“At least the company’s tolerable there. A few Aussies, a Canadian or two and a couple of fellow Americans. Not a snooty-nosed Limey in sight apart from the instructors,” she replied, giving him a wink. “DSU Dresden says you lot have done an outstanding job with the rest of the interviews,” she praised them.
“Rubbish! Dresden wouldn’t know a compliment if it bit her in the bum,” Quinn said, looking her straight in the eye, his words informing everyone he knew the praise was from her. She waited for the expected sneer to crawl back into his voice, but it didn’t.
Reuben laughed loudly. “What do you figure a compliment would look like hanging off Dresden’s rear end?”
“About as pretty as a Yank brown nosing.” Even his punch line lacked his usual acid.
“Quinn, my lad, is your arse jealous of the amount of shit that comes out of your mouth?” Eli snapped his gum to give emphasis to his words before lifting his ever-present mug to his lips and taking a slurp of the deep brown liquid.
Bex was pleasantly surprised at the defense. Perhaps her team didn’t hate her as much as she believed?
“I don’t know about you guys, but I have a shit load of homework to complete before tomorrow’s training class, so can someone please give me the lowdown about how the case is stacking up against Bon Galliers?”
“After some persuasion Jemma Winship finally coughed to being responsible for hooking Clara onto ketamine,” Idris responded. “She also identified the phone as the one Clara purchased and confirmed it was the same one that Bon grabbed off Clara the night he came over. That consolidates the evidence that puts the phone in Bon’s possession and strengthens the supposition the threats originated from Bon. I’ve put in a request to the telco for location information each time one of those texts was sent. We can then link that to Bon’s whereabouts and hopefully nail that on the head.”
“I like it. If we can prove location links to Bon, that strengthens our case that the crime was pre-meditated,” Bex said. “Have we confirmed how Bon obtained the ketamine?”
The four men exchanged furtive glances, their shifty expressions sending a nervous tingle down her spine.
“Phillip Galliers admits nothing. The bottle of ketamine mouthwash proves Bon was in possession but doesn’t prove he was supplying Clara with drugs. All the evidence we have on the drug deals leads to Clara’s door, since she was in possession of the phone on the dates of those texts. The statements we gathered from her neighbors confirm some odd comings and goings late at night,” Idris said, a pen moving rhythmically between his fingers.
“What about tracking down the source of some of the texts and asking the senders if they got the ketamine from Clara or Bon? Phillip Galliers did admit that Bon was asking a lot of questions about the surgery’s supply of ketamine,” Bex pointed out. “That’s a lead we could follow up.”
“But that’s not a politically expedient line of inquiry,” Quinn said.
Bex’s shocked glance met Quinn’s watchful eyes. He ran an absent hand over his five o’clock shadow while he waited for her to absorb his words.
“What Quinn means is the drug inquiry is superfluous to the case we’ve built to present in Coroner’s Court,” Idris said. “We have enough evidence for a determination of unlawful killing.”
“Every cloud has a silver lining, right?” Quinn’s voice dripped with cynicism. “By dropping the line of inquiry on the drugs, we ensure Lord Dunreath gets to keep an untarnished rep and the Met gets no complaints about the Youth Crimes Team.”
“Quid pro quo?” Bex raised an eyebrow in his direction.
“More like, the amount of drugs in Bon’s possession and in Clara’s blood were so minor they simply don’t warrant the man hours it would take to resolve where they originated,” Idris argued. “Clara and Bon are both dead so it’s not like we’d be laying charges against them or helping them get off the ketamine. As Dresden says, it’s all about perspective. We’ve enough evidence to prove the case against Bon, and, thanks to Bex, we’re credited with catching a high-profile murderer who went totally under the radar. We can spend the next few months fighting for this unit not to end up on the slag heap or we can bask in the media adulation when Dresden releases the findings and move onto the next case.”
Bex nibbled her lower lip. Dresden had an agenda of course. In the short time she had known her, Bex had gathered that her commanding officer had her eye on the main prize and understood how to be politically expedient. If fighting off an internal inquiry didn’t result in the team being disbanded, it would certainly leave it tainted in the eyes of Dresden’s superiors and would overshadow what they’d accomplished in their first case.
Bex hadn’t come to London to contest political battles, she wanted to be in charge of solving crimes. Zane’s words reverberated in her head. “Choose your battles, Bex. You don’t have the energy to fight every son of a bitch out there, so make sure you choose the struggles that’ll make a difference.”
She felt their eyes on her, looking for direction. Was this the situation Dresden had in mind when she said, “You’re the team leader. Go show them some leadership”?
“It’s the right decision. It makes sense to leverage our results for the benefit of the team. Haggling with internals would be a lost cause.”
A low murmur of agreement rippled around the circle of faces fronting her and Bex observed postures relax, all excerpt Quinn.
He thrust his chair back and stood up, smoothing down his tie with one hand. “Nice to know where you stand on the practicalities of policing.” His voice was freighted with disapproval of her decision.
Brash, arrogant, righteous bastard! What does he expect me to do?
