After I’d hung up, I relayed to Stephen what Robbie’s boss had told me and wondered what steps to take next. It was getting towards the end of the day, and I didn’t want to leave late tonight.
“Are you watching the clock, Mitch?” Stephen teased. It was usually him who would keep an eye on the time, looking forward to seeing his family, eating his tea, and relaxing at home.
“No.”
He grinned. “For a policeman, you’re a terrible liar.”
“I hardly think a police officer should be a good liar,” I retorted, though I didn’t think of myself as a particularly bad liar. Sometimes in interviews, especially when I was talking to someone I was certain was guilty, that I’d lied in order to get the information, or confession, that we needed. I considered those a kind of white lie, and it was all included in my reports, and the interviews were recorded, so I never tried to hide it. Stephen seemed to think along the same lines.
“Sometimes, it can be useful.” He lifted his eyebrows at me. “What’re you up to after work, then? Seeing you-know-who again?”
I laughed at that. Gaskell had forbidden Sam and me from seeing each other, but I couldn’t think of a worse codename for her than ‘you-know-who.’
“I’m not dating Voldemort,” I chuckled.
Stephen grinned back. “Thank god for that.” He was still looking at me expectantly, and I gave in.
“Yes,” I sighed. “We’re booked in at El Piano tonight. I’m looking forward to it, so shoot me.”
Stephen looked chuffed for me. “I can’t think of a better way for you to spend your evening, mate. Me and Annie went there once, a while back now, and it was some of the best grub I’ve had in ages.” He scratched his chin. “We should go back sometime.” His eyes lit up as he added, “We could do a double date.”
I thought that might be kind of fun, actually, but pretended to groan, good-naturedly bickering back and forth with him as we got towards the end of the day.
But even as we were talking, I couldn’t help but dwell on the body found today, and on Keira’s brother. I hoped to hell that he had nothing to do with this, at the same time as wishing that he would know something, when we hopefully managed to talk to him tomorrow. I was desperate for there to be no more victims left damp and glassy-eyed, their suffering made clear in the jagged gashes behind their knees. Thinking about it made nausea rise in my stomach, and the backs of my own knees ache and itch. Stephen noticed my shift into melancholy and put a hand on my shoulder.
“We’ll talk to Robbie tomorrow,” he promised, “and get it sorted out. And we’ll talk to Walker’s family, see what we can find out. Don’t lose hope yet, hey?”
I forced a weak smile. “I haven’t, don’t worry.”
I buried myself back in work, doing my best to keep my emotions away from my logic. They threatened to intrude as I tried to review the case and spot what key piece of information I’d missed or overlooked, and it wasn’t helpful. Even after working in the police for two decades, I couldn’t help but feel deeply for the victims in every case I worked on. I didn’t know whether it helped or hindered my police work; it certainly kept me driven to solve the case even when I was exhausted and faced with multiple dead ends.
Sometimes, when I was feeling less pessimistic, I thought that having a vivid imagination, and a decent level of emotional intelligence helped me develop a gut feeling for a case that was right more often than not. But, for now, I feared that my feelings were clouding my judgment, and so I pushed my fears and sickness aside as best I could. They would all come back when I was lying in bed in the small hours, unable to sleep. Then, I’d dwell on all the mistakes I’ve made and would continue to make, all the missed chances and late realisations, until tiredness pulled me into sleep.
Twelve
Running full pelt into work was exactly what I needed at quarter to seven on a freezing November morning, after a frustratingly difficult evening. The speed and exertion shoved my busy thoughts out of the way for a while as I focused on navigating the slippery pavements and on my thumping heart. I beelined straight for the showers once I arrived and basked under the water, which always ran pleasantly hot, even if the pressure left something to be desired.
Stephen arrived shortly after I did, and I knew what he was going to say even before he’d sat down. I pointed at him.
“Don’t ask.”
“What?” He faltered. “Why?”
“It didn’t go well,” I sighed.
Stephen sat hurriedly down, now looking touchingly concerned for me.
“You and- your girlfriend,” he said, avoiding Sam’s name. “You didn’t fall out with her, did you?”
He’d always been supportive of me getting involved with someone long term, too supportive even, and I saw on his face now that it was important to him. He’d never really believed me when I’d told him honestly that my life was just as full and happy when I wasn’t in a relationship. Sam brought new joy to my life. Of course, she did, but that was because it was her, not because I was in a relationship in general.
“No, we didn’t fall out,” I assured him, “But she couldn’t make it. She got caught in the snow and traffic on the way over to the restaurant, and I ended up eating on my own.” I gave a tight smile. “I got too hungry to wait.”
“Did she turn up eventually?” Stephen frowned.
I shrugged. “She kept me updated, but it got too late, and we both headed home in the end. It wasn’t her fault, but it made for a ruined evening.”
“There’ll be other dates,” he said. “I’m just relieved that you two didn’t have a big blowout argument.”
“We wouldn’t do that,” I told him with certainty.
