Quinn knew Dresden was going to kick his arse from here to the Isle of Wight, but he couldn’t refuse Eli. Besides he was right, the more eyes they had the quicker they could get results.
Chapter 10
Third floor, New Scotland Yard
“Quinn, I’ve pinpointed a sighting of the bus going off route!” Eli called out.
Moving quickly, Quinn dodged around desks to bend over Eli’s shoulder. “What have you got?”
“I have confirmed sightings for the bus following its route from the school, all the way until Welwright Lane. It should have continued along Chatston Avenue, instead it veered left. I’ve searched, but Welwright’s totally off the grid. It’s a residential one way.”
“Any sightings of the bus after that?”
“No. Nothing. Welwright exits at the intersection with Collins Street. The street camera’s broken. I’m searching for footage from commercial properties in the area.”
“Okay, good work. I’ll take a car and drive out to…”
“Quinn! You’ll want to hear this!” Idris interrupted him.
Quinn straightened and looked over to Idris, who kept his huge frame seated. Quinn smiled tightly, suspecting Idris wanted to keep the upper hand by forcing him to approach his desk. Reuben, sensing tension, swiveled his head between the two men.
Quinn felt his irritation rise at the power play. Didn’t Idris realize that solving this case was more important than establishing territorial dominance over the team? He slid easily around Reuben to perch on Idris’s desk, compelling Idris to look up at him.
“Don’t keep us in suspense,” he said.
“I put a call in earlier to Bromley Police to see if there had been any unusual activity over the last twenty-four hours. Nothing until now. A resident on Welwright Lane just called in a dead body and Bromley Police have picked it up.”
Eli’s head jerked. “Identification?” he croaked hoarsely.
“Just one?” Reuben said at the same time.
“Male, late forties. Had a wallet with his driver’s license. His name is Patel, Singham Patel,” Idris answered.
Quinn frowned. “Any idea who he is?”
“That’s the school bus driver, according to the notes I took from the Nimble Bus Line,” answered Reuben.
Quinn jolted upright from his slouch on Idris’s desk. “What else was found at the scene?”
“If you’re hoping for the bus, you’re going to be disappointed,” Idris replied.
“Okay, too much to hope for. How was he killed?”
“One shot, apparently. Middle of the forehead. The killer sounds like a professional. There was no stuffing around. But we’ll have to wait for the post mortem to get the details,” Idris continued.
“Do you think that’s the shot we heard on the voice mail recording?” asked Reuben.
Quinn glanced at Eli, who had slumped again, head resting between his hands.
“Good chance,” Idris answered.
“How did the caller find him?” Quinn asked.
“He lives on the street. Came home from work half an hour ago and found a body had been dumped over his front fence. It couldn’t be seen from the street, only when this guy opened the gate to walk up to his front door.”
“Idris, I need you to go out door-knocking. Talk to every resident in Welwright Lane. All the evidence points to the school bus being there. A bus is bloody big and hard to miss. Someone must have noticed something.”
Quinn returned to Eli’s side and dropped a hand on his slumped shoulder. “Mate, this is no place for you right now. You really need to go home to support Sydney.”
“She’s got her own support group going. All the parents are hanging out at our place. There’s going to be an all-night vigil, with people camped out on sofas and the floor in sleeping bags. If I go back, they’ll expect me to have some news. And I’ve got nothing to tell them. Nothing!” he shouted the last word, shrugging off Quinn’s hand and glaring at him as though the whole situation was his fault.
“I know that waiting’s the hardest part of these situations. That’s why Sydney needs you. I won’t keep you out of the loop, Eli. As soon as something comes up, I’ll phone.”
“What about the TRACKER signal? It’s been activated, hasn’t it?”
“Go home, Eli. I’ll phone you when we have some news.”
Idris stood up and shrugged on his classic grey-checked jacket. Despite his size, Quinn noted that all Idris’s suits fitted him like a second skin.
