by Bo Brennan
Colt jerked his head in surprise as the noisy clunk of heavy bolts sliding open came from inside the apartment. When a small impish face appeared, peering out at them across the chain through the narrow gap in the door, India held her warrant card up to the woman's face so she could read it clearly. “And this is my colleague, Detective Chief Inspector Colt.”
The woman flinched as he stepped into her line of sight. When he held up his credentials she snatched them from his hand and studied them intently. Colt’s shoulders slumped; not for the first time lately he found himself wishing he was a foot shorter and a foot narrower.
“Can we come in please?” India asked, gently but firmly.
The door closed. Colt tilted his head approvingly at India when the sound of the security chain being released came. Moments later it was thrown wide open, and Sarah Rowson welcomed them into her world.
They followed her petite frame, clad in trainers and a pink velour tracksuit, down a long hallway and into a spacious lounge. “Why didn’t you answer the intercom?” Colt said.
“I didn’t hear you, I was working out,” she said, switching off the Wii Fit kick boxer training programme playing out on the flat screen. A few blonde curls framed her flushed face, escapees from the tight scraped back bun she wore. “Can I get you a drink of anything?” she said, “I'm getting myself water.”
“Water would be good thanks,” India said, and Colt shook his head.
While Sarah tinkered in the kitchen, India and Colt surveyed their surroundings. The lounge was bright and airy; three tall, narrow Victorian sash windows maximised the south facing position of the room in the complex. Small white contact pads on the openings of each one indicated they were alarmed. Colt looked up and surveyed the picture rails around the high ceilinged room and spotted two infra-red movement sensors. The place was like Fort Knox.
Sarah Rowson handed India her glass of water and took the single armchair furthest away from her visitors. “What can I do for you?” she said
“Have you lived here long Ms Rowson?” Colt asked.
“Almost two years,” she said, surprised at the question. “Why?”
“Where did you live before?” Colt continued.
“Newbury in Berkshire,” she said with a frown.
“And was that a flat Ms Rowson?”
“No,” she responded cautiously. “It was a semi-detached house.”
“Is this you?” Colt said, passing her a copy of the Uni yearbook photo.
“Yes, that’s me,” she said. “What's this all about?”
“We're making enquiries in a sensitive investigation, Sarah,” India said gently. “And we –”
“Did something happen at the house in Berkshire that made you move back to Winchester?” Colt said, abruptly cutting her off.
Sarah Rowson visibly tensed. “No,” she snapped.
India shot him a look. Colt ignored it. He wanted the agent’s name before she clammed up on them completely. They'd had that smarmy bastard Martin Kennedy under round the clock surveillance for almost a week now. All they'd unearthed was he got highlights and his spray tan at the same poncey place Colt’s ex used to favour. And by all accounts he was enjoying twice weekly trysts with his business partner’s wife.
“Who did you sell your house through, Ms Rowson?” he pressed. “Which agent did you use to buy this one?”
“What the hell is this?” she said. “Why are you so interested in where I bloody live?”
India removed a DVD from her shoulder bag and placed it on the arm of Sarah’s chair, immediately her body shifted to put as much distance between her and the inanimate object as possible. “We know you received one of these in the post, Sarah,” she said gently.
“No, I didn’t,” she said, and gulped down the rest of her water. “You’re wrong. You’ve got the wrong person. If there's nothing else, I really do have things to do.” She slammed her empty glass down on the side table next to her.
India took Sarah Rowson’s lead when she stood, and Colt reluctantly followed. “Thanks for your time Ms Rowson,” he said, offering her his hand. She ignored it and swept past him, leaving them to follow her petite frame once again along the wide hallway. Heading towards the door, Colt eyed the three deadlocks and two heavy duty sliding bolts now clearly visible.
“Would you mind if I use your toilet before we go?” India said, her mind whirling at any plausible way to salvage the situation. “They don't realise how easy they've got it,” she rolled her eyes in Colt’s direction, “it's not like us girls can just dip down an alley is it?”
