One Lucky Summer

by Jenny Oliver

  Chapter Three

  ‘OK, let’s call for backup.’ Fox Mason went to swap his binoculars for his police radio.

  ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ In the darkness of the unmarked car, Dolly King’s hair shone silver as she swung round to face him. ‘If we wait for backup he’ll be gone. I’ve waited six months for this moment.’

  Fox lowered the radio. ‘So what are you going to do? Storm the place on your own?’ He huffed a laugh. ‘You don’t know how many people are in there. You don’t know if he’s carrying a weapon. You don’t know—’

  ‘You don’t know, you don’t know, blah blah blah,’ Dolly cut him off. ‘I know the little shit isn’t carrying a weapon because he hasn’t carried one for the last six months. He’s too much of a wimp.’

  Fox let her annoyance hang in the air. The words left like a large puff of smoke to float in the confines of the car specifically to embarrass her. They were sitting in a black Audi down a Lambeth side street where pigeons pecked chicken bones on the pavement.

  ‘Dolly, he’s not worth the breach of protocol. Believe me.’

  In her head Dolly was repeating the words ‘believe me’ in a babyish imitation of Fox’s voice. He was so annoying. This was their first week on the job together and everything he did put her back up. Just the way he held the radio pissed her off, bringing it to the opposite side of his mouth than the hand holding it, the same way drama students used to smoke cigarettes at college.

  Dolly was itching to get out of the car.

  ‘You’re not going into that flat alone,’ he said, like he could read her mind.

  She glanced out at the net-curtained window of the second-floor flat they were watching. ‘Are you forbidding me?’ Dolly ran her tongue along her lip, watching Fox all calmly amused, feeling her blood surge.

  The streetlamp above them kept flickering. In the black sky the moon was just a fingernail sliver.

  ‘Yes, I’m forbidding you,’ Fox said, raising the radio to his mouth again. Big arm muscles bulging under his black T-shirt. ‘You go in there alone, you risk the entire investigation.’

  Dolly watched as he started to speak into the radio. He made her skin bristle. All pumped like he spent every second grunting over free weights but kept his voice permanently calm. Before that moment there was no way she would have actually gone into that house alone, she knew the risks, but something about his disallowing her pushed her over the edge. ‘He’s not stupid enough to hang around. He’ll be out and gone before you’re finished radioing it through. And then the entire investigation is shot anyway,’ she said, pulling on her cap. ‘You forbid me? Just watch me, asshole.’ A second later Dolly was out of the car and in a crouched run across the street.

  ‘Dolly, get back here!’ Fox whisper-shouted. ‘Jesus Fucking Christ.’ He was out of the car and behind the bonnet. ‘I am not coming in with you!’

  She was hidden behind a big black rubbish bin that reeked of fish. Something spilt on the floor made her trainers stick to the pavement. ‘Fine,’ she hissed back. ‘Get back in the damn car and wait.’

  Fox swore under his breath.

  Dolly watched the window on the second floor. The net curtain twitched. The little shitbag was on edge. It was his grandmother’s flat. It was her birthday. She’d bought him up. Dexter Smith had dropped off the radar for the last couple of weeks, just when they had enough evidence to arrest him, but Dolly’s instinct told her that he wouldn’t miss Granny’s big day. She wondered if whatever rubbish present he’d nicked for her was worth it.

  ‘Dolly, you are not going into that flat alone!’ Fox was running across the road in her direction.

  ‘Fine,’ she called back, heading for the double entrance doors. She knew the lock had been broken for months. ‘Come with me then.’

  She could feel Fox behind her. ‘You’re going to get us both suspended.’

  ‘Don’t be such a pussy.’

  ‘That’s the most pathetic comeback.’

  Their whole interaction was in hushed whispers. Dolly sniggered. She was enjoying herself. Enjoying seeing him riled. She had visions of herself snapping the cuffs on Dexter’s skinny wrists, all smug as she paraded him past a fuming Fox.

  She sprinted up the stairs.

  ‘Dolly, stop!’ Fox ordered. ‘Do not go in that door.’ Technically, he was her superior. But the job had been as good as hers before they brought him into the team. The official line was that he was the best and they couldn’t pass up the opportunity to have Fox Mason in their squad. The real reason was that Dolly’s boss thought she still had some growing up to do. Which was bullshit. She’d worked her ass off for that job.

