‘The nail file, can you pull it?’
The silence was thunderous this time.
t ‘I can’t explain right now, Steve,’ Matthew offered weakly, ‘I just need you to—’
‘Trust you?’ Steve cut in tersely.
Matthew nodded, hoping to God he could trust Steve. ‘Yes,’ he said, in the absence of anything more reassuring to say.
‘I’ll do my best,’ Steve said, clearly guessing no other information would be forthcoming. ‘Anything else? Wouldn’t like me to go and offer to clean Sullivan’s pool out, would you, since we’re treating him so kindly?’
‘Drown the bastard in it, more like,’ Matthew grated. ‘Steve, I have to go. Call me, will you, as soon as you have it?’
‘Yeah, whatever.’ Steve sighed heavily, as Matthew hung up. ‘Shall I go and buy a few wraps of H and hand them over to Sullivan with our compliments, while I’m at it?’ he muttered angrily to himself.
Shaking his head, he leaned back in his chair, staring thoughtfully at his PC screen for a while, and then clicking over the images of the Oxford crime scene again. It might as well be the same case. The MO’s identical and Matthew says it’s a no-go? Right out of the blue? Uh-uh. It didn’t add up. And now he wants him to pull something that, while not admissible as evidence, might definitely pin the bastard to the crime? DI Adams was definitely in some kind of trouble. Deep shit by the sounds of it. Steve wasn’t sure what was going down but, while he would do what was asked of him, he wasn’t about to sit around contemplating his navel while Matthew drowned in it.
It didn’t take Steve long to find Rebecca’s parents number. Reminding himself to be careful not to put the wind up anyone, he rang it, pretending he was an old friend and, bingo: no Rebecca currently visiting. After a nice little chat, her mum offered Steve Matthew’s home number and said to remind Becky to ring her. She hadn’t spoken to her in a while.
Chapter Sixteen
His heart skipping a beat, Matthew immediately picked up the call on his hands-free.
‘You know you can be dead irritating sometimes, don’t you, Adams?’ Sullivan muttered.
‘Where is she?’ Matthew worked to keep his tone even.
‘Not very polite, either, are you? I believe I asked first.’
Disbelieving, Matthew shook his head. ‘What?’
‘I asked you whether you knew how irritating you were?’ Sullivan repeated, taking his time. Knowing he could, because he knew he’d got Matthew exactly where he wanted him, dancing to his tune. And Matthew would, because there were simply no other options. If he got Sullivan hauled in somehow, there was no guarantee he’d reveal where Becky was. If he enlisted a few heavies of his own and beat the piece of scum to a pulp … Oh, how Matthew wanted to do that … the chances were Sullivan would do all he could to make sure she was never found.
‘Well?’ Sullivan waited.
Impotent anger broiling inside him, Matthew clutched the phone hard to his ear.
‘Yes,’ he supplied what the bastard wanted to hear.
‘Yes what?’
Matthew drew in a tight breath. ‘Yes, I know how irritating I am.’ He almost choked on the words.
‘Always were,’ Sullivan rambled perversely on, ‘thinking you were something special cos your old man was a copper. Turned out he was a bit of a failure, though, didn’t it, Adams? Bent as a nine bob note, as my dear old dad would say.’
Matthew gripped the phone tighter. ‘Where is she, Sullivan?’
‘Somewhere.’ Sullivan paused, and then asked matter-of-factly, ‘Did you know she doesn’t like confined spaces? I told her screaming would only reduce her oxygen supply, but—’
‘You fucking animal!’ Matthew’s fury exploded. ‘Where the hell is she?!’
Silence was Sullivan’s answer. Then, ‘I told you you’d find out when you’d called your pet dog off and delivered certain items, didn’t I?’ he reminded him evenly. ‘I also told you to stop with the name-calling.’
This was utter insanity. The psycho had lost it, completely. Matthew swiped at the sweat on his forehead and tried to think straight, to somehow keep up with the gibberish Sullivan was spouting.
‘Didn’t I?’ Sullivan barked.
Christ! ‘Yes!’
‘Well?’ Sullivan asked. Again. And again. And again. It was like a rerun of Matthew’s youth. But this time if he didn’t supply the right answers, his punishment wouldn’t be a sharp jab to the ribs, a vicious kick to the stomach … Dear God … What might he do to Becky?
