A glum silence settled over the men. Reuben shifted uneasily in his seat. She noticed Quinn exchange a meaningful glance of solidarity with Eli. He didn’t open his mouth, but she knew what his expression conveyed: Hiring a Yankee detective to lead the team and a former estate salesmen signals the Met is going down the gurgler. Until she brought him into line a few months ago, he would have given vocal vent to the lament. She felt his silent vehemence like a slap in her face, one she couldn’t even address because his hostility was mute.
“Right, well, I’ll see you here tomorrow morning.”
As the four men headed towards the door, Bex stopped Quinn. He walked back to the briefing table, his face a closed mask. A faint dusting of stubble highlighted the hardness of his jaw and the coldness of his blue eyes. He folded his arms over his chest and waited.
“Have you had any luck tracking Mikayla Parkinson with the hospitals?” she asked.
“I’m still waiting on results from two hospitals but so far there’s no record of anyone being admitted under that name. I’ve got no matches for her DNA sample so we can rule out that she’s been admitted under an alias. Who is this girl? She’s not tied to any of our cases.”
“I’m chasing some intel, but I’m not sure if it’ll lead to anything yet.”
Turning her back on him, she paced along the white board, erasing notes that had been discussed at the meeting.
“Quinn, I, er, I just wanted to say thanks for Monday night.”
The words came out on a jolt of embarrassed gratitude.
He raised an eyebrow. “No need. I couldn’t let Tony’s equipment go to waste.”
“Damn straight.”
“What I don’t agree with is how you handled the situation with Yusef.”
His vocal rebuff was finally out in the open.
“Idris marked Yusef as a leader, but a leader without a purpose can easily slide into criminal activity. I wanted him to see he has an alternative. I hope he shoulders some of the responsibility for keeping the boys in check. Josh is too young to handle that on his own and I can’t be there all the time,” she explained.
Quinn didn’t look convinced.
“It’s the way you go about achieving results. I can’t figure out if that’s your ballsy Yankee style or if you just enjoy being a ball-breaking bitch.”
Bex stiffened, outrage coloring her cheeks vivid red.
“Don’t worry, I won’t express my opinion in front of the others. We’re one big happy team, just like I promised when you did your ball-breaking act on me.”
He left his bitterness hanging in the air when he walked out the door.
* * *
Slowly, Bex packed away her files and turned off her laptop, waiting for her team members to leave for the evening.
Outside her office she heard a burst of laughter.
“Sail and Ale for a quick pint anyone?”
There was a chorus of agreement and more laughter. Reuben’s voice floated backwards before being cut off by the closing door, “That’ll teach you to take the Mickey out of—”
She sighed and sank back in her chair. Her landlady, Georgie Richards, was making dinner for her so she couldn’t be late home tonight. She had promised Bex bubble and squeak. Bex had no idea what that entailed but it made her think of mice and she had to push the image of two cute critters named Bubble and Squeak sitting on a dinner plate out of her mind.
After eight months in London, Georgie was still able to offer culinary surprises. Not always pleasant ones. Georgie’s tip to add vinegar and mushy peas to her fish and chips had caused her tongue to curl up like a desiccated leaf. But she knew her mother kept tabs on her via Georgie. The easiest way to prevent Ruth from worrying was to let Georgie fuss over her once a month with a home cooked dinner.
So, despite reeling from Quinn’s words, she knew she couldn’t cancel tonight’s dinner without provoking concern. She was well aware that grief had turned her into a loner, shunning her friends and family. Had it also turned her into the man-hater Quinn accused her of? The thought stole her breath for a moment and left her eyes swimming. Had she changed from the woman Zane married, or had he been the only man capable of withstanding her emasculating tendencies?
She crossed her arms and hugged herself briefly. Bloody hell! Her favorite British oath slipped into her mind. Why was she putting stock in Quinn’s accusations? He knew nothing about her other than she was American and her nationality seemed to cause him no end of exasperation! She swiped tears away and prepared to leave the building.