He plucked his jacket from behind the chair and slung it over his shoulder. Preparing to leave, he came to an abrupt stop as he passed close to her. “By the way, how did you figure out Evie Butterworth’s guilt?”
“Yeah, that came out of left field,” Reuben exclaimed. “It took us all by surprise. What made you suspect her?”
Bex had no intention of revealing the reason for confronting Evie. Pursuing the secret of forgiveness for her own salvation, she had learned instead to extend a modicum of mercy to herself. It was a small triumph, but a victory nonetheless, to realize that she had never used her own suffering as an excuse to hunt down and kill the driver who had caused Zane’s crash.
Quinn was a head taller than her, and so close she could smell just a hint of muskiness underneath his expensive cologne. As they stood facing each other, Bex felt her pulse kick up a notch. He really was strikingly handsome, she realized. Yet his proximity and the hard, suspicious look he shot her unnerved her so that she edged backwards.
“Let’s just call it female intuition.” Her voice came out sounding husky. She cleared her throat self-consciously, avoiding his eyes.
Quinn shrugged, an indication he didn’t believe her. A ghost of a smile shadowed his lips. “Bollocks! But good job anyway,” he acknowledged. “Although I’m not sure you’ve done anyone any favors by saving this team from extinction.”
“Your insults are getting predictable,” she told him, trying out a smile. Her lips moved stiffly, the muscles felt rusty as she performed the forgotten action, but she thought her mouth moved in the right direction.
THE END
STOLEN DAUGHTERS
BOOK 2
BRITISH CRIME WITH AN
AMERICAN TWIST
Table of Contents
About this book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 1
Fairbridge House College
Friday, 21 July
When the man in the ski mask turned his gun from her head to her sister’s, three facts flashed through Hannah Morgan’s stunned mind.
The first was the shocking realization that her older sister Imogen didn’t actually hate her because she sacrificed her own safety to draw the glassy-eyed stranger’s attention away from her. She had never seen defiance course through Imogen the way it had when the stranger placed his gun against her temple.
The second was that twelve was not too young to face death.
And, as she watched the man force Imogen to her knees and zip open his jeans, the third thing she learned was that death was not the worst nightmare she might have to face in life.
Whimpering, Hannah curled herself into a ball, and wished with all her might that she could turn back time. Less than an hour ago she had been buzzing with the anticipation of weeks of lazy summer days strung ahead of her. No classes. No homework. No boring teachers. No snotty-nosed putdowns from Alicia and her minions to suffer through. Her most burning problem had been how to survive the first two weeks of the long summer holiday without her best friend Livvy.
On the last day of school at Fairbridge House College, tradition dictated that classes ended at lunchtime. The air around them was slick with laughter and excited chatter. As the siren sounded their release, Livvy hitched her skirt and unleashed her mane of chocolate curls from their restraining hair tie.
“I thought I was going to cark it before Stidolph’s end of year speech ended,” Livvy groused as the girls bolted through the administration building so Hannah’s name could be checked off the bus list. “I swear it was longer than the entire fourth term!”
“And what’s with Imogen getting the Endeavour Book Award?” Hannah demanded as they broke away from the crowd so Hannah could join the bus line. Normally the two girls caught the bus together but today Livvy’s mother was waiting in the parking lot to pick her up because the Renshaws were flying out that afternoon to Corfu for ten days of hot sun, white sand and, in Livvy’s case, colorful mocktails. “The only work she’s ever poured her heart and soul into is being a grade A bitch to me.”
Livvy giggled. “I saw you looking salty at her. Sure it didn’t have anything to do with her blackmailing you over Theo?” Livvy’s voice was sly.
Hannah rolled her eyes until only the whites showed as she said with feeling, “Hell yeah!”
It seemed to Hannah that when Imogen started high school two years ago she had morphed from protective big sister to a pre-teen too cool to be seen with her kid sister. Their interactions deteriorated into a never-ending stream of squabbles.
At the beginning of this school year, when Hannah finally joined Imogen on her bus trips to high school, Imogen had quickly disabused her of any illusions that their bond might be repaired. Instead it had sunk to lower depths. When their parents had been on the verge of gifting a smart phone to her, Imogen had kicked up a stink, claiming they’d made her wait until year eight.
All Hannah’s assurances of good behavior and pleas that she was the only one in her class without a phone had only resulted in growing tension that caused massive rows between her parents, mainly conducted behind closed doors. Hannah had heard her mother yell, “something’s got to give!” Her brief hope that she had been defending her daughter’s right to a phone died when her parents jointly announced, “Imogen’s got a point, we have to be fair to both of you. So, you’ll get a phone next year.”
Hannah had ground her teeth and launched a bitter offensive against Imogen that consisted of hiding her phone whenever Imogen left it unattended.
“Your sis is such a douchebag! But now that school’s out she can’t blackmail you any longer can she?” Livvy said in a consoling voice.
Hannah’s eyes clouded and she shot a dark look towards Imogen who joined the back of the line with a clump of girls from her class. She let out an exasperated sigh. “You haven’t heard the latest!”
Livvy leaned in closer. “Worse than threatening to tell your home class that Theo didn’t even remember he’d danced with you?”