Slamming his head back against the headrest, Matthew steeled himself and forced the words out. ‘I apologise,’ he said hoarsely.
Sullivan went quiet again, obviously considering: had his victim learned his lesson or did he need to reinforce it?
‘Better,’ he said, at length. ‘But if you want your wife’s pretty face to stay that way, watch the mouth, hey, Adams?
Don’t. Clenching his jaw so hard his teeth hurt, Matthew cautioned himself not to retaliate.
‘So did you do as I asked?’ Sullivan paused and waited, then, ‘That was a question, Adams,’ he said, a warning edge to his voice.
Matthew worked to keep the contempt from his own. ‘I spoke to my DS, yes. He’s putting a lid on it.’
‘The file?’
‘He’s pulling it.’
‘Good. And what about our little cash transaction, Adams. How’s that going?’
Matthew closed his eyes, wishing it was possible to withdraw it in actual cash. Wishing to God he could hold Sullivan down and stuff every last pound coin down his throat.
‘The money will be in my account by close of business tomorrow. I can do the transfer online. I’ll need details, obviously.’
‘Very organised, aren’t we?’ Sullivan drawled facetiously. ‘I’ll provide details when I’m ready to. For your wife’s sake, when I do you’d better make sure it goes smoothly, Adams. No money, no goods. Got it? Share any of this with your friends at the station meanwhile, and you’ll never see her again. She’ll die, Adams, a slow painful death, wondering why her heroic husband didn’t save her. Comprendre?’
Matthew pulled in a tight breath. ‘If you touch her, Sullivan. If you harm her in any way, I’ll—’
‘What?’ Sullivan cut in. ‘What will you do, Detective Inspector? Kill me?’
‘It’s a promise,’ Matthew assured him.
‘Hah! That, Adams, would require you to grow a pair and fight back. You don’t have the bottle, mate. Never did have. The inclination, yes, I’ll give you that. You never could hide it very well, Detective, all that repressed anger. The bottle to do anything with it, though, no way.’
Matthew didn’t answer, the terrifying thought occurring that the twisted freak might see anything he did say as a challenge.
‘She has nice breasts, your wife,’ Sullivan commented casually. ‘Full and ripe. I like them like that, don’t you?’
Matthew felt as if the air had been sucked from his lungs. ‘You bastard.’
‘Tut, tut, you’ve gone and done it again, haven’t you?’ Sullivan sighed despairingly. ‘I’m not sure how impressed the lovely Rebecca’s going to be that you’re choosing to ignore my warnings, Matthew.’
‘Bastard!’ Clenching his fist, Matthew punched the steering wheel hard.
****
Showered and dressed in the tee Melanie had given her, Ashley wandered towards the kitchen and then hesitated at the door. Melanie was feeding the baby and Ashley wasn’t sure her presence would be welcome. Trying not to be too obvious, she watched a while, the baby’s little arms flailing as he suckled, Melanie gazing lovingly down at him. Like mums should, Ashley thought, a pang of jealousy, mixed with something else … longing … tugging at her chest.
‘Had enough, little man, hey?’ Melanie asked the baby after a while, lifting him higher in her arms. ‘You can come in, you know?’ she said, noticing Ashley hovering. ‘We don’t bite.’
A
shley’s mouth curved into a small smile. ‘He doesn’t have any teeth,’ she pointed out, doing as bid, and still feeling a bit spare, even though Melanie said she didn’t mind her being there. She would though, if she was there for long.
It was a nice kitchen, bright and modern. Not like Matthew’s and Becky’s, which was warm and farmhousey, but still it was cosy. Like family kitchens should be. Would Becky really want her to stay, Ashley worried afresh, when she had a baby of her own, who would keep her awake at night and need loads of attention?
No, the insistent voice in her head said. She’ll be tired and snappy, and if you try to help, you’ll only get it all wrong.
Uncertainly, Ashley wondered across the room, as Melanie got to her feet, the baby still nestled in the crook of her arm.
‘Does he have a name?’ Ashley gazed at him, taking in his tiny rosebud lips, his huge blue eyes, wide and innocent. As Emily’s had once been. They’d soon grown wary though. Ashley recalled how Emily had learned to read the signs even before she could talk, crying whenever their mum had picked her up, rather than gurgling contentedly.
