Mismatch

by Tracie Delaney

  Mike’s PA told them to wait as he was on a call. She had a scowl for Jayne and a coy smile for Rupe. Jayne paced the hallway, whereas Rupe lounged in a chair, his legs splayed wide, hands laced behind his head. Honestly, the man was so laid-back, but instead of his demeanour having a calming mirrored effect on Jayne, she found her blood pressure rising.

  Mike’s door opened, and he beckoned to them. After brief introductions were made, he motioned for them to sit. “I’m sorry if I was a bit cloak-and-dagger last night. I wanted to make sure I could get you both to come here as soon as possible, before you hear this somewhere else.”

  Jayne leaned forward, sliding her chair closer to Mike’s desk. “Hear what?”

  As Mike rested his arms on his desk, the light from the window fell on his face, and Jayne couldn’t help thinking how tired he looked. The skin beneath his eyes was dark and bruised, the lines around his mouth pronounced.

  “There’s been a development in the Vanessa Roberts case.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I barely know where to start.”

  Jayne began to fidget in her chair. Rupe put a hand on her knee to still her. Mike spotted the affectionate touch, and his eyes widened.

  “Spit it out, Mike,” Jayne said. “The suspense is killing me.”

  Mike blew out a breath. “We’ve charged the husband with conspiracy to commit murder.”

  Rupe hissed a breath as Jayne fixed Mike with a hard stare. “So it was the husband,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “That’s not all,” Mike said. “God, this is a fuck-up beyond all proportions. The commissioner has asked me to personally oversee this investigation.” He took a sip of water. “After the charges against you were dropped,” he said, indicating to Rupe, “the pressure increased on the local force to find out what happened. The media ran several campaigns, and when the lack of a viable suspect ramped up the pressure, I was asked to temporarily transfer a few of my senior officers over to Kennington to bolster the investigation. After some damned fine police work, we were able to bring Mr Reynolds in for questioning. He crumbled pretty quickly once we presented him with the facts.”

  “What was his motive?” Rupe asked.

  Mike steepled his fingers under his chin. “It turns out that Mrs Reynolds told Mr Reynolds she was leaving him. For you.”

  Jayne swivelled her head in Rupe’s direction so quickly she damn near broke her neck. “Is this true?”

  Rupe remained as calm as ever, although Jayne did spot a slight tightening of the skin around his mouth at her challenge. “No, it’s not true. Vanessa was a temporary distraction. Even if she’d been single, I wouldn’t have wanted anything more permanent.”

  Jayne twisted back around in her seat, but the maelstrom of emotions swirling within her must have shown on her face, because he covered her hand with his and squeezed, an attempt at reassurance.

  “Anyway,” Mike continued, either oblivious to the emotional undercurrent between her and Rupe or deciding to ignore it, “Mr Reynolds, whose influence stretches far and wide, used some contacts and pulled in a few favours. The reason why you can’t remember very much from that night, Mr Fox-Whittingham, is because your drinks were spiked. You don’t remember walking back to Mrs Reynolds’s hotel room because you didn’t. You were driven there by an assassin Mr Reynolds hired. Once you were both out of it, the hitman injected Mrs Reynolds with a massive overdose of heroin, one that she wouldn’t have stood a chance of surviving.”

  “Jesus.” Rupe ran a hand over the top of his head. “I still don’t understand why, though. Even if he did think Nessa and I were running off into the sunset together, that’s hardly a reason to kill her. From what Nessa told me, their marriage was a sham anyway.”

  “It seems that when Mrs Reynolds told her husband she was leaving him, he threatened to cut her off, to make sure she left penniless. He also said he’d throw Mrs Reynolds’s mother, who has Alzheimer’s, out of the nursing home that he was paying for. Mrs Reynolds decided to hit back. She told him that she knew all about his dodgy dealings over the years, and she threatened to expose him, to report them to the police and the newspapers.” Mike shrugged. “So he had her killed and set you up as the fall guy.”

  Jayne frowned and shook her head slightly. “But how do Fisher and the drug pusher fit into all this?”