  ‘Dolly!’ Fox hissed, creeping up the concrete staircase behind her. Layers of thick cream paint on the walls and a million health and safety signs.

  But Dolly was in front of the door with the polished knocker shouting, ‘Police!’ before Fox could stop her.

  She knew it was a mistake the second she kicked the door in. There was Dexter’s granny pointing a WWI twin-shot musket at her while Dexter himself leapt out of the kitchen window.

  ‘Hold it right there!’ Dolly shouted at Dexter, just as Grandma loaded the barrel of the musket, threatening, ‘I’m not afraid to shoot!’

  Dolly was pretty certain the grandmother was afraid to shoot, but Dexter was already gone. Jumped two storeys down onto hard concrete.

  Dolly turned smack into Fox. ‘Go!’ she shouted. ‘Go, he’s jumped!’

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ snapped Fox, and both of them legged it down the stairs.

  ‘You leave my boy alone!’ the grandmother shouted behind them.

  ‘I’ll be back for you for possession of a firearm,’ Dolly shouted as they slammed through the front doors and sprinted round to where the kitchen window dropped down to the back yard.

  Dexter was getting into an ancient brown Ford Fiesta that obviously belonged to his granny. He’d hurt his arm from the fall and was reversing at haphazard speed out of the space while clutching his arm to his chest.

  ‘Get in the car!’ Fox shouted.

  ‘I’m getting in the car!’ Dolly hollered as she threw herself into the passenger seat.

  ‘You’re a liability,’ he said as he sped deftly out of their spot after the Fiesta, blue lights flashing, while radioing for backup. ‘Christ.’

  Dolly sat next to him, fuming.

  He drove really well. Much better than her, which was even more annoying. Almost robotically focused.

  Dolly’s skin was tight. She leant forward. ‘He’s cutting down Winsmore Avenue.’

  ‘I can see,’ Fox said, all calm authority.

  Dolly tapped the dashboard. ‘Shit,’ she muttered. Replaying the events in her head. Seriously, what had she expected?

  Fox stared straight ahead, zeroing in on the erratic Fiesta.

  Dolly wanted him to shout at her. Wanted some kind of reprimand so she could shout back in her defence.

  But he just drove down the starkly lit back streets, staring straight ahead, refusing to engage.

  Ahead of them, the Fiesta suddenly swerved sharply round an intersection by the town hall and doubled back so he was now heading away from them.

  Dolly had to grip her seat as Fox followed suit, turning hard and fast with a screech of tyres on warm tarmac, siren blaring, just as a group of teenagers pouring out of a club thought it would be funny to intercept the chase. They staggered into the road yelling and shouting. ‘He didn’t do it!’ one of them called, top off, shirt tied round his waist, laughing as he stood on the middle white line, waving his arms.

  ‘Watch out!’ Dolly shouted.

  But Fox had already seen him and turned the wheel hard right to avoid slamming into the kid. The force of the turn at full speed smashed Dolly’s head against the window. Then the whole car flipped one-eighty and they careered down a side street on the roof for fifty metres until they crashed into the wire fence of a twenty-four-hour parking lot.

  Dolly was still in a
daze, hanging upside down, when Fox reached forward and turned the ignition off. ‘Happy?’ he said.

  Her shoulder felt like someone had swung an axe through it. ‘Ecstatic,’ she replied.

  DCI Brogden had skin that turned mottled purple when he was angry. Today, even the top of his bald head was a blotchy mauve.

  As he listed all of her offences, Dolly wondered if he knew he turned that colour. Had he ever looked at himself in the mirror when he was furious?

  ‘And not least the car, which is going to cost us God knows how much. You’re a bloody liability, King. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. A liability!’

  Dolly found it really annoying when people said things like: ‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.’ Why say it again? She heard it the first time. And don’t get her started on ‘To be fair’ or ‘One hundred and ten per cent.’

  ‘Are you even listening to me?’ Brogden snapped, right close up to her face. Dolly could smell the Nescafé Gold Blend on his breath.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ she said, fighting the urge to turn away.