Stephen and I had got into fierce arguments once or twice, primarily when we were concerned for the other’s safety, but I’d never argued like that with one of my partners, and the thought of it made me feel slightly ill. I wasn’t sure I could imagine Sam shouting in anger, either, mostly because the only times I’d seen her irritated, she’d gone quiet rather than snapping at me. I knew that we’d have to be careful that we didn’t both stay quiet on things that were bothering us. Those sorts of buried troubles could fester under the skin of an otherwise healthy relationship, and I had every intention of staying with Sam for a good long while.
Stephen looked at me, trying to read in my face whether there was anything I wasn’t saying. I raised my eyebrows at him, and he nodded.
“Alright, then.”
Sat at my desk, a stray idea I’d had last night, just as I was about to fall asleep, came back to me in a rush. I pulled my chair in closer to the computer and brought up the crime scene pictures of Linus Walker, taken yesterday. The PM hadn’t taken place yet, but he had the cuts to the feet and the backs of the knees, just the same as the other victims, and, like them, there was a bloodlessness to his sallow skin that suggested he’d bled to death. I gestured distractedly at Stephen to get his attention.
“Steph?”
He looked up. “Mm?”
“Do you know if the lab still has that paper, the threat that arrived? You know, the Cornish Pasty one?”
“Yeah, I know.” He rubbed his chin. “I don’t see why they’d have passed it onto anyone else.” He paused. “Are you gonna go up and ask? Have you had an idea on it?”
“Maybe,” I said in response to both questions. Sam would be up there, and I didn’t want to create any awkwardness, but if my theory was correct, I didn’t want to wait for a response if I just emailed.
“D’you want me to go up?”
I shook my head. I was an adult, wasn’t I? I could treat Sam like a colleague. Gaskell had overruled our relationship, or tried to, because he didn’t want us avoiding each other at work, and yet, so far, that’s exactly what we had done. Not because we’d fallen out, of course, but because I liked her too much to be sure that I could act as if she was nothing more than an acquaintance.
“I’ve got it,” I said. I logged off my computer, pulled on my
jacket, and jogged over towards the lab. Even after my punishing run this morning, and the resultant jelly feeling in my legs, I still felt restless and fidgety.
Sam was in the lab, just as I’d expected, as was one of her colleagues, a guy I recognised but couldn’t immediately put a name to. The door was open, but I rapped my knuckles on the doorframe, anyway. Both scientists looked up, Sam’s eyes widening slightly when she saw me. I was painfully aware that her colleague was watching and tried not to let my gaze linger on Sam, as much I wanted to. I liked seeing her in her element, with her honey-blond hair pulled back and her brows furrowed with focus as she looked intently at whatever she was doing. She was as passionate about her work as I was about mine, and I admired that hugely. They were both waiting for me to speak, and I cleared my throat.
“So, I was told that the threat that arrived at the station was sent up here?” Sam turned back to what she was doing, and I wished that it didn’t sting, very slightly, when she turned her back to me without saying anything at all. I focused on her colleague instead, who was looking politely bored. “It was written on a Cornish Pasty paper bag, and there was a blood smear on it. It arrived-”
“I know which one you mean,” he said firmly, and I broke off, realising that I’d been oversharing.
“Uh, good. Have you managed to run the DNA of the blood through the system yet?”
“Yes.” He looked at me, seeming unimpressed by what he saw.
I blinked. “And… any results?”
“No.”
This bloke really didn’t seem to like me. That, or he was just normally monosyllabic and stone-faced.
“Okay, I had an idea about that.” I took a step into the lab and leaned my hip against one of the tables. Sam’s colleague gave me a cold look, and I straightened up again. “So, another victim turned up yesterday. The postmortem hasn’t happened yet, but I thought the blood smear might match the victim’s blood. Linus Walker is his name.”
“We’ll get a sample of the DNA after the PM.” What he meant was, he couldn’t help, and he didn’t seem to want to go out of his way, either.
“Alright then,” I said stiffly. “Please check Walker’s DNA against the threat when you do receive it.”
I glanced over at Sam once before I left, but she was engrossed in her work over the other side of the room, or pretending to be. It was stupid, I knew it was, but I felt hurt that she hadn’t said anything while her colleague was so difficult. Had he been the one who told Gaskell about us? Maybe he had a crush on Sam himself.
I shook my head as I walked back to my desk. I didn’t know anything about the man, not even his damn name, so it wasn’t fair to jump to assumptions. Still, I badly hoped that Sam and I could meet up soon. I missed her.
“Any success?” Stephen asked when I returned to our desks.
“Nowt,” I huffed. I briefly explained my idea about the blood smear, and Stephen nodded, looking intrigued.
“Yeah, it’s definitely worth looking into.”
I thought of the dismissive, uninterested look on the face of Sam’s colleague. “I’m glad you think so.”
“Did you get to talk to you-know-who?” Stephen lifted an eyebrow at me.
I snorted. “You really can’t call her that, seriously. Come up with another name.”
“Blondie?” Stephen tried, before pointing a finger at me. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that deflection, by the way. I take it you didn’t get to talk to her, then?”
“Robbie Adams should be back from his trip today,” I said instead, ignoring Stephen’s frown of concern. “Our next job is tracking him down and trying to weasel some answers out of him.”
Stephen left a pause, letting me know that he didn’t appreciate me avoiding his question, before he let it drop.