  Mike closed his eyes briefly. “What I’m about to say stays within these four walls for now. Do I make myself clear?”

  Rupe and Jayne nodded.

  “That’s what I meant before when I said we had a right fuck-up on our hands. Fisher and Sean Reynolds knew each other from way back. They grew up on the same estate, but their lives obviously took very different directions. Reynolds found out about Fisher’s sister, and he used it as leverage to persuade Fisher to help him get you, Mr Fox-Whittingham, sent down for Mrs Reynolds’s murder—in exchange for a tidy sum, of course, which Fisher would receive if you were found guilty. Fisher jumped at the chance. Not only would he get revenge for his sister’s death, but he’d also be able to quit the force, to live the kind of life that he always thought was owed to him.”

  Rupe’s hand tightened around Jayne’s as she shuffled even farther forwards in her seat. “So Fisher copped to all this?”

  A faint flush crept up Mike’s neck, and he shook his head. “We don’t know where he is. Uniform went to pick him up yesterday, but he’d scarpered. His flat had been cleared of all personal items and his bank account emptied. We’ve put out an alert. He won’t get far. In the meantime, Mr Fox-Whittingham, I suggest you remain vigilant until we have Fisher in custody. He clearly has a vendetta against you, and I can’t say for sure that he won’t act on that.”

  “Wow,” Rupe said with a shake of his head. “I really appreciate you sharing this with me.” He rubbed his fingertips over his lips. “Will I need to testify when it comes to trial?”

  “Perhaps. That’ll be up to the CPS. I’ll keep you both updated.” Mike grimaced. “And please keep this confidential. The media will get hold of this story soon enough, but I’d rather it was through an official statement, written by the police press office, than a leak that will cause fallout that we won’t be able to control.”

  Jayne rose from her chair. “Thank you, Mike. And don’t worry, this stays between us.”

  28

  After Mike’s jaw-dropping revelation, Rupe drove Jayne to her office with a promise to call by her apartment later that night. As she watched his car disappear down the road, a twinge of sadness that she wouldn’t see him all day gnawed at her gut. She laughed at herself as she pushed open the door to her office building. She really did have it bad.

  She rode the lift to her floor, and as the doors opened, her phone pinged with an incoming text. She dug it out of her bag, grinning when she saw the sender—and the message: Wear the pink lingerie tonight.

  Desire pooled in the pit of her stomach. Damn, that man even had the Midas touch over SMS. Donna was on the phone as Jayne walked down the hallway towards her office. She swiped her calendar from Donna’s outstretched hand and held up her other hand in greeting.

  Once inside her office, she dumped her stuff on the desk and typed out a response: It’s being laundered.

  With a grin, she sat down and waited for his reply. She didn’t have to wait long.

  Then I’ll bring some with me for you to model. Be ready. Be naked.

  Her stomach flipped, and her excitement increased. She’d never sexted before, but God, there was something so thrilling and illicit about it.

  Be hard, she wrote back, feeling like a naughty schoolgirl messing about at the back of the class.

  I already am.

  She was about to reply once more when a knock interrupted her. Irritated, she looked up as Donna poked her head around the door.

  “You’re not going to like this,” she said with a grimace.

  Jayne sighed. “What now?”

  “Darren’s called in sick. He mentioned something about projectile vomitin
g.” Donna pulled a face. “And he was due in court this afternoon. Dangerous-driving case. That banking boss’s son.”

  Jayne rubbed her eyes. “Which one is that again?”

  “You remember, the young lad who drove his Ferrari down Kensington High Street at over sixty miles an hour and almost knocked that kid off his bike.”

  “Oh yeah, I remember now. I also remember Darren saying he was an arrogant little sod.” She let out a resigned breath. “Can’t anyone else fill in?”

  Donna shook her head. “I’ll email you the files. Darren said it should be straightforward but to give him a call if you have any questions.”

  Jayne groaned as Donna closed the door. She’d hoped for a quiet day and an early finish. Now she’d be lucky if she got home before nine. She sent a quick text to Rupe, telling him what had happened and that she’d call when she was home.

  By the time she set off for court at two that afternoon, her mood had taken a downward spiral. If rich boy got on her last remaining nerve, he’d feel the sharp edge of her tongue. With any luck, he’d plead guilty, and she’d be home by six. Darren’s notes had confirmed that the little shit hadn’t cared to enlighten his lawyer about which way he was intending to plead. Honestly, sometimes she questioned whether she’d picked the right side. At times like these, the thought of being a prosecutor and being able to put lowlifes behind bars seemed rather appealing.

  As luck would have it, Daddy persuaded son to do the decent thing—probably for the first time in his life—and he pleaded guilty. The son got a suspended sentence, community service, and a hefty fine, which wouldn’t make much of a dent in Daddy’s bonus for that year. After several profuse thank-yous from the father and a sullen “Thanks” from the son—even as he refused to look her in the eye—Jayne managed to get on the tube for six thirty. She considered sending Rupe a text telling him she was on her way home, but after rushing round all day in the heat, she was desperate for a shower. If she texted him, he’d probably get to her place before she did, and while he might not mind sweaty breasts and clammy thighs, she did.

  She nudged open the door to her apartment and dropped the stack of files she was carrying. They landed on the floor with a hollow thud. Kicking off her shoes, she simultaneously tossed her jacket over the back of the couch and then padded into the bathroom. She shucked the rest of her clothes and dived under a cool shower. God, that felt good. After a few minutes enjoying the refreshing spray, she quickly dried her hair, already getting the wonderful fluttering in her belly at the thought of what Rupe would do to her when he came over.

  She wandered back into the living room and picked up her phone, the sight sending her heart rate ramping up. A text from Rupe:

  Jayne, I need you to come to my place. It’s urgent. Please hurry.

  With a frown, Jayne dialled his number. It rang out without him picking up, but weirdly, it didn’t divert to his voicemail either. She tried again. Still no answer. With anxiety clawing at her gut, she quickly dressed and darted outside. After shifting from foot to foot, she eventually gave up on the lift and ran into the stairwell. She almost fell over her own feet as she scrambled downstairs, and by the time she got to the foyer of her apartment building, her lungs were burning from overexertion and the beginnings of mild panic. She reached into her pocket to try calling Rupe again. Shit. She’d left her phone in the apartment. Sod it. No time to go back. She needed to get over to Rupe’s.

  As she stepped into the street, something hard prodded at her side, and a firm hand gripped her around her waist.

  “That’s a gun jammed in your ribs,” a vaguely familiar voice hissed in her ear. “Don’t do anything stupid, Jayne.”

  She froze as the discomfort in her side increased.

  “Unless you want to be responsible for the death of several innocent people, not to mention your own, you will do exactly as I say.”

  Jayne searched the deep recesses of her terrified mind, eventually coming up with the answer.

  “Detective Fisher,” she whispered.

  “Not just a pretty face, are you, Jayne? Now, move!”

  He prodded her with the butt of the gun, propelling her towards a large dark-blue estate car parked on double yellow lines outside her apartment building. Jayne’s gaze darted around as she tried to assess her chances of shouting for help, but his warning about harming innocents made her clamp her mouth shut.

  Fisher opened the passenger door and shoved her inside. He immediately crowded her, his chest pressing against hers as he picked up two sets of handcuffs from the driver’s seat. Jayne recoiled at the smell of stale sweat and anxiety that came off him in waves. She tried to get her knee up, but the angle was all wrong. As she wriggled, Fisher slammed his fist into her stomach. Jayne’s breath left her body in a rush, and she grunted. Fisher snapped the handcuffs around her wrists and yanked her arms overhead, securing the other end to the bars of the head restraint.

  As he ran around the front of the car, Jayne tried to catch her breath. She stared hopefully out of the window, but the tinting was far too dark for anyone to see a woman in distress. Fisher threw himself in the driver’s seat. He rammed the car into first gear and sped away.

  “Fisher, what are you doing?” she said, trying to keep her voice steady and even, despite the panic growing like a rampant weed inside her. She tried not to think about the text from Rupe and what it might mean. What if Fisher had hurt him, or worse?

  Fisher shot her a look before turning his attention back to the road. Sweat poured from his brow, and he had several days’ beard growth, which, along with his rumpled clothing, gave him a desperate, almost unhinged air.

  “Look, if you cut me loose now, there’s no harm done.”

  Fisher continued to ignore her, and Jayne scrabbled around in her brain, trying to remember his first name. Perhaps if she engaged with him on a more personal level, she had a chance of him listening to her. What had Frank said when she and Rupe had met him in the pub? Come on, Jayne. Think! The answer came to her in a rush.

  “Think of your family, John. Your parents,” she said in a placating tone. The use of his first name caused Fisher to set his eyes on her once more, his gaze darting between her and the road ahead.

  “Fuck my parents,” he growled. “If they hadn’t been such losers, I’d have had a chance of a better life.”

  “Then think of your career. This is still salvageable.” Unless you’ve hurt Rupe, and then I’ll make you suffer, you complete psycho.

  Fisher expelled a harsh laugh. “Don’t treat me like an idiot. Of course it’s not salvageable. They know everything! They’ve arrested Sean, and he’s singing like a fucking canary. Now shut the fuck up unless you want a smack in the mouth.”

  His breathing grew harsh as he pressed down the accelerator. The car sped up. They were heading out of London, tracking east. Jayne tried to keep an eye on her surroundings, but darkness had descended, making the task almost impossible. She estimated that they’d been driving for about an hour when Fisher stopped the car. He jumped out and opened a gate before driving into a field. After closing the gate, he drove to the far side of the field before yanking the steering wheel to the left. He maneuvered the car up a narrow dirt path. The shrubs on either side scraped against the bodywork of the vehicle, scattering twigs and leaves to the ground. After five minutes, the track opened out onto a small clearing. Ahead stood a single-story building—disused and neglected, with missing roof tiles and boarded-up windows. Cold fingers of dread inched up Jayne’s spine as Fisher parked the car around the back of the property.

  He cut the engine and climbed out. He wrenched open Jayne’s door, unlocked the handcuffs, and hauled her outside. With a hard shove, he slammed her face-first against the bonnet of the car. A searing pain burst through her cheekbone, and she screamed. Fisher jerked her arms behind her and locked the handcuffs around both her wrists.

  He leaned farther over her, his foul-smelling breath making her gag. “Not so fucking sure of yourself now are you,
Miss Stuck-Up Lawyer?” he hissed in her ear. “Don’t think I didn’t notice the way you looked down your nose at me.”

  “John, please let me go,” she said, her voice tinged with panic.

  Fisher grabbed her by the hair and hauled her to her feet. Jayne cried out as her scalp burned.

  “Scream as much as you like.” He roughly shoved her in the direction of the ramshackle building. “No one will hear you out here.”

  29

  Rupe frowned at the clock and then glanced down at the text Jayne had sent earlier in the day. Almost ten hours had passed, and still no word from her. Surely she couldn’t still be at work? He called up the opening hours of the courthouse. Nine to five. That meant it had been closed for four hours.

  He dialled Jayne’s number, but it rang out without connecting. He stabbed out a quick text to her, grabbed his jacket and keys, and headed over to her apartment.

  Rupe abandoned his car in a no-parking zone and ran inside the building. He called Jayne again on the way upstairs, but there was still no answer. Something felt wrong. He didn’t know what, but in the time he’d known her, Jayne was never without her phone, and even if she couldn’t answer, she’d always sent a short text.

  As he reached the door to her apartment, he banged hard.

  “Jayne, are you in there? Open up.”

  Silence.

  He banged again, and when there was still no answer, he called her. A faint ringing tone sounded from inside the apartment, and Rupe’s heart shot into overdrive. If her phone was inside, where the fuck was she? What if she’d hurt herself and was lying unconscious inside?

  When his furious knocking went unanswered, Rupe tore off downstairs to the building superintendent’s office. He pushed open the door. The super was watching a boxing match on the TV and glanced over his shoulder with an irritated expression at the interruption.

  “Heard of knocking, buddy?” he said.

  “I need you to open up Jayne Seymour’s apartment. Number 1146.”