Quinn forced Eli out of his chair and helped him slide his arms into his suit jacket. He brushed at a stain on his lapel and smoothed out some creases, but Eli still looked as seedy as though he’d spent the night in a bar. His glazed eyes remained unfocused.
Worried, Quinn turned to Reuben. “Call one of the lads downstairs and see if we can get a lift home for Eli. I don’t think he’s in great shape to drive himself.”
A subdued Reuben picked up the phone without offering his usual quips.
“You expecting us to work all night?” Idris asked.
“If necessary.”
“I’ll grab some dinner while I’m out door-knocking then.” He took Eli’s arm. “Come on, old man, I’ll walk you downstairs to wait for your lift.”
Chapter 11
Third floor, New Scotland Yard
“When are you going to tell Bex about this case?”
Quinn was riding high on hope. Two police cars were closing in on the TRACKER signal. They were also tracing six smart phones that belonged to the missing girls. Everything was pinpointed to a location near Manchester.
“Quinn, we have to tell Bex. She’s head of the team, after all.” Reuben’s voice buzzed against his eardrums like a pesky fly.
“You’re wrong. I’m head of the team until Monday morning when she returns to work.” By which time I’ll have resolved this case and saved Eli’s daughters and twenty of their school friends. He was giving himself no option for failure.
He had asked the parents and Ms. Stidolph not to approach the media. So far there had been no leaks, but Quinn doubted that dam would hold for long. It was impossible to keep the lid on a case involving so many families. But in only a few minutes they would locate the bus, so it wouldn’t matter. In fact, once the girls were found, the more media attention focused on the event the better. Dresden would be creaming in her knickers and Quinn would have notched up a high profile case towards promotion.
“You mean you’re going to keep her in the dark and not say anything until then?” Reuben pressed.
“Dresden put me in charge, Reuben. Let Wynter enjoy her weekend off, even though she seems to have blown off her last day of training. If I know Vincent Titus he’ll hold that as a black mark against her.” Which simply meant she would join a long list of coppers. Quinn knew of only two soft spots in Titus’ arsenal–his daughter Isla and any member of the peerage.
“Oh, and don’t think of running your mouth off to her yourself, Reuben,” Quinn added, giving him a searing look. “I know you’re living in her pocket these days while she’s staying with your mum, but don’t think that gives you permission to reveal details of a case you’re working on. Try to be a professional.”
“Chillax, dude!” Reuben threw him an exasperated glance.
Quinn ground his teeth. “An Americanism no doubt gleaned from chatting with our erstwhile leader.”
“There’s nothing unprofessional in my relationship with Bex, if that’s what you’re insinuating.” Reuben’s response was heated. “FYI I’ve seen her exactly once since she started training, when I took some takeaway over and had dinner with her and my mum last Friday. I really don’t know why you can’t cut her a break. She doesn’t know a soul in London and I’m just being a friendly face. There’s certainly a short supply of them around here!”
Quinn paused, lifting his eyes briefly from the screen in front of him. He had never actually considered that Bex might struggle with loneliness as she adjusted to her new life.
But then he recalled that no one had forced her to join the Met.
“Settle down, Reuben. I’m sure Wynter doesn’t need a white knight. Last I looked, she’s a grown woman who made up her own mind to leave New York. If she can’t settle in then maybe she should ship out. Oh, and for your information, newbie, no one cuts DCIs a break. Ever. It goes without saying.
“Now, stifle the chit chat. You’re no longer an estate salesman trying to close a sale. We’re saving lives here. Young kids’ lives at that, and Eli’s daughters in particular. There’s nothing more important, Reuben. Just remember that. It’s what you signed up for, isn’t it? Or would you rather chillax, dude?” His voice was scathing as he delivered his sermon.
Reuben subsided, looking discomfited as he settled back to his duties.
Still seething, Quinn returned his attention to the computer. He knew time was critical. He could almost feel the hands of his watch slicing through the minutes and he willed them to slow down, to give them the time they needed to find these kids alive and well.