Sarah Rowson managed a small empathic smile. “The door’s behind you.”
India narrowed her eyes at Colt as she closed the bathroom door. He looked uncomfortable trapped in the hallway with Sarah Rowson, no doubt feeling every bit as welcome as a boil on the arse. Good. The moody bastard had approached it all wrong, pushed too hard, too fast. It would do him good to stew for a bit, let him digest where he’d screwed up.
Inside the pale lilac bathroom India stood motionless, getting her bearings. The organised baskets on the shelf above the low level cistern were probably where the soap and shampoo were stashed. The cabinet over the sink was the most plausible target. She flushed the toilet, masking the sound of the mirrored sliding door as she eased it aside.
Turning on the cold tap she handled the small brown plastic containers of prescribed medication hidden within. The names of sleeping tablets and happy pills on the labels were ones she knew, classic trauma drugs. Gently she slid the door back into place before stemming the gush of the cold tap, ruffling the hand towel, and emerging into the hallway where they waited in awkward silence.
“Thanks very much, you're a life saver,” she said. Colt sighed and glanced at his watch as she smoothed her hands down her trousers before handing Sarah Rowson her card. “If there's anything you remember or want to talk about, Sarah, please, give me a call. You're not alone.”
“Thank you” she said, thrusting the card into her jogging bottoms pocket and holding the door open for them. “I'll bear that in mind.”
Making their way out of the building, the dull thud of bolts sliding into place filled the air as Sarah Rowson, previously ‘Unidentified Victim 21,’ secured her inner sanctum once more.
India watched him driving, stony faced and brooding. He’d had a pissy on all day. Getting them ejected from Sarah Rowson’s flat was unlikely to release any feel good endorphins, but India was confident that in the coming days she’d be taking Sarah Rowson’s call.
She leant back in her seat and closed her eyes, mulling over the victim profiles in her head. None of them were similar in appearance, a myriad of heights, weights and hair colours. No distinguishing features that indicated them as a certain type. Their age range was specific to their time at Uni, but they weren’t even on the same courses. The yearbook had Sarah Rowson studying Art; all of them were different. But Foxy was right, they weren't random at all. They had to be missing something, there had to be something specific tying each of them to Colt.
“Did you know her?” she said, turning to look at him.
“No.” It came out cold and cutting. His eyes never left the road. The twitch of the muscle in his jaw warned he was in no mood to talk. That was ok, India would choose her words carefully.
“She's into keep fit,” she said. “Could you have shared classes with her?”
“No.”
“Did you date her, maybe?” she probed, desperately seeking any scrap they could use.
“No!” He twisted in his seat to glare at her. “You really don't get that word at all, do you?”
Her cheeks flushed pink. She'd seen the signs and still she'd pushed. Why did she always have to push things? “I'm sorry, I was just . . .”
“You're sorry,” he shouted. “You're fucking sorry? What the fuck have you got to be sorry about, India?”
She shrank away from him, it had been a long time since a man had screamed in her face and not been pepper s
prayed and cuffed within seconds. From personal experience she knew it was always best to say nothing at all at times like this. Melting into the background was the best way to prevent further provocation and avoid physical pain.
Anxiety gripped her stomach. In her mind she could hear waves breaking against a distant shore, could see the first rays of sunlight penetrating cloud. No, no, no, she thought. Don’t do this. Not here, not now. She wasn't a kid anymore. She couldn't allow those fragmented memories of childhood to find her now. DC India Kane was a strong, grown woman, with a level head and a responsible job.
The sound of the waves grew louder and closer by the second. She drew her feet tight into the seat, knew if the water reached her toes the waves would take her. She took a deep breath and visualised Gray. He'd returned home to his empty house yesterday, every trace of Cara gone. They'd dance on Thursday. Thursday she'd allow herself to feel again.
