Anxiety uncoiled inside Bex’s stomach and she couldn’t summon any enthusiasm for the thought of facing the limelight. Dresden was the one who soaked up publicity like a sponge.
Idris rose to his feet, his suit looking as fresh and unwrinkled as though he’d just arrived at work.
“We’re heading down to the Sail and Ale. We’ll expect you to drop by and buy us a round to celebrate your new status,” he said. White teeth flashed in his dark face, as though he could read her unsettled thoughts.
“Quinn, wait, could I have a word first?”
He gave a quick nod to the others as they headed out before following her into her office. He filled the doorframe with his surliness, the chip on his shoulder more than evident. Quinn had always held a grudge that she had been promoted over him, and her new role, no matter how temporary, wasn’t going to make him any happier.
“You wanted to see me?”
She knew better than to expect congratulations from him. She sucked in a deep breath and plunged into what she had to say.
“Since I’ll be stationed in New Scotland Yard for the foreseeable future, there’s an opening here for the DCI role. As inspector, you’re next in line, Quinn.”
“With you out of the picture, the team will be one member down. Are we getting someone to fill in?”
“That’s Titus’s call.”
He folded his arms and radiated disapproval, whether of the decision or her she wasn’t sure.
Bex covered the awkward paused by pulling open her top drawer and shoveling items into the archive box.
“I don’t know how you talked Titus into keeping the Youth Crimes Team. I was sure with Dresden gone the unit would fold.”
“Our mandate’s changed.”
“Yes, we heard Titus blowing London Met’s trumpet. Nice spin to turn grisly serial killings into an opportunity to save our innocent kids. Except they weren’t innocent, were they, all the ones that Dresden marked for death.”
The atmosphere between them darkened.
“No matter what crimes those kids committed, no one deserves to be killed like that.” Bex’s voice rose heatedly. “They had their whole lives in front of them. Now no one will ever know if any of those kids could’ve turned a corner and made a real go of –”
Quinn waved a hand in irritation to forestall any more of the lecture.
“Sure, I know the politically correct drill. And while I don’t think I’m God to make those life and death decisions, you have to face the fact that these kids weren’t exactly prom kings and queens, to put it in an idiom you can understand. Their lives were always going to end up behind bars, Dresden just saved the government the bill for looking after them.”
“Of all the callous things to say!”
Quinn’s eyes drilled into hers.
“I’m just calling a spade a spade. We’re prosecuting Vitalis and Dresden, but what about all those rich bastards who benefitted from the organ transplants? They must’ve known people were dying to provide them with hearts, livers and kidneys. But the fire destroyed any record of their names so they get away from this crime scot-free. Now, that injustice is something that does turn my stomach!”
Quinn punched a fist into his open palm to emphasize his point.
“With your attitude I’m not sure you’re the right person to leave in charge of the team,” Bex protested.
His forehead knotted.
“Who else would you leave in charge? That paragon of virtue Cole Mackinley?” His laugh was harsh. “You’re way too naïve for this job. How did you ever survive the NYPD?”
“Quinn, stop before you overstep the line.”
His eyes burned hard and blue.
“Are you blaming me for overstepping the line? I’m not the one taking bets on when Mackinley will get a leg over.”
“I don’t understand.” The euphemism was a new one for her, but Quinn’s tone sent anxious fingers snaking down her spine.
“Then I’ll spell it out for you. Yabsley and the Bridesmead lads are betting Mackinley gets you into bed before the end of the month.”
Bex’s cheeks lit on fire. Her heart did a strange little flip flop that took her breath away.
Quinn leaned over the desk, his eyes predatory as they took in her reaction.
“Looks to me like you’ve already fallen for the smarmy bastard so my word of warning is too late!”
With those parting words he was gone.
Bex sagged into her office chair, expelling pent up air from her lungs. Why had Quinn made a point of sharing that gossip?
Am I really just a clichéd notch on Cole’s bedpost?
The thought hit her like a punch in the gut, leaving her hollowed out.