As Bex exited the office she noticed Eli in the hallway near the stairs, hunched over his phone. It was his lifeline to his two girls who lived over two hundred miles away in Liverpool.
“Why do you have to be a police officer?!” The voice screeched down the line so loudly that Bex couldn’t help overhearing. “I hate, absolutely hate, that you’re a copper! Do you hear me?!”
Bex cast a concerned look in Eli’s direction. His face was distraught. He had taken to wearing a beard since returning from Liverpool at Christmas, but the gray covering his face did little to improve his look. Since his wife Sydney had left with the girls, Eli’s appearance had gone from slipshod to downright seedy. Bex could see a ring of grime around his shirt collar, a frayed cuff and a splotch of sauce on the lapel of his disheveled jacket. His beard wasn’t the fashion statement it would have been on Quinn or Idris, it simply looked as though he could no longer be bothered shaving.
“Imogen, sweetheart –”
“No! I hate what you do and I hate you!” The words blasted out of the phone.
Eli sagged against the wall, the phone clutched against his chest. He hadn’t noticed Bex and to leave the building she had to walk past him. She hovered awkwardly by the office door. It was going to be difficult to pretend she hadn’t heard the end of a conversation that had left Eli devastated.
Eli noticed her with a start.
“Teenagers. It’s a difficult age,” he said weakly.
“It sure is. I think my parents went gray dealing with my brother and me during our teen years.” They had certainly had difficulty dealing with her brother who had run away from family rules to join the army straight out of high school. She had felt obligated her whole life to make up for the disappointment known as Abraham Kirwan.
“I’ll give Imogen a call tomorrow when she’s calmed down.”
“She’ll probably have forgotten all about it by then.”
Eli grimaced. “Not Imogen. The only person in the family more stubborn and steadfast is Sydney. She’s taken her mother’s attitude that her kidnapping last year was somehow related to my work. That’s why she’s become so vehement against my job.”
“She’ll grow out of it, Eli,” Bex reassured him, even though she knew there were no absolutes and her own parents hadn’t seen or spoken to her brother in years.
Despite the troubled look on his face, Eli offered her a wan smile and pushed himself upright, away from the wall.
“Ah well, my options for the night are pretty good. Go down to the local with the lads and drink myself under the table or go home where I have a TV dinner for one waiting in the freezer.”
He looked like he could use a shoulder to cry on. Bex felt a pang of guilt.
“Do you want some company?”
Shock was written clear across Eli’s face at this out of character offer.
“I must be looking grim and sounding pretty morose if you think I need mother-henning,” he said with a chuckle. “Don’t you worry about me. It’s not often you leave work on time, and I don’t want to interfere if you’ve got a date.”
“You’re not spoiling my plans, Eli. Just let me freshen up and I’ll meet you downstairs.”
In the bathroom, Bex dialed Georgie as Eli headed away from the stairs towards the elevator.
“Hi, Georgie. I’m going to be late for dinner tonight. One of my team members is having a hard time and I’m just going to take him out to cheer him up.”
“That’s very sweet of you, Georgie.” Perhaps a good home-cooked meal was exactly what Eli needed? On the way there, Eli could explain to her what to expect from Bubble and Squeak.
* * *
The darkness outside matched the Sail and Ale’s dimly lit décor inside, alleviated by a roaring fire, spitting sparks behind its fireguard. Piled on either side, like an elaborate, artistic jigsaw, were two piles of sawn kindling. Passing pub staff would casually extract a log to throw onto the flames.
Cole and Yabsley occupied prime real estate in a booth next to the warmth. Dark wood-paned windows behind them rattled with rain. Yabsley’s short, precise haircut bristled with raindrops in the fire’s glow as he placed two pint tankards of pale ale on the scratched surface of the table. He shook out his wet jacket and hung it over the bench near the fire.
“Pete and Cathy should be here as soon as they wrap up that interview with our suspected peeping Tom,” he said.
Cole raised his glass in Yabsley direction.
“Cheers.”