Colt heard the creak of his own teeth as they ground against each other in his tight jaw, he was so angry with himself his head was pounding. He'd never spoken to anybody like that. Not ever. His mother would’ve slapped his face if she’d heard him.
His feelings were driving him to distraction. The thought of India judging him on his past was beginning to overshadow his logical thought processes, making him react emotionally instead of professionally. The woman had somehow become embedded in his head and his heart . . . And that terrified him.
Everything was back to front with her; they hadn't even shared the physical closeness he longed for – ached for – yet. Sex had always come first. Feelings were the poor cousin who rolled up when the sex was good and plentiful. His stomach clenched at the thought he'd probably just obliterated any hope of ever fulfilling skin on skin contact with India Kane.
From the corner of his eye he could see her body rigid and upright, perfectly poised and composed. Staring straight ahead her face was expressionless, unreadable as usual. She might have the ultimate poker playing face but he knew her give away. His eyes fell to her hands. They were trembling, probably to choke him.
He waited for her to react with her normal wise-arse remark that would cut him down a peg or two and put him in his place. Instead he was met with stifling silence. Colt decided he'd enraged her, made her too bloody angry to talk. India Kane didn't do emotional outbursts – she didn't do emotions at all. The only time he'd really seen her let herself go was as a voyeur, a secret observer.
Maybe it was him. Maybe he was wrong. Perhaps the chemistry he felt was imagined. No, she wanted him. The memory of how she felt against him was raw, and real. He didn't imagine how her mouth tasted, or how her body responded eagerly to his touch. His hand instinctively smoothed his left cheek. She packed one hell of a punch, he certainly hadn't imagined that. The bruise was real. He let out a long controlled breath as the itch he couldn't scratch returned to his groin.
He owed her dinner, an apology and an explanation. He could salvage this. Deal with the apology now, that would lead to dinner tonight, and the explanation would take place by candlelight in the hotel’s A La Carte restaurant – downstairs from his room with its firm mattress, and plump pillows, on the lonely double bed.
Colt took a deep breath as they pulled into police headquarters. He hadn't even cut the engine and she was reaching for the door, couldn't get away from him fast enough. “I'm sorry,” he said, his voice calm and controlled. “Knowing it’s personal’s getting to me.”
“Get over yourself,” she spat, climbing from the car. “If you took your head out of your arse you'd see these women are the victims, not you.”
His eyes flashed, why did women do that? He knew he was wrong. He'd apologised. Why did they feel the need to prolong the suffering by shredding an apology into confetti and throwing it back in your face like it meant nothing? His ex-wife used to do it all the time. An apology from AJ Colt wasn't something that came easily. The ‘S’ word had never rolled smoothly off his tongue, more often than not it lodged in his throat. When he gave it, he meant it. In return he expected forgiveness and instant gratification, not a continuation of a moment that had passed.
He climbed from the car and slammed the door. She was already half way across the car park and he was in no mood to chase. “India!” he spat through gritted teeth, his authoritative tone stopping her dead in her tracks. He waited until she turned to face him before he went for the final word. “I'm still your superior.”
“Only in rank, Sir,” she said, staring at him coldly. “Can I get on with my job now?”
Touché. Colt ran his tongue over his teeth and gave a curt nod. “Guess that means dinner tonight is out of the question then,” he mumbled under his breath.
Watching her hasten across the car park he half expected her to flip him the bird as she disappeared into the building. Punctual and professional, she'd be in her seat with everybody else ready for him to lead the pointless evening meeting shortly. Closing his eyes he blew a breath up his forehead and leant back against his car, wondering if he could fit both feet into his big fat perfidious mouth . . . and why he was compelled to behave like a complete and utter prick around the woman.
Chapter 37
He whistled to himself as he hacked away at the last of the brambles. There was something very therapeutic about gardening. His New Year’s resolution would be to spend more time in the great outdoors. Fuck in it even. It was certainly something to think about for the summer months.