His screen was split in two as he received direct feed from cameras in the two Manchester police vehicles closing in on their target. They had turned off the motorway and were skirting around the city. Sedans and motorcycles, mini-vans and trucks sped past the cars’ camera views. There was still no school bus in sight.
After several minutes the police cars, their lights flashing and sirens blaring, were forced to slow as the streets narrowed even further.
Quinn picked up his phone. “Where the hell is the bus?” he growled to one of the drivers.
“TRACKER says we’re really close, guv.” His voice sounded perplexed. “We should be able to see it by now.”
“Bloody oath, it’s a bus after all! Could there be something wrong with the TRACKER signal?”
“Dunno, guv.”
Quinn peered at the camera views. The cars were cruising through a narrow alley of what looked like derelict and abandoned buildings, the detritus of urban ruin lost in the bustling heart of a modern city. Broken wooden fences segmented a rough parking lot, dotted with rusted shells of wrecked cars. All backed against corrugated garage doors and crumbing red brick walls.
“What is this area?”
“We’re behind an old textile mill and some sort of factory. The signal says it should be here.”
Both cars rolled to a stop.
“Could someone have found the TRACKER and put it on another vehicle as a decoy?”
Quinn’s stomach sank. He had banked on the TRACKER to provide an easy solution.
Reuben approached, scrutinizing the screen over Quinn’s shoulder. Seconds later his finger reached out, pointing to the screen.
“What’s behind those garage doors?”
Quinn sat up straighter. “Take a look,” he ordered.
Two of the uniformed officers shot out of the car and approached the closed doors. They tugged but the first door didn’t budge. They moved onto another door. This time the roller door jolted away from the ground with a harsh squeal. Both men lowered themselves to grip the bottom and heave upwards. The door buckled and strained but kept rising. As it slid upwards Quinn and Reuben could just make out the shape of a small bus. Nimble Bus Line was stenciled across the body.
Chapter 12
Ingle Road, Ealing
The early evening sky was filled with fresh storm clouds as Bex walked the few blocks between the Tube and the bed and breakfast establishment where she was renting a room. It was a sturdy red brick, double storied house with white plastered windows on either side of a paned glass front door. Its nineteenth century façade belied the extensive renovations that had doubled the size of the house. On Reuben’s advice, his mother Georgie had purchased the residence several years ago, following her husband’s death, and turned three of its six bedrooms into rentable living space.
Reuben had revealed to Bex that he’d managed to negotiate the price down to a million pounds at the time of sale and now it was worth in the vicinity of two point five mill. Bex was beginning to realize that you could take the man out of real estate but you couldn’t take real estate out of the man. Reuben was unable to view a property without determining its current market value.
Bex walked down the side of the residence to the backyard, which was more ramshackle than the front. Georgie waved out a cheery greeting. She had a basket full of luscious tomatoes and spinach leaves that she’d harvested for tomorrow’s breakfast.
“You look absolutely knackered, my luv! Don’t tell me they’re still working you to death at the police college even though it’s your last day? At least you can give up the swotting now.” Georgie put a hand to her lower back and rubbed vigorously as she straightened to talk to Bex. Lining two sides of the garden’s perimeter was a series of hydroponic growing trays. In the far corner was a chicken coop with nesting boxes and a compost heap for Georgie’s organic crops.
A number of rusty-brown chickens fluffed their wings and rootled through the bushes that screened Georgie’s house from its neighbors.
“Nothing that a good night’s sleep won’t fix,” Bex answered. “Collecting breakfast?”
“Yes, indeed. I hope you’re going to have some for a change, since it’s Saturday tomorrow and there’s no need for you to rush out the door. You know my girls have laid their freshest eggs just to tempt you.” A burst of sun from behind the storm clouds turned Georgie’s wispy steel-colored hair into a halo and her friendly countenance into a cherubic smile.