“Alrighty then. D’you wanna try his home first or work?”
I glanced at my watch. It was nearing half nine.
“He should be at work by now, right? Let’s try there first. If he’s skiving, we can try someplace else after that.”
I grabbed another cup of coffee before we headed out, putting it into a takeaway cup to drink in the car. Stephen drove us over to where Robbie worked, a towering but unattractive office block on the edge of York where the land was cheaper. We had to be buzzed inside, and the young-looking receptionist seemed somewhat nervous to see us.
“Are you here about Mr Adams?” she asked.
I blinked in surprise, before I recognised her soft voice and clicked my fingers.
“I spoke to you on the phone, didn’t I?” I said.
“Yeah, yes, you did. Officer…?”
“DCI Mitchell,” I filled in, and gestured at Stephen. “And this is my partner, DI Huxley. We would like to speak to Adams if he’s here, please.”
She nodded. “He’s on the third floor.” She hesitated. “Do you want me to show you?” She was the only one on reception and didn’t seem keen to leave it unmanned, so I waved my hand.
“No, we’ll find our way. Thank you.”
She looked relieved and pointed us towards the lifts, which rattled as they carried us upstairs. Stephen had a hand on the silver rail around the lift.
“Gods, I think this lift is even worse than the Hewford one.”
The floor jolted under our feet as it reached the second floor, and I frowned, thinking how uncomfortable the lift would be for someone with a broken leg, or who was in a wheelchair.
“Aye, you’re not wrong.”
As I walked out, I pictured Robbie’s face in mind as I looked around. The second floor was open plan with rows of cubicle desks, each with someone busily tapping away on their computer. Only one or two employees nearest the lift looked up briefly as we came in before turning back to what they were doing. Busy people, I supposed. I leaned towards Stephen.
“Can you see him?”
Stephen was scanning the floor like I was, but shook his head. “Not yet.”
We ambled a short way down the side of the large room, looking over people’s faces for Robbie’s. True, I’d only seen him in person when it was dark and from a distance, but I’d seen his photo many times on social media, and I was sure I’d recognise him when I saw him.
“The receptionist did say he was in today,” I said, when we still couldn’t spot him.
“Detective Mitchell?”
We both turned around at the voice, which belonged to a tall woman in navy heels and fitted business wear. Something about the way she held herself and the command in her voice made me think she was management.
“That’s me.”
“You’re looking for Adams, I believe?”
I looked at her again, realising that this woman was Robbie’s boss, who I’d also talked to on the phone. “We are.”
“He’s over here. Follow me.”
We trailed her over to the far side of the office floor, where Robbie was tucked into a corner. He looked up as we walked over, and his eyes widened. Robbie’s boss flicked a narrow-eyed look between us.
“I expect you’ll need to speak to him in private.” She glanced down at Robbie. “Peru is free for the next hour.”
“Thanks,” Robbie told her stiffly, avoiding looking directly at her. She gave Stephen and me one final look before she left. Robbie logged off his computer and stood up, leading us silently out of a nearby door and down the hallway.
There was a series of meeting rooms with translucent glass walls between them, and Robbie took us into one with ‘Peru’ written on the door.
“Are all the meeting rooms named after countries?” I asked curiously. The meeting room itself was cool and dark, and Robbie fiddled with the switches on the wall, turning the lights on and adjusting the heating, too.
“Uh, yeah,” he said, clearly surprised by the question. “All the countries where our papers and magazines are distributed.”
“Impressive.” I raised my eyebrows.
Seen close up and in daylight, Robbie looked more tired than I’d realised, with dark ring
s under his eyes and his dark hair several days past its best. He took a seat when I gestured to a nearby table but seemed to struggle to sit still. His gaze kept drifting away, moving in and out of focus, and I wondered again whether he was on something, or if he was just extremely anxious. He tapped his fingers on the table, fast and agitated.
“You wanted to talk to me?”
“Aye.” I couldn’t quite get a read on him, and it was troubling me. “We’d like to ask you about the interview you did with Linus Walker, the chef.”
Robbie stiffened, his tapping fingers stilling, as did his bouncing leg. “Why’s that then?”
I let a pause settle between us.
“Why did you choose him specifically to write an article on?” I asked instead of answering. I realised that it had been the wrong direction to take when Robbie’s wary expression deepened into a frown.
“Hey, I think I have a right to know why you want to interrogate me,” he protested. “Should I be getting legal rep, hm?”
I held back a sigh. “We have no wish to interrogate you.” I remembered that he was a journalist, and so was probably as persistently curious as I was. Using half-answers and evasions wasn’t the right tactic. “It isn’t on the news yet,” I tried instead, “but we found Mr Walker dead yesterday.”
“What?” Robbie’s gaze darted up to stare at me, but I couldn’t tell whether it was shock or fear in his wide, dark eyes.
I looked at him steadily. “We’re trying to establish what he was doing in his last days and hours. We’d really appreciate it if you could help with that. We know you met him for an interview on Tuesday.”
“Is the death being treated as… suspicious?”
Snakes in the Grass (A DI Mitchell Yorkshire Crime Thriller Book 5) Page 13