‘Lucas,’ Melanie supplied, scanning his face adoringly and then looked at Ashley. ‘We wanted something strong-sounding, you know, manly. What do you think?’
Ashley nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s cool.’
‘Do you want to hold him?’ Melanie offered, easing Lucas towards her.
Ashley stepped back a little. ‘Uh, uh, better not.’
‘It’s all right,’ Melanie assured her. ‘They’re not made of glass.’
‘I know,’ Ashley said, defensively. She did know how to hold babies. She just didn’t want him ending up crying and her getting the blame.
‘Go on,’ Melanie urged her. ‘You’d be doing me a huge favour. I could really use a quick break.’
‘Okay.’ Reluctantly, Ashley relented, as Melanie blinked beguilingly at her.
‘Brilliant. Here you go then. Just pop one arm underneath him,’ Melanie said, giving Ashley instructions as she handed him over carefully. ‘And support his head with your other … Oh, well, there you go.’ She looked on, amazed, as Ashley took the baby expertly into her arms. ‘You’re a natural. You’ve got the job. I was gasping for a cuppa. It’s a wonder I don’t die of dehydration when my husband is working away. Want one?’
‘Please.’ Ashley nodded, turning to walk to the table and sit down with her charge.
‘Do you have any sisters or brothers, Ashley?’ Melanie asked conversationally, as she flicked on the kettle.
Ashley hesitated before answering. ‘A little sister,’ she said, after a pause.
‘Oh?’ Melanie eyed her curiously over her shoulder. ‘Is she at the care home, or has she been—’
‘She went away,’ Ashley supplied quickly, her hair falling over her face as she looked down at the baby.
‘Oh,’ Melanie said again, awkwardly this time. She rattled the cups noisily as she turned back to the tea. ‘So, how’re you getting on with Becky and Matthew?’
‘Yeah, good,’ Ashley supplied, studying the baby, who was smiling up at her. It was probably just wind, Ashley suspected, but still he looked cute.
‘Are you going to stay with them, do you think?’ Melanie asked, popping teabags in cups and topping them up with water.
Ashley kept her gaze averted. ‘Dunno.’ She shrugged. ‘I’d like to. Depends on what happens when they have their baby, I suppose.’
‘Baby?’ Melanie crashed the milk down so hard little Lucas jumped in his Babygro. ‘She’s pregnant?! You’re joking! Why on earth didn’t she tell me? Why didn’t Matthew say anything? Oh God, is that why she’s gone to her mother’s? I bet it is. I bet there’s something wrong. She’ll be devastated. I’d better ring her.’ Melanie furrowed her brow worriedly and turned for the hall.
Shit. Ashley couldn’t let her do that. ‘It’s past midnight,’ she reminded her urgently. ‘She’ll probably be in bed,’
Melanie checked her watch. ‘You’re right.’ She sighed and turned back. ‘Oh, I so wish she’d told me. That’s what friends are supposed to be for.’
‘She probably didn’t want to jinx things,’ Ashley suggested, easing the baby against her shoulder, as he was now getting a bit fractious.
‘No wonder Matthew seemed so preoccupied. Poor man, he’ll be devastated too, if things don’t work out this time. He loves that woman to bits,’ Melanie pondered out loud, as Lucas let out an ear-piercing wail. ‘He’s probably beside himself,’ she said, tsking and shaking her head as she walked across to Ashley.
‘It wasn’t me,’ Ashley said, as Melanie distractedly plucked the baby from her arms. ‘I was trying to make him stop. I—’
‘Well, good luck with that. I haven’t found his off button yet.’ Rolling her eyes, Melanie nestled Lucas against her own shoulder. ‘Don’t look so terrified, Ashley.’ She looked back at her, surprised. ‘It’s not your fault he’s crying. It’s what babies do.’
****
Matthew realised his hands were shaking as he waited for the owner to come back to the front of the shop. Rage and frustration vying with absolute terror, he was shaking pretty much all over. Attempting to still his nerves and focus on what he was doing there, he paced a few steps, taking in the customer-facing wares. Bars at the windows, he noted, stuffed birds, feathers full of dust, perched beyond them. They were posed. Matthew smiled sardonically: two pelicans feeding, faux green grass under their feet. They wouldn’t be pecking at that any time soon. Turning back, Matthew scanned the vast array of firearms he generally didn’t study so interestedly. Everything from air rifles to big game rifles, and shotguns from .410” single barrel to 12 bore. Gun cabinets displaying sporting rifles, target rifles, military rifles, all lined up like soldiers. Matthew wasn’t after any of those.