“It sounds good, Georgie. How are the girls tonight?” Bex continued moving towards the French windows that opened into her room. During her stay here, Bex had trained Georgie not to expect her to spend much time in the company of her host or the other guests. Her perfect justification was the three or four hours of reading demanded by her instructors, plus the additional time writing up reports and summaries of investigative procedures as part of her homework.
This was the part of training she found hair-pullingly tedious with every page she wrote underscored in squiggly red lines indicating spelling errors. It always necessitated a thorough going over with the spell check to convert her reports to something acceptable by her British trainers. When she could stand the academic load no longer, Bex excused herself from Georgie’s attempts at socializing by escaping the house for a local gym.
“As feisty as ever!” Georgie returned gaily. “Gilly had a scrap with Ginger, so I had to separate them for the afternoon. And Gypsy Rose has laid an egg so large I think it’s going to be a double-yolker. I’ll put it aside for your breakfast tomorrow morning, Bex. Oh, I almost forgot. A package arrived for you today. Hang on a tic, my luv, and I’ll run and get it for you.”
As Georgie moved towards the house, a couple of chickens trailed after her and she had to shoo them away. “They’d take over the house if I let them,” she said in an aside to Bex.
Waiting on the outside porch, Bex drew in a long, deep breath, hoping it would help her unwind. She found her mind was still engaged with Josh’s predicament and she couldn’t quite divest herself of anxiety that she had let him return to an empty house. He had her phone number and she had insisted that he stay close to home and in particular that he avoid his mate Reece. From experience she knew that young men’s best intentions could easily be led astray. She would phone and check in on him first thing tomorrow morning.
Georgie returned to hand over the large padded envelope. Glancing at the return address, Bex felt her heart lift. It was from Neil Wynter, Zane’s dad.
“I don’t suppose I can convince you to join me for supper? I’m having bangers and mash with my special red onion gravy. It’s always been one of Reuben’s favorites. He’s loved it since he was a lad.”
Bex almost mustered a smile. She had no idea what “bangers and mash” was and had no intention of asking. She recalled Aussie Jo’s relish in informing the group of the ingredients in black pudding, an English delicacy consisting of pig’s blood and lumps of fatty suet. That news had drawn a range
of strong responses from most of the trainees, Bex included. She preferred not to take a chance of offending Georgie by finding the food on her plate too unappetizing to eat.
“Thanks, Georgie, but I’ll probably grab a bite to eat after the gym later tonight.”
She took the package into her room. Maybe Neil had sent her some chocolates? He had asked her if there was anything she missed from New York and she’d admitted that chocolate tasted distinctly different across the Atlantic. Her mouth almost salivating at the expectation of peanut butter, chocolate-coated confectionery, she ripped open the envelope. Out spilled a letter and a flat, rectangular box too small for chocolates.
A sudden clap of thunder made her jump. The threatening clouds finally opened up and a deluge of rain rattled against the glassed panes of the long French windows that provided her private entry off the outside porch. She gave a nervous shudder and scolded herself for being so touchy.
Leaving the package on the bed she moved to a tallboy that held a small espresso machine and popped in a coffee pod. It was her first purchase in England in response to the instant coffee sachets that Georgie provided for her guests.
Sipping her drink, she settled herself cross-legged on the bed and opened Neil’s letter.
Dear Bex
I have been debating whether or not to send these through to you. I found them several months ago when I was cleaning some of Zane’s things out of the attic. I put them with a box of Zane’s other mementos, mainly items from his college and school days, long before he met you.
To be honest, I was keeping them for Kristian. I guess I thought that somehow he would’ve contacted us when he heard about his dad’s death. Now, I’m afraid I’ll never see Kristian to give him anything of his dad’s.
I suppose I could simply throw all of Zane’s old gear away. It’s probably the sensible thing to do. Somehow I just can’t bring myself to do it.
Bex Wynter Box Set Page 20