  ‘For crying out loud, you’re lucky you’re both not standing here dead. But to be fair,’ Brogden paused, ‘I’m not sure I care about losing you any more, King. Fox on the other hand …’

  Dolly glanced across at where Fox was standing tall and pumped next to her, face impassive. He had a giant black bruise down the side of his face with a cut that ran from eyebrow to jaw and a big dressing on the inside of his wrist to patch up the gash he’d got freeing Dolly from the car.

  Fox had wrenched her jammed door open to haul her out, petrol dripping onto the road, people filming on their phones, Dolly’s dislocated arm hanging from its socket.

  ‘You want to pop it back in or shall I?’ Fox had asked, as Dolly stumbled delirious from the pain.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ she said stubbornly, hardly able to stand.

  Fox said, ‘OK,’ then grabbed her tight and clicked it in anyway.

  ‘Jesus mother of God!’ Dolly screamed, clutching her shoulder like someone had just chain-sawed it off.

  Fox said, ‘All done.’

  Dolly vomited all over the pavement.

  At the station, Brogden was still sounding off. Ranting and raving. Dolly’s throbbing shoulder made her woozy, but there was no way she was going to give him the satisfaction of asking to sit down. Fox did an excellent impression of looking like he was listening. Maybe he was.

  ‘I’ve warned you before, King, that you need to grow up,’ Brogden was behind his desk again, voice now one of resigned disappointment, ‘but you never listen. I don’t know what else I can do for you.’ He shuffled some papers, no longer looking at her. The batteries on the wall clock had died and Dolly watched as the minute hand kept trying to move beyond the number six but dropped back every attempt. She could empathise.

  ‘Fox,’ he said, glancing up, ‘I’m sorry you’re even involved in this, but I’m afraid my hands are tied. Both of you are suspended from duty until further notice.’

  ‘What?’ Dolly gasped. ‘You can’t—’ She wanted to point out that backup had arrested Dexter Smith two hundred yards up the road when the Fiesta had run out of petrol outside Iceland. That wouldn’t have happened had Dolly not kick-started events.

  Brogden held up a hand to silence her. ‘I can and I will. Someone has to teach you a hard lesson.’

  Dolly was about to argue again but he shook his head. ‘I don’t want to hear it. Dolly, get the hell out of my sight. Fox, I want a word.’

  Dolly blew out a breath, incensed. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said with curt annoyance before stalking out the room past Fox, who remained focused straight ahead.

  But she didn’t go far. Instead, she paused and leant against the wall outside Brogden’s office to listen to what else he had to say.

  ‘Take a seat, Fox.’

  ‘I actually prefer to stand,’ Fox replied. ‘It helps me think.’

  Dolly rolled her eyes.

  Brogden said, ‘Suit yourself.’ Dolly imagined him having to stand up and go round to talk to Fox. He’d feel weird addressing him from the chair. Face to face, Fox was a good head taller. It was a clever tactic for alpha-ing the chat.

  ‘I didn’t want to have to suspend you for this but my hands are tied.’

  ‘As you said,’ Fox replied.

  ‘Yes. You’re one of the best we have and I will do everything I can to make sure this doesn’t affect your record.’

  ‘Please don’t grant me any special favours, sir. I’m happy to take full responsibility for my mistakes.’

  Behind the wall, Dolly made a face. He was so smug.

  Brogden went on, wrong-footed by Fox’s self-possession. ‘Good, fine. OK. Well I er …’ He paused, Dolly could hear him pacing. ‘I put the two of you together because I thought you might be able to knock a bit of sense into her, given your record.’

  Dolly bristled. She fought the urge to march back in but she knew her position was precarious enough.

  ‘I can see it was a waste of time,’ Brogden said. ‘A mistake I can take full responsibility for.’

  Fox didn’t reply.

  Dolly was tempted to peer round the doorframe to catch his expression. What was he thinking?

  Brogden lowered his voice a touch, still trying to lure Fox firmly onto his side of the fence. ‘What I will say is serve the suspension, just get it done, and when you’re back we’ll fix you up with someone new. Steer well clear of Dolly King. Yes?’

  There was a pause.

  Dolly found she was holding her breath.