Yabsley took a noisy slurp.
“So, guv, the rumors are flying that you’ve got a new bird in your sights. Care to give me the heads up before the others get here? They’re already taking bets on how long it’ll take you to get that hard as nails Yank into the sack.”
At Yabsley’s words, Cole coughed up his ale. When he recovered his breath his laugh lines disappeared and his eyes hardened. He took a relaxed stance with his men, but there were certain lines that he didn’t cross.
“Your mind’s resting in the gutter, Yabsley, if you think I’m about to shit in my own nest and get involved with Bex Wynter. And keep your voice down.” He jerked his head to the side where he had noticed Quinn, Reuben and Idris entering the pub’s warmth.
“Take it as a compliment, guv. The rest of us would love to know how you manage to romp from one bed to another so easily. Do women fall at your feet because of the remnant of Scottish blood running through your veins? Your sexual prowess? Heart-melting charm? Or is it your dance moves that keep them mesmerized?”
Yabsley was prone to talk loudly and his voice could cut through even the loudest hubbub.
“I said, haud yer wheesht!” Cole snapped as Quinn shot a curious look in their direction. He took a long pull of his ale before fastening a steely glare on Yabsley. “You can tell the guys to cancel all bets because Bex Wynter is one woman I’m not tempted to tangle with under the duvet.”
Noticing Quinn was still staring at him, Cole waved a hand towards him, beckoning the group over. He hoped having company would quench Yabsley’s interest in his lovelife. It wasn’t often he felt flustered, but Yabsley’s revelations had managed it.
“Come and join us lads, for you won’t get a seat in here otherwise, the pub’s packed to its fake Tudor rafters.”
After a quick huddle of discussion Quinn, Idris and Reuben settled themselves on the benches next to Cole and Yabsley.
“I tell you what, let me buy the first round, gents.”
When Quinn protested, Cole held up a hand.
“I insist. Take it as a belated welcome to Bridesmead. We should’ve done this months ago when you first moved into the premises, but better late than never, eh?”
Cole eased himself from the table.
“Listen, we’re the interlopers who’ve pushed you lot upstairs, so —”
Yabsley jabbed Quinn in the shoulder and earned himself a vicious glare.
“Save yourself, mate,” Yabsley said. “It’s easier to give in than argue with the guv.” Yabsley waited until he thought Cole was out of earshot. “So, what’s the lowdown on working for a Yankee woman?”
Cole smiled grimly to himself as he waited five deep in the crowd around the bar waiting to be served. It was more difficult to shut Yabsley up than boost police resources.
From a distance, Cole examined the Youth Crimes Team members. Reuben’s hair flopped over his forehead as he bent over his phone, while Idris’s immobile face was difficult to read. Still waters running deep there, judged Cole. He noted how Quinn’s eyes continually swept the pub’s interior, assessing people and situations, ignoring Yabsley’s flapping mouth.
Quinn’s air of arrogance reminded Cole of a younger version of himself in a time when he believed that policing wasn’t a job, it was a life choice. If you weren’t a born copper, no amount of training could make you a good one, had been his creed. Cole had been proud of skills that set him apart, lifted him a notch above his colleagues.
But that was before Lara.
Before Entwhistle.
Before playing god had ripped his beliefs to shreds.
Chapter 9
Wednesday March 7
On the way to Georgie’s bed and breakfast home in Ealing, Eli insisted on stopping at a local bottle shop. Wandering around the liquor store, Eli pestered Bex about Georgie’s drinking tastes.
“Definitely anything that contains gin,” Bex answered, amused by the solemnity with which Eli was approaching the dinner invitation.
While he was making his selection, Bex nipped next door to the supermarket to purchase a bunch of roses wrapped in cellophane for her hostess. After Eli had splurged forty pounds on a square glass bottle of what the store owner claimed was the perfect gin to go with tonic, he parked his family sedan, now missing its family, on Georgie’s driveway.