Hannah’s heart filled with rancor at the memory of Imogen’s betrayal. Her lack of phone had driven her to desperate action five weeks ago, when she clandestinely used her sister’s phone to call Theo.
Thirteen-year-old Theo Exton-Hill with his après-ski tan, bold blue eyes and smoking-hot smile that hinted he wasn’t as gentlemanly as his name indicated had set her heart racing at the mid-term social between their girls-only school and the local boys-only grammar school.
He had danced with her twice and she had been close enough to smell the clean sandalwood scent of his floppy, newly washed hair as he gyrated beside her. Too shy to do anything more, it was Livvy who had managed to extract his phone number for her and urged her to use it before Alicia got her hooks into him.
It had taken nearly a week for Hannah to scrunch up the courage to call and by then Livvy’s parents had confiscated her phone for some transgression. In desperation Hannah had sneaked Imogen’s phone to make the vital call, only to be confronted by Theo’s voicemail. Filled with panic she had simply hung up.
Finding an unknown number in her phone log, Imogen had redialed and discovered Hannah’s clandestine crush. She also discovered that Theo didn’t remember Hannah from the dance.
“The bitch from hell says she going to call Theo pretending to be me unless I keep making her life jammy,” Hannah seethed.
Beside her, Livvy made a face indicating sympathy, even as her eyes flicked towards the parking lot. “What a dickhead if he believes she’s you!” Livvy protested loyally. “Gotta run, Babe. Catch you in two weeks!” Livvy squeezed her hard to make up for her desertion. “Don’t let Imogen get you down. Once the fam is back in London you can virtually live at my place over the summer,” she promised, while Hannah hugged her gratefully. “Maybe by then you’ll even have your own phone.”
Hannah untangled herself from Livvy’s grasp and hefted her school bag over one shoulder as the line began to shuffle forward.
As Livvy sauntered away, Hannah let her mind drift to endless summer days filled with window shopping, sipping iced lattes, or eyeing up the hot boys from the local comprehensive to get her mind off Theo. She followed the girl in front, stepping up into the bright orange bus. She paused to greet the driver.
“How’s your wife, Singham?”
A half-moon of very white teeth showed in a grin as he answered, “Getting as big as a house, little miss! The baby’s kicking and squirming and sitting on her kidneys, she says,” he singsonged.
Someone prodded Hannah in the back and she moved forward to let the others crowd up the steps behind her.
“Good day, little misses! It is so heart-warming to see you all smiling so brightly for the last day of school!” Singham greeted them with his beaming smile.
Hannah had heard some of the other students parody Singham’s over the top cheerfulness and she thought that was not only mean but daft. Did they prefer to have a grumpy driver yelling at them for the whole trip home instead of Singham who seemed to love his job?
Hannah and Livvy’s usual seats were just ahead of the middle of the bus. It was careful positioning that kept them clear of the rebellious kids who took over the back seats and the cool kids who sat a few seats from the back, yet far enough away from the girls who sat at the front of the bus and were ridiculed for being nerds o
r goodie-two-shoes.
Today, she hesitated, watching rectangles of midday light fall from the side windows across the bucket seats and stained the floor. The bus was going to be packed wall-to-wall. Without Livvy on the bus, she didn’t want to sit next to anyone else. She slipped straight behind Singham into the only single seat on the bus and watched the crush of girls shuffle and shove their way along the aisle, their heads bent over phones and tablets.
She averted her face, but still caught sight of Imogen in her peripheral vision. Through the haze of sunlight, her blond hair gleamed like a straight gold curtain, not a hair out of place, as Imogen stooped over her.
“I need forty quid for a new dress. Forever 21’s got a sale on. So cough up your pocket money when we get home,” she hissed.
“You know I don’t have forty quid!”
“That’s not my problem. And you forgot to make my bed this morning.”
“Sorry, I was running late.” Hannah hated herself for groveling to Imogen’s every wish, but the humiliating thought that Imogen would disclose Theo’s rejection to Alicia and her gang of stuck-up princesses kept her enslaved.
Imogen swung back into the aisle, roughly knocking her school bag against Hannah’s shoulder. Hannah rubbed the sore spot, twisting in her seat to send a sour gaze and a rude two-fingered salute after her sister’s retreating form.
Nonchalantly, as though she’d done it a million times before, Imogen hiked her bag onto a seat in the back third of the bus—the traditional domain of the older, cooler kids. With all of sixth form and the GCSE students already on break, there was no one to challenge her stake to this precious real estate.
“Buckle up, little misses, we are on our way!” Singham’s voice spilled over their heads.
Obediently, Hannah strapped on her lap sash. Most of the girls around her ignored the safety instruction as an easy way to show their contempt for authority.
The humming engine roared into gear and the bus lurched out of the parking lot. It wouldn’t make its first stop for nearly a mile. Anyone who lived closer to the school either walked or biked their way in. Hannah was aware that a couple of sixth formers drove themselves, while the boarders didn’t need transport. Hannah knew one girl in her class who traveled an hour each way on public transport.
Bex Wynter Box Set Page 15
