by Bo Brennan
“I need you to know that’s not who I am,” he said, maintaining his unwavering eye contact and holding her too close for comfort.
India looked away, focused on the deep scratch in the bonnet. Her eyes flitted across the polished surface to a matching back-to-steel gouge in the paintwork on the opposite side. She frowned and felt her cheeks redden.
Colt spluttered a half-cough half-laugh as she pulled away from him. “Four inch heels can do a lot of damage to a car’s paintwork,” he said.
“You fit to go?” she enquired sharply. “Firman will be waiting for us.”
Len Firman was sticking a giant black ‘W’ on a victim’s face when Colt walked into the incident room. “Every FLO that’s reported back so far has confirmed their victim went to Winchester University,” he said.
Colt stared at the wall; there were eight marked already. “How's Lucy?”
“Slightly worse than you,” Len said, giving him the once over and paying particular attention to his battered hands. “Couple of cracked ribs, broken nose, two black eyes, missing a few teeth and a few inches of scalp.” He let out a long exasperated sigh. “They're keeping her in. Janet Watson's been bailed and Mark is officially unobtainable.” Len raised his brows and stroked his beard. “When I know more – you'll know more.”
“India,” Colt said as she passed him, “can you pick up Mark and Lucy’s internet connections, and go over Martha’s movement file, please.”
She nodded and trundled across the room to their abandoned files.
“These yearbooks cover all the time you were at Winchester Uni,” Tom said, bounding up to him with the energy of a Labrador on heat, and thrusting a pile of books into his hands. “And we’ve got all the student info on disc, lodged it with the techies just before they knocked off for the night. We'll be working with them to make extractions on the data. There's a lot of it so it could take a couple of days to format.”
“We’re picking up the hard copy tomorrow morning,” Lee added. “It’s an eight hour print run so it's scheduled to run through the night.”
“That was quick,” Colt said. “I had visions of you two spending weeks rooting through centuries of records in a dusty underground vault.”
“Me too.” Tom laughed. “But we struck gold. Turns out migrating all the paper records onto their upgraded computer system is the Dean’s pet project. So far everything dating back to 1981 is available at the touch of a button.”
Colt gave a little smile. “They were always fastidious about technology even when I was there,” he said. The buildings and staff may have appeared behind the times, but their technology was always bang up to date.
“I bet the totty was just as hot too,” Lee said. “If I’d have known these intellectual girls didn’t feel the cold I’d have signed up years ago.”
Colt slowly shook his head – the expression ‘kid in a sweetshop’ came to mind. Being that kid in the sweetshop, with endless pocket money to spend, might have caused all this in the first place. The thought chilled him to the bone.
“He sends his regards by the way,” Tom said, dragging Lee back to work by the arm.
Colt frowned. “Who?”
“Professor Thompson.”
Colt huffed in surprise. The man must be a hundred and twenty years old by now, he thought, turning his gaze back to the wall. As he stood staring at the faces of all of the women who had suffered, the team buzzed around him like honey bees busily going about their business, and AJ Colt felt like a man drowning inside his own skin.
“We’ll find them,” India said, her confident assertion breaking his thoughts and forcing his gaze away from the still unknown faces.
“I’d rather find him.” He cleared his throat, and attempted to sound upbeat as he dumped the pile of books on the table. “Are you busy tonight?” he said. “I wondered if you might want to stay on and go through these yearbooks with me.”
India puffed her cheeks. “I'm not staying here any longer than I have to.”
“Fair enough.” Colt dropped into a chair, felt the despair of the day gaining momentum as he opened the first book.
“Bring them over to my place, we’ll do it there,” she said. “And bring a change of clothes.”
Colt looked up and watched her saunter out of the office for the night. A change of clothes, huh? His lips curved as he slammed the yearbook shut. The woman was on his wavelength. What better cure was there for despair?
Chapter 35
Colt felt a little self-conscious when India opened the door barefoot, and shower fresh, in black jersey tracksuit bottoms and a clingy red vest top that matched her painted toenails. He’d envisioned them showering together and rushed here straight from the office, tomorrow’s suit hanging in the back of the car.
“I made you a coffee,” she said, handing him a mug as he placed the box of files on her table. “Where's your change of clothes?”
“In the car,” he said.
“I thought we'd do it over there on the rug.” She hugged her mug and nodded towards the space in front of the wood burning stove. He’d thought about doing it there too. “We can lay all the unknown victim pictures out on the floor . . . that is if you don't mind working on the floor . . . it's clean but there might be a bit of cat hair around.”
“I can live with that,” he said, sensing he’d made a monumental error of judgement. “No point getting changed for a bit of cat hair.”
“Give me a hand then,” she said, gripping one end of the coffee table. “We'll stick it over there in the dining area.”
Colt removed his jacket and slung it across the back of a sofa, then plucked the solid wooden table from her grip and carried it with ease to the dining area as though it were a shoe box. Turning back he sighed, she was already digging into the files. Discarding his waistcoat he rolled up his sleeves, and silently sat down on the rug next to her as she lined up the unidentified photos in rows of five.
“Grab a couple of those cushions,” she said, gesturing to the sofa behind him. Colt smiled, she wanted to get comfy, and that had to be a good sign. Obligingly he pulled one of the big feather filled slumber cushions to the floor, and stared in horror at the pair of men's boxer shorts that fell into his lap. “Gray,” she sighed, scooping them up and throwing them in the log burner. “He's a messy bastard. I keep telling him if he leaves things lying around I'll burn them.”
“Ready?” she asked, swivelling back to face him again.
He nodded and sipped at his coffee. It was going to be a long night. A hell of a lot longer now the thought of making love to her, on this very rug in front of the fire, had just been ruined by another man's kecks.
In the first three hours they’d identified six. A seventh had two possible names scribbled on the post-it note attached to her photo. The task had left India feeling wearily depressed and oppressed. “I need a break before we go through them again,” she said, getting to her feet and stoking the fire.
“Me too,” Colt quietly said, stretching his back and neck.
“You can make the coffee,” she said, grabbing one of the blankets from the back of the sofa and heading for the door. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
India strode confidently through the darkness, along the route her feet had trodden many times before, until she reached the end of the small pontoon.
AJ Colt filled the kettle. He had no idea how the coffee percolator they’d been drinking from all evening worked.
He looked out the kitchen window as he rinsed their mugs. It was freezing out tonight. She must’ve gone for more logs. If she’d have said he’d have gone and got them, could’ve fetched twice the amount in half the time. He knew her well enough to know she wouldn’t appreciate him hijacking the job either now. She’d probably view it as alpha male bullshit. He dried the cups and set them on the side. Glanced across at the log basket in contention, and frowned when he saw it was full.
Puzzled, he crossed the lounge and peered through the porthole window. Her car was s
till there, turned a shimmering white by frost along with everything else tonight. She couldn’t have gone far; she didn’t even have shoes on let alone a coat. He pulled on his jacket and picked up the torch resting behind the front door, clicking it in test a few times before stepping out into the night.
He shone the feeble flashlight on the ground and picked up a clear path of footprints the moonlight did not reach. Stepping off the deck his eyes struggled to adjust to the limited light while his hearing seemed to intensify. The murmur of the river, and the cool breeze rustling through the bare branches were sounds he wasn't familiar with during daylight here. Sight had rendered him blind to so much.
Reaching the start of the pontoon, he paused, his pursuit interrupted by the distinct call of an owl to its mate. He’d quickly, and readily, adjusted to city life where the night calls of mates consisted of shouting, swearing and copious amounts of alcohol. Startled by the unexpected splash nearby, he swung the torch towards it. His heart missed a beat when the narrow beam fell on the multi coloured blanket lying rumpled at the end of the pontoon.
India deftly glided deep under the water, the fractured moonlight on the surface distorting the glistening reflections of the world above. She swam through the piercing rays of star light, allowing the cold water to peel the troubles from her skin, leaving them behind like trailing ghosts. It was always so peaceful here, inviting and cleansing; the depths temporarily washing away her sins provided fleeting absolution.
Slowly she allowed herself to weightlessly rise, turning her face into the moonlight as she approached the surface. When she took that breath the world would remain the same, cold and dirty, but she would briefly be different. She would briefly be clean.
She closed her eyes as she broke through, gasping as her lungs filled with the invigorating cold air. As the harsh artificial light burnt through her lids, she reeled and ducked her head back under water, the peace shattered by shouting coming from the pontoon. She glided under the surface, out of the intrusive glare and towards the source of commotion, rising again and drawing breath as she surfaced at the foot of the pontoon steps.
“What’s going on?” she said, squinting as the light hit her face.
“Oh thank god,” Colt’s panicked voice came back. “Thank god you’re all right.”
“Turn that thing off,” she said, shielding her eyes. “And pass me the blanket.”
She blinked rapidly, her eyes readjusting as he set the torch down, its beam casting a dim light across the water’s edge. She could hear him cursing under laboured breath as he held his hands out for her.
“Turn around,” she said.
“I can’t help you if –”
“I don’t need your help.”
He let out an exasperated sigh and turned his back on her, holding out the blanket with one hand. India climbed the wooden steps and took it from him, draping it around herself. “You can turn around now.”
“Are you all right,” he said, pulling her to him. “What the hell happened?”
“I was swimming.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he said, throwing his hands into the air and bringing them to rest on his head.
“I like to swim.” She shrugged. “What’s your problem?”
“It’s midnight and the middle of bloody December. For Christ’s sake, India, I thought you were drowning!”
She frowned as she bent to pick up her clothes and noticed his jacket discarded in the mud. Passing it to him, she stood on one of his discarded shoes and shook her head. “You seriously need to relax,” she said. “Did you make the coffee?”
Chapter 36
Tuesday 14th December
AJ Colt was in a bad mood. He was well into his packet of anti-histamines, but the cellophane remained unbroken on his pack of three.