Eli gave a soft whistle under his breath as they approached the renovated Georgian house. Georgie had left the outside lamps burning either side of the front door and they cast a warm glow over the sturdy red bricks rising two stories high and reflected from the white plastered windows fronting the house. They could see lights on behind the curtains. Bex knew the front room was open to Georgie’s bed and breakfast guests who gathered to watch television or chat over the best sight-seeing spots.
“Lovely place to live, Bex.”
“It is,” Bex responded, rapping the doorknocker.
She had initially been one of Georgie’s bed and breakfast guests but now rented a self-contained studio apartment with a separate entrance accessible down the side of the house.
Georgie threw the door open and a blast of warmth greeted them, not least of which was her welcoming smile as Eli handed over his bottle, still wrapped in its brown paper bag, and Bex held out her roses.
“How absolutely lovely of you both! Now, come in, chooks, come in. Don’t stand there gracing my doorway. Follow me, well you know the way, Bex.”
Georgie breezed ahead of them. Light bounced from her silvery curls and off the sequined jacket she wore over a mid-length chiffon skirt as she led them into the large country kitchen that doubled as a guest dining room in the mornings.
Grabbing Bex aside, she whispered, “I’ve changed tonight’s menu, my luv. Bubble and squeak with sausages is all very well for a girls’ night in, but it’s not enough substance for a gentleman. I hope you don’t mind?”
Visions of relieved mice fleeing the dinner plate accosted Bex. She couldn’t help giggling.
While they waited for dinner Georgie opened the bottle of gin and poured them each a hefty slug with their tonics. She regaled them with lively tales of her “girls”, the rusty brown free range chickens that roamed her organic garden. By the second G and T, Eli had thrown off his despondency and bogged into the conversation with a range of questions about her rustic life in the midst of the city.
Three drinks down and Eli had Georgie screaming with laughter over some of his more risqué police anecdotes, some that even left Bex gasping for air. She noticed Eli and Georgie staring blissfully at each other over the rims of their glasses and began to feel like a third wheel.
Somewhat tipsily, Georgie ser
ved them a gammon casserole that Bex learned was in fact another name for a thick cut of smoked ham on the bone. Georgie had mixed pears, sweet potato and cauliflower to make a colorful and extremely tasty mix with the meat. A long, crusty loaf was on the table and Eli used it to soak up every bit of the sauce.
“Scrumptious meal, Georgie. I can’t remember the last time I had such a delicious home cooked dinner,” he complimented her.
“Well don’t stop there. I baked a parkin today, so I’ll go and put the kettle on and we’ll have a slice or two of that.”
Bex had learned that “put the kettle on” was a euphemism for boiling water to make tea. Bex thought with longing of her little espresso maker in her studio apartment. Georgie’s idea of coffee was two spoonsful of instant in boiling water with a splash of cold milk.
Georgie’s traditional Yorkshire cake left Eli smacking his lips and scooping up the last of the ginger and treacle crumbs with a finger. Afterwards, he insisted on helping her load the dishwasher.
“It’s the least I can do,” he said. “If there’s anything that doesn’t fit just put a squirt of washing up liquid in the sink and I’ll do the rest by hand.”
“Ooh, no, I’d never ask a guest to do that!”
“And I hope you’ll let me repay the favor one day. I’m no cook, I’m afraid, but I can buy a mean take away. Do you like fish and chips?”
“She does as long as they’re soggy with vinegar and accompanied by green slime,” Bex said.
“Ooh, vinegar and mushy peas! My favorite way to eat them.” Eli laughed at Bex’s shudder.
“Righto, my luvs, I’ll just put on the washing-up machine and then we’ll relax.”
Georgie had an industrial-size dishwasher that took everything on board. It must have been ten years old and rumbled and vibrated its way through a wash cycle, but Bex had learned that was much easier to take than seeing Georgie wash the dishes. This usually only happened when she had a full load in the dishwasher and then she washed everything from glasses to greasy pans in the same sink of soapy water and never rinsed a single item!
Bex Wynter Box Set 2 Page 6