It doesn’t matter, she told herself firmly. Zane was the only man she would ever love. His death had left her heart far too damaged for another relationship.
Her limbs felt heavy but she forced herself to her feet, opening and emptying drawers, stripping the office of anything personal. She hefted the filled box onto her hip and went to switch off the light. Only then did she realize her face was wet with tears.
THE END
BLOOD LINES
BOOK 5
Detective Bex Wynter Files
About this book
When murder runs in the blood, a police officer is forced to question her loyalties in this riveting and emotionally charged crime mystery.
American Detective Bex Wynter thought she could run away from her husband’s death by saving the lives of young teens in London. But can she save a teenaged prisoner from his father, one of London’s most vicious crime kings? A key witness against his own family, when he becomes a victim, Bex is pulled into a world of deceit and betrayal.
To save his life, Bex must team up with mysterious newcomer to the Youth Crimes Team, Remy Knight. But Remy’s keeping secrets and she isn’t the only one. Secrets that could blow their entire investigation to pieces.
The closer Bex comes to the truth, the less she can trust those she counts on. Is she about to find out that blood and loyalty are stronger than truth and justice?
Chapter 1
Coldmarsh Prison, Tuesday, April 3
It won’t kill me to do Kendel a favor. He’s only asking me to stay half an hour past my shift so he can catch the same break as Lucy. Brian Thrussell gave himself a convincing pep talk as the gray concrete walls of the corridor bore down on him.
A chill shivered through his tired body and he heard his granddad’s cracked voice in his head: “A chill means someone walking over yer grave, young’un. Remember, death nary asks permission to visit!”
Funny, he hadn’t thought about the old man in many years. He shook off the memory and continued walking.
Coldmarsh Prison was a Category A facility housing the worst offenders, many sentenced to life imprisonment. It was old and it was overcrowded and as a consequence both prisoners and guards suffered a miserable existence.
Thrussell considered himself lucky. As a prison guard he had somewhere else to go at the end of his ten-hour shift, whereas most of the lifers would only ever exit via a body bag. But that information was small comfort in a work environment consisting of daily security breaches and menacing threats. Just last week he had watched one prisoner stab another with a makeshift chiv, a razor blade strapped to a sharpened toothbrush, before turning the weapon on himself.
He was counting down the days to his own retirement. Liz wanted him to leave now, but the lure of full benefits was too tempting. He just had to stay alert when he was on the landings and avoid trouble to make it home at the end of each shift.
Stifling a yawn, he trudged towards the High Security Unit. HSU was in a separate block negotiated through two gated doors. The first gate required a fingerprint scan. The panel beeped, a green light flashed and the door slid open. Thrussell swallowed another yawn. His mind was preoccupied with yesterday’s game. Millwall Football Club had played Ipswich Town to a nail-biting draw of two-all. Instead of grabbing a nap b
efore starting work, he and his son had celebrated with a couple of pints at the local pub before he had headed into work at 10:00 p.m.
He fished his smart phone out of his pocket, quickly texting his son:
Yesterday’s game moves Millwall into 8th position. If we can gain 3 points on Sat, the Lions will definitely be in the playoffs!
His phone pinged and he scanned the returning message.
Sterling performance from the whole squad! Disappointing Lions didn’t finish that last chance. Will see what happens at next game. Are you buying next season’s tickets? If you get in quick there’s a discount.
His fingers tapped over the keypad.
Thx for the heads up. Will check the bank account, AKA your mother!!!
Chuckling, Thrussell slipped the phone into his pocket. The weary slap of his work boots misstepped and he pitched towards the wall, only his outstretched hand saving him from a nasty fall. He grimaced over his skinned palm but the jolt refreshed his drooping eyelids and flagging energy.
A sharp left turn brought him to the next security post. Here he removed his shoes, belt and phone, passed through the metal detector and received a full body search before having any contact with the prisoners in HSU. He gave a nod to the CCTV camera above the door. Special technology was being used to check his facial features and ensure he was an authorized visitor.