‘Detective Adams,’ Danny Caswell finally reappeared from his flat upstairs, dressed in something he obviously felt offered him more protection than his boxers when greeting the law in the small hours, ‘to what do I owe the pleasure?’
He looked Matthew dubiously over as he attempted to smooth down hair that looked as if it had last seen water about the same time the pelicans had.
The whole place was dusty, dark corners and dodgy dealings going on under the counter, Matthew knew it.
‘Not pleasure, Danny,’ he informed him, ‘business.’
Danny groaned. ‘Aw, come on, Mr Adams. I’m legit. You know I am. Registered and all licenses in place.’
Matthew smiled wryly. ‘On the surface, Danny.’
‘Nah, that’s not right. I keep my nose clean, Mr. Adams. Sportsman’s Association membership and everything. You ain’t got nothing on me.’
‘Yet,’ Matthew said.
Danny raised an eyebrow warily. ‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning there are at least two unlicensed guns at the station I reckon might be traced back to here.’ Matthew shrugged casually.
‘Uh, uh, no way.’ Danny looked flustered. ‘I ain’t—’
‘Plus the ammo.’
‘That’s bullshit.’ Danny was now definitely ruffled. ‘You know it is.’ He eyed Matthew defiantly.
Matthew coolly held the man’s gaze, though he could feel perspiration wetting the back of his shirt. ‘Then there’s the drugs.’
Danny dragged a hand under his nose. ‘What drugs?’ he asked, underlying fear now belying the challenge in his eyes, which was exactly what Matthew had hoped for. Any kind of conviction could mess up his so-called legit career. Danny knew it.
Reaching into his jacket pocket, Matthew walked calmly across to the counter the man was standing behind.
‘These.’ He placed the suspect plastic bag he’d extracted in front of him.
Eyeing the contents, Grade A cocaine, Danny’s shoulders sagged. ‘Aw, for fuck’s …’
‘Allowing the premises you occupy or manage to be used for the supply or production of controlled substances is illegal, Danny. Do you want to keep your l
icense?’ Matthew waited.
‘Bollocks,’ Danny muttered, looking away. ‘I didn’t have you down as dirty, Adams. Coppers, all the bloody same …’
Matthew slid the bag closer.
Danny sighed and met his eyes. ‘What do you want?’ He didn’t bother to hide his disgust.
‘A gun,’ Matthew said simply, as if he went shopping for one every day.
‘Oh, right.’ Danny’s expression was now curious. ‘For personal use, I take it?’
‘Just the gun, Danny. Save the questions.’
Danny looked him over, seemingly debating, then shrugged and turned to his cabinets. ‘Well, you’ve come to the right place,’ he said, unlocking one and opening it with a flourish. ‘I’ve got everything here: full range of sporting calibres, pump-action and semi-automatic shotguns …’
The semi-automatic was a nice idea, but, ‘None of those.’ Matthew shook his head.
‘Side-by-sides, over and unders?’
‘Handgun,’ Matthew supplied.
Danny furrowed his brow, puzzled. ‘But why not get one from the police—’ he started.
‘Small, compact, nothing less than a .22,’ Matthew said over him, no inclination to share why he couldn’t go to the police armoury.
Danny’s wary look was back. ‘You mean business then?’ He studied Matthew enquiringly for a second. Getting no reaction, he shrugged indifferently and turned to head back upstairs, where, no doubt, his under-the-counter stock was kept.
‘That I most definitely do,’ Matthew said quietly behind him.
Chapter Seventeen
His hands firmly under his chin, Matthew sat on his sofa surveying the items on the coffee table: his phone, the leftover half-empty bottle of whisky, which he badly wanted to finish, the gun. A gun, purchased with murder in mind, first degree murder, carrying a mandatory life sentence.
Taking a breath, he glanced around at the open-plan lounge he and Becky had worked on together. They’d wanted clean, white lines, but also comfortