a man still inside eighteen years on. And he was in the exact same circumstances as Dopey Dupin is in now.”

  Their pie and chips arrived. Jack reached for the brown sauce and squirted a dollop onto the side of his plate. He picked a chip up and dunked it. “Allow me to tell you the story,” he said, biting into it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A little over 15 years ago

  DC Jack Rutherford watched as DS Eddie Edwards threw Michael Hardesty up against the wall – for a second time. Spittle collected at the corners of Edwards’ mouth as he shot accusations at the man cowering in front of him, his face clenched up tightly, eyes firmly closed. He looked to Jack like a kid who was waiting for a slap from the back of a parent’s hand. Eddie had always had a short fuse, but of late had found it even harder to control his temper. He knew he needed to work at it to keep it in check, and so did his team.

  Jack was going to give the man five seconds more before he stepped in himself. He counted backwards in his head from five down to one before he lurched forward to stop his sergeant from doing something he’d later regret. And to save the suspect from a bloody nose.

  “You’ve made your point. Let the man sit back down,” he ordered. Even though Eddie was his superior, he sat.

  The two of them had worked together long enough for Eddie to know that Jack was usually right in situations like this. For the life of him, Jack couldn’t figure out how or why Eddie had been promoted. Although he wasn’t complaining about still being a DC himself, he chafed at how Eddie took advantage of his new title and regularly offloaded on his team instead of showing leadership and drive to get things done. Fortunately for Eddie, his direct boss was no different than he was: DI Will Morton preferred the racing pages and a lunchbox of ham and mustard pickle on white to putting his mind to police work. He therefore never saw the need to keep Eddie Edwards in check; why bother? Retirement loomed in the near distance for the DI, after which his successor would take over. Whoever that would be. So, for the time being anyway, Eddie was safe from being picked up and reprimanded for his behaviour; it was too much like hard work for Morton to contemplate.

  Eddie sat back in his chair now, glaring at the suspect in front of him. Jack glared at Eddie in return and then interjected to give Eddie some time to calm down; he was getting nowhere with the man.

  “Mr Hardesty,” he started, calmly. Comfy cop to Eddie’s ‘in your face’ cop. “Everyone knows you hit that driver. There are witnesses, and I understand you’re not disputing it, either. But that poor man is now lying in the morgue because of that thump, and that puts you in a good deal of trouble.”

  Michael Hardesty kept his head hung low, listening but exhausted. He’d been either in the cells or the interview room being grilled for almost 24 hours, and tiredness was catching up with him. He knew he’d be charged soon enough, and remand was not somewhere he’d want to spend the next six months. But the manslaughter charge was looking more like a murder charge, as Eddie Edwards was arguing he’d planned it.

  “There is plenty of evidence pointing towards you. We've done our homework, you know,” Eddie went on. “You and the victim go back a long way, and we’ve had you both in here for various spats in the recent months. Now he’s dead and you expect us to believe that it was an accident, that it was manslaughter? Well, I'm telling you, Hardesty, you're going down for murder, and if I have my way, you'll get the maximum.”

  Jack watched, without saying another word; it wasn't his place. Eddie was in charge of the interview. It was his gig; he held the authority of the two of them. But that didn't mean it felt right in Jack's stomach. While it was true that Michael and the man he was now accused of killing had a long and sometimes violent history together, it was unfortunate that Michael Hardesty had now killed his arch-enemy. He'd picked a bad family to deal with.

  The McAllister family had a rough and torrid reputation, and had ruled parts of London for as long as Jack could remember. The Hardestys weren't quite in the same league, but the two families allowed each other to exist as long as they didn't get too cheeky and overstep territory. It also helped that they were in slightly different lines of criminal business: the McAllisters focused on illegal gambling and money-laundering, while the Hardesty family complemented their services with pills for the clubbing scene. But the previous evening, the two men had come to blows, quite literally, when their cars had collided at a junction in the centre of Croydon.

  Even though it had been nearly midnight when the crash happened, there had been plenty of eyewitnesses who could corroborate the story that Chesney McAllister had struck first, but it had been Michael Hardesty who had thrown the punch that had stopped everything. Thinking he had merely knocked the man out, Hardesty had then left the scene, leaving McAllister lying on the pavement unconscious—or so he thought. When McAllister hadn’t come back round, someone had called an ambulance and he’d been taken to hospital, where he’d been pronounced dead on arrival. An hour later, the police had knocked at Hardesty's house. And that was how he’d found himself in the interview room at Croydon police station with DS Eddie Edwards and DC Jack Rutherford.

  “I'm sure you realise the trouble you’re already in, Hardesty, and this isn't going away,” Eddie continued. “There will be an autopsy in the morning, and no doubt that will confirm what we already
know. You threw the killer punch, and he was probably dead before he hit the pavement. But let me ask you this: why didn't you check for a pulse before you just walked off? Like any other decent human being would have done?”

  “I thought I’d simply knocked him out, that's all. I hadn't planned on killing him, as you suggest. Why would I?” It was the longest sentence Hardesty had uttered during the repeated hours of questioning.

  “Because your two families have been warring for the last ten years, to my knowledge. That's why.”

  “We coexisted. We each knew where the line in the sand was. We had our spats, but we worked things out. And do you not think that I would be safer if Chesney McAllister was alive rather than dead?” Hardesty’s eyes were bloodshot with exhaustion, but his words made sense. To Jack, anyway. Why would he risk the shit-fest that would fall on him and his family? It didn’t make sense. The McAllister brothers were hardcore—Mac and Cheese, they were affectionately called.

  Jack grunted that he had a point. “Well, you’re in one sticky position now, then. I wouldn't want to be in your shoes. The McAllister family have long tentacles, and those tentacles reach into all sorts of sweaty crevices, whether you’re home sleeping with Barb in bed or safely bunking with your new best friend in a remand centre.” Jack put air quotes around the word ‘safely,’ knowing full well that a remand centre was far from safe. He looked at his watch—they didn’t have much time left. Jack wondered what would happen in the time they had. Could they charge him, or would they have to release him? How much evidence did they have that wasn’t circumstantial? A couple of witnesses to a fight was not enough to show premeditated murder. Regardless, he wondered if maybe Hardesty was better off in the police cell downstairs for protection, because Mac McAllister would be out on the prowl looking for the killer of his brother. And when he found him …