On the other side there were two floors holding sixteen single occupancy cells. Only eight were ever occupied at any one time because the prisoners were shifted at irregular intervals to different cells so their original homes could be thoroughly searched, preventing them the opportunity to secret contraband.
Thrussell lacked the clearance of a HSU guard so he waited in the barren room known as the “reception area” to pick up his prisoner. He had been in the job so long he barely noticed the brick walls, more coated with despair than bad paint, and the wooden floor worn smooth from hopeless footsteps. In a corner the coils and loops of the radiator gasped and wheezed in desperation.
From behind a security screen, one of the guards nodded in his direction. “You here to pick up Loughborough?”
“Yeah, he’s got visitors waiting. Can you make it snappy? My shift ended twenty minutes ago and I want to get the hell out of here and home to bed, but we’re understaffed as usual so I’m giving Kendel a hand by escorting Loughborough to the visitors’ room.”
“Lindsay’s getting him now. You attend the game yesterday? Bristol City’s loss is Millwall’s gain on the ladder, eh, Brian?”
“Bloody oath! All we need is three points next weekend and we’re in the playoffs.”
Thrussell had time to buckle his belt, slip on his shoes and jam his phone back in his pocket before the prisoner was brought to the waiting area. Griffin Loughborough was both younger looking and better dressed than he had expected, despite knowing why he was kept in HSU.
Griffin’s smooth cheeks barely sported peach fuzz, the whites of his eyes were snowy and his hair had recently been trimmed. He wore a plain blue polo shirt tucked into clean denim jeans and brand name sports shoes. His step was light and carefree. He looked like a public school boy embarking on an extracurricular excursion through Coldmarsh’s desolate corridors.
“Do you want him cuffed, Mr Thrussell?” the escorting guard asked.
When Thrussell hesitated, Griffin smiled in his direction. “I don’t bite, Mr Thrussell. Honest.”
Thrussell knew that, unlike the other prisoners in this unit, Griffin wasn’t considered a high security risk. Hell, two months ago he had been sitting in a minimum security young offenders’ facility. He had only been transferred to the men’s prison to keep him out of reach from his family’s death threats. Just shy of his eighteenth birthday Griffin Loughborough was precious property. He was the star witness against his own family and his testimony would put his father behind bars for the first time.
Thrussell triggered his body camera to start recording as he answered, “No need.”
He indicated for Griffin to move ahead of him. The guard behind the grille released the heavy metal door for them to enter the corridor, bypassing the metal detector.
“Just ending your night shift, Mr Thrussell?” Griffin asked, his tone friendly and conversational.
“Should’ve been over at eight this morning. Keep walking, Mr Loughborough,” Thrussell growled, taking a stance slightly to the left and behind so that he could keep an eye on the prisoner without becoming a target himself.
“Sorry to hear that. You must be tired. Just want to get home for a kip, eh? Should we take the shortcut then?” Griffin turned his head to throw the words over his shoulder.
At the second security gate, Thrussell lifted his face to the camera and pressed his fingertip to the scanner. The door responded with a motorized click, allowing them back into the main part of the prison.
Griffin’s words made Thrussell reconsider his route and he prodded Griffin towards the left. Moving through the accommodation cells was a shortcut he wouldn’t normally take. But the 8:00 a.m. unlock had happened. By now prisoners would have been dispersed to court, to workshops or education classes. Only a few inmates would be locked back into their cells.
“Let’s not stand here all day gabbing. Like you said, I need to get my beauty sleep.”
As they moved into the high-ceilinged central corridor, surrounded on both sides by barred cells, their footsteps echoed noisily. The cells were stark and austere, the windows small with most of the light coming from overhead halogen globes. Bad ventilation meant the air clotted around them with smells impregnated with urine, unwashed sweat and musty bodies. Surveillance cameras situated on the ceiling tracked their movements.
“Worked here for long?” Griffin continued his affable conversation.