  Then Fox said, ‘Yes, sir.’

  And Dolly shook her head, thinking how they were all the same, but unsure what else she’d been expecting.

  The sun was blinding as Dolly walked down the front steps of the station, her arm throbbing as the painkillers wore off. Her hair was in a weird side-ponytail, unable to tie it up one-handed. She had trouble getting her sunglasses on, eventually undoing one of the folded arms with her teeth. She had a Sunkist from the vending machine. She hated Sunkist but it was the only drink in a can and she couldn’t undo the top of a bottle. The last thing she needed right now was to walk into the rec room and have to ask the likes of Mungo or Rogers to unscrew her cap. Especially as news of her suspension would have filtered giddily down ranks, they’d love it.

  She took a seat on a brick wall that surrounded an old chestnut tree, the bark scratched with initials, and a bike chain that had been there so long the trunk had grown round it like an overspilling belly.

  In her pocket, her phone buzzed with a message. It had been buzzing the past couple of days but as always, she never had the time to answer it. Now she had all the time in the world.

  She’d been suspended. She couldn’t believe it. She tipped her head back against the tree but realised it hurt her shoulder, so sat up straight again. What had she been thinking?

  She struggled to pull her phone out of her pocket. The screen was a stream of unanswered messages. WhatsApp groups that rolled on without her. Text messages lost in the abyss. Voice notes that seemed to have come into fashion without her even knowing about them.

  She listened to her messages. All very boring. She drank her Sunkist. Far too sweet with a nasty aftertaste. She watched an old woman haul her shopping trolley onto the bus as no one else in the queue offered to help.

  ‘Hi there, this is a message for Dolly King, it’s Ruben de Lacy here.’ For a moment, Dolly couldn’t breathe. ‘You may remember me, from Willoughby Hall? I got your number from your Aunt Marge – who incidentally has asked me to tell you to call her back.’ He laughed, low and rumbling.

  Dolly stopped listening. She was engulfed by the sudden memory of perfect white teeth and dappled sunlight on beautiful tanned skin. Brown hair, just slightly too long so it curled back off his face. Sharp straight nose. Mouth that tipped up in the kind of smile that knew all your secrets. Thick dark lashes and hooded lids over eyes so dazzling they used to keep her awake at night, pained
by their beauty. She wept once out of the pure desperation of wanting him to touch her. To pull her so close that she would be engulfed by the scent of the expensive washing powder Geraldine the housekeeper used on his clothes, and the aftershave he’d nicked from Harvey Nichols on a shopping trip with his mum just for something to do. He told them stories like that as if they were nothing, when to Dolly they were the whole world. She would write them down then rip the page out of her notebook and post it into the money box she had that couldn’t be opened unless smashed. Like she was storing a secret version of him that one day might come true.

  ‘Dolly, I’m calling because I’ve found a box in the garden of Willoughby Hall with the first clue of your dad’s treasure hunt. The one he … you know? Anyway,’ Ruben coughed, ‘I’ve spoken to your sister …’

  Dolly winced. The bubbles of the Sunkist gave her a pain in her chest. She had visions of soft winter sunlight patterning through snow-laden branches and little boxes hidden in tree hollows. Long grass crisp with frost, robins and red berries, deer antlers strewn with bracken. She saw her sister, Olive, with her long streaming hair, red lips and big clumpy boots up ahead with Ruben, running faster than Dolly could catch up. The pair of them tearing open a clue while Dolly wailed and her mother stroked her unruly hair and told Olive to wait for her sister next time.

  Sitting by the chestnut tree, outside the police station, Dolly felt her cheeks get hot at the exquisite sharpness of the memory.

  ‘Dolly?’ a voice said behind her, and she swung round to see Fox. The movement made her wince again in pain.

  ‘Don’t get up,’ he said.

  ‘I wasn’t going to,’ she replied, touching her cheeks, hoping they weren’t red, not wanting him to see her caught off-guard.

  Fox chuckled as he took a seat next to her on the wall.

  ‘How’s your shoulder?’ he asked.

  ‘Hurts like hell,’ she replied, finishing off her drink and chucking the can into the rubbish bin three paving stones away diagonally.

  ‘Nice shot.’