There were plenty of secluded outdoor places around here. He wouldn’t want to be anywhere near those dogging freaks though, would have to suss it all out properly first. He shuddered with the thought of banging some lucky bitch up the arse over a tree stump in the woods, and a load of gurning old perverts having a wank in the bushes – watching. Filthy cunts.
Bet India Kane takes it up the arse. Bet she loves it too, being a woman of the world and all. Fucking hell, she demanded banging so hard he'd split her in half. Not like Martha, that frigid bitch was too tight and too stiff. Trying to get it up her arse had made his cock bleed.
He readjusted himself in his jeans, just thinking about it was making him hard. Bet the DC really stood for dirty cunt. He craned his neck and looked around. No sign of any weirdoes lurking about, there was nothing to stop him emptying his balls right here, right now. His hand twitched at his zip. No. He leant back against a tree and sighed. He was saving himself. It would definitely be worth the wait. The night he had planned for their date would take a lot of energy.
He loaded the final green garden waste sack and tools into the back of his car, and tied the Tesco carrier bag tightly to a branch at the roadside. Tossing the hard hat and fluorescent jacket onto the back seat he smiled. It was amazing how inconspicuous you could become if you looked the part.
Starting the engine, he jittered with a rush of excitement when the marker for the nice neat footpath he'd cleared – all the way down to the secluded houseboat with just one way in, and one way out – fluttered in the breeze. Oh yes, Dirty Cunt India Kane would definitely be worth the wait.
Chapter 38
“What's all this?” Colt said, gesturing to the eight plastic bread crates stacked just inside the incident room door, overflowing with reams of computer paper.
“Hard copy of data from the University,” Tom said.
Great. Colt sighed. “Any sign of a DVD yet, Len?”
“Not yet.”
“It's Tuesday. They always arrive on Monday or Tuesday,” Colt said. “I was expecting him to have sent Caroline Connor’s by now.”
“Maybe he's taken a holiday,” Vicky said, foolishly optimistic.
Lacey frowned. “He'd still be attacking.”
“Could have been picked up for something else,” Veronica chipped in.
“Would've flagged if he'd been picked up,” Len said. “Courtesy of Caroline Connor, his DNA's in the system now.”
“He could be sick,” said Lee. The whole teamed turned to look at him, bemused expressions on their faces.
; “I think we've established he's sick,” Tom said.
“What do you think, India?” Colt asked, putting her on the spot.
She shrugged. “I think he's stalking the next one on his list right now, Sir.”
Sir. God the woman was infuriating, and it only made him want her more. “So you think he's working from a list?” he said.
“Yes I do,” she said, looking him squarely in the eye, “and I think you got them on the list in the first place.”
The room became uncomfortably silent as each of its occupants mulled over the unpalatable proposition.
“So you think it's my fault?” Colt said, without taking his eyes from hers.
“No,” she said, staring at him, “but I think he does.”
They held each other’s gaze a moment too long, each seeking to see if there was anything between the lines that had remained unsaid.
“What's your take on that, Lacey?” Len said, breaking the silence and leaning forward in his seat.
“India’s right,” Lacey said. “He’s working from a list. And the fact there was maybe a week between his last two victims, points to him striking again within days.”
“Then we need to work out what you did or didn't do to get these women on his list,” Len said, turning to Colt.
“It's not that simple.” Lacey sighed. “James doesn't even know these women. Whatever the connection is, it's in the perpetrator’s mind.”
“And someone else could’ve put it there,” India said. “One of the women said Caroline Connor was teased relentlessly because everyone thought she had a crush on the DCI.”
Colt hastily raised his palms. “But she didn't,” he said defensively.
“Whoa, someone didn't,” Lee laughed. “That must've been a crushing blow to the ego.”
“Or a crushing blow to the ego of someone who thought she did,” Tom mused.
“Where are we going with this?” Veronica frowned. “A lover spurned in favour of the DCI?”