“Fifteen years in August,” Thrussell answered.
“My granddad served time at Coldmarsh in the 60s. I’ll bet it hasn’t changed much in all this time.”
Thrussell’s interest spiked.
“You mean Old Man Morty Loughborough?”
“That’s right. He was sentenced to ten years and got out in seven with good behavior. Once he got out he swore no Loughborough would never set foot inside Her Majesty’s pleasure again.”
“I guess he didn’t count on you then, did he, son?”
The absence of prisoners meant the constant buzz and drone of dozens of confined men was muted. Thrussell’s conversation with Griffin rang hollowly between the empty cells. Their presence attracted attention from inmates who, for one reason or another, had been left locked in their ten by twelve boxes.
“Hey, boss, give me a hand with a wank won’t you?” a voice called out with a rattle against the bars of a narrow peephole in his solid green door.
“While that may be tempting, Mr Cowper, I’ll give you some privacy so you can jerk off with Mrs Palmer,” Thrussell replied without batting an eyelid.
Slowing his stride, Griffin turned towards Thrussell with a grin. As the guard leant forward to nudge him on, he saw Griffin’s eyes widen. Quickly he whipped his head to the side, his glance probing the darkened doorway, registering what Griffin had already seen.
His body camera recorded for posterity the yellow snub-nosed plastic pistol pointing from between the barred peephole. At the same instant, Griffin lurched backwards, his body skimming behind Thrussell’s, using it as a shield.
The nozzle exploded and his brain struggled to comprehend this was no toy. The blast shattered against his eardrums. Pain burst in his chest. He couldn’t breath. He opened his mouth to gulp in air and a bubble of blood frothed over his lips. His bulging eyes swept upwards towards the nearest camera and he mouthed, “Help!”
Sirens sounded.
Thrussell’s knees buckled and his eyes rolled back. Face-planting hard against the cool metal, the strong odor of disinfectant washed over him. Dimly he felt the vibration of thundering footsteps as guards swooped in, their voices loud as they shouted over the top of each other.
“
Hold on, Brian, we’ll get you out!”
“The prisoner’s wounded!”
“Get that prisoner out of here now!”
Hands fumbled, ripping buttons from his uniform jacket, a palm pressed hard against his chest. More bloody froth belched from his lips as someone grabbed him under the arms and heaved him along the corridor. His fingers and toes numbed, cold creeping up his limbs.
As the black void swallowed him, the last words he heard were, “Don’t you bloody die on us!”
* * *
When the blaring sirens penetrated the visitors room, Detective Chief Inspector Cole Mackinley rose sharply to his feet. In the chair beside him Isla Standing gave him a tight-lipped smile and recrossed her stunning legs.
“Relax, Cole, it’s just another day in the trenches,” she murmured. “Damn, but I hate criminal law.”
“That’s the lockdown siren which means there’s been a major upheaval. I hope it’s no coincidence that we were about to talk with Griffin. Let me see if I can find out what’s happening.”
“You’re being paranoid. Prison attacks are increasing on a daily basis. There’s no reason to think it involves Griffin.”
“Two months ago Griffin was attacked by another inmate, so yes you can call me paranoid. Without our star witness we have no substantial case against Jack and Morty Loughborough. Months of work will have been for nothing.”
Isla stuffed papers back into her briefcase.
“This is likely to take the prison hours to sort out. I can’t hang around hoping they’ll bring Griffin here. I have other appointments I have to keep.”
“The timeframe’s tight, but I’ll try to arrange another meeting—”
“Fine, you do that,” Isla interrupted. “But don’t let your paranoia get the better of you. I believe Griffin’s primed. He knows what testimony is needed. Like you said, we’ve spent months prepping for this case.” Isla rose to her feet, smoothing down her Langtang silk skirt. “Remember, you’ve got the best damn lawyer for your prosecution. I’ll make sure that Jack and Morty Loughborough’s criminal empire is destroyed.”
Bex Wynter Box Set 2 Page 19