He'd crawled off India's sofa at five again this morning, foolishly anticipating he’d be crawling from her bed instead. The anti-histamines had worked – it didn't feel like his eyeballs had been sandblasted this morning – but he wasn't taking any risks with his clothes, he’d dumped everything he'd woken in at the hotel laundry as soon as he got back.
Last night no stress relief had been forthcoming, if anything it had been compounded. He wasn’t sure he’d ever forget the delicate scent of her shampoo, mingled with the earthy aromas of damp wood and moss, when she emerged unscathed from the water. It would certainly be a bloody long time before he forgot the intense feelings of her imminent demise. And to add insult to injury he’d dreamt about the Compton sisters too. Jumbled images of them together twenty years ago had been invading his thoughts all morning, submerging him in a toxic cocktail of shame and despair all over again.
“Jim.” Len Firman's voice broke his thoughts. “I'll need a statement off you at some point. Do you want to press charges against Janet Watson?”
“No,” Colt said in disgust. “But I’d like to clamp her husband’s balls in a vice.” The stupid bastard had had it all, a wife and kids – a proper family – and he'd thrown it all away.
Len nodded his agreement. “You and me both.”
“Where the hell is he anyway?” Colt said.
“Still unobtainable,” Len said, wrapping the word in quote marks in the air and raising his brows.
“Replacements?” Colt knew it was a long shot but he still swore under his breath when Len shook his head.
“Sorry, Jim, you'll just have to work them harder.”
Colt clenched his teeth and turned back to the room, they all looked exhausted. “Tom, have we got anything from the Uni data yet?” he said.
Tom frowned. “Not yet. We only got it to the tech team last night and they didn’t start till nine this morning.”
“We're off to get the hard copy in a minute, though,” Lee offered up. “We’ll definitely have something to work with today.”
Colt sighed and cracked his knuckles. “India and I have identified one of the Berkshire victims who haven’t come forward yet, so we’ll be paying her a visit today.”
He watched India slump in her seat at the mere prospect of another long journey with him, and decided not to lift her spirits by telling her the DVLA database had the woman living just around the corner from the nick – and thankfully – well away from water.
India craned her neck from the passenger seat as Colt pulled into the kerb when the satnav signalled destination reached. “I thought we were going to Berkshire,” she said, pulling the address detail from the file he’d dropped in her lap.
“This is where she lives now,” he said, “not then.”
Colt scaled the steps leading from the pavement to the communal entrance of the Victorian conversion two at a time. “Great, a security door,” he grumbled and scanned the intercom list of residents to find an ‘S.Rowson’ living on the second floor. His finger covered her name as he pressed it twice in quick succession. Getting no response he buzzed again, this time keeping his finger on the buzzer while he looked up at the middle floor windows.
“You ok there?” the mature student type swinging a supermarket carrier bag in each hand asked, climbing the steps.
India pulled out her warrant card. “We're trying to contact Ms Rowson who lives in this block.”
He eyed them cautiously. “She's not in any trouble is she?”
Colt looked him up and down, trying to decide whether his trousers were too short, or his shorts too long. Either way he needed a belt, was far too old to be dressed like a teenage skater boy with his pants hanging out. “We need to see her,” he said. “Now.”
“If she’s not answering,” he replied warily, “she’s probably out.”
“She’s not in any trouble,” India said evenly. “I’d appreciate it if you could let us in. Do you need a hand with your keys?” she said, looking at the heavy bags.
“Nah, you're fine thanks, the door’s on the latch.” He pushed it open with his foot. Colt huffed and shook his head following him inside. “Don't tell Sarah though, it's her pet hate,” he added w
ith a mischievous grin, nodding to the handwritten notice fixed to the inside of the door.
'Please make sure this door is securely locked at all times! Many thanks, Sarah'.
“She’s a nice lady,” the neighbour said. “A bit neurotic at times, but pleasant enough.”
India unlatched the heavy wooden door and firmly pushed it shut. The solid clunk echoed around the sparsely decorated lobby as it snugly met the frame, fulfilling the note writer’s simple request.
“Follow me, she works nights so she’ll be in now,” the neighbour said, lugging his shopping up two flights before pausing briefly outside a green glossed door. “That's hers.”
Colt and India stood silently side by side at Sarah Rowson’s front door, until the neighbour and his shopping bags disappeared from view round the bend in the stairs above them. “How do you want to play this?” India asked.
“I'll lead,” Colt said, rapping his knuckles on the door and sighing when they found themselves waiting once more. India rolled her eyes and gave a disapproving tut, brushed his hand away as he impatiently went to knock again. Colt slowly rolled his head from side to side, his neck ached. He must’ve slept awkwardly. A sofa was no substitute for kipping in a bed, no matter how comfy it seemed. “She's not in, let's go,” he said, moving away from the door.
“Shush,”' India hissed, pressing her ear to the wood. “I can hear movement.” She positioned herself in line with the insider’s spyhole to the outside world. “Sarah, I'm Detective India Kane,” she said, holding her ID up to the spyhole, “I'd like a few moments of your time, please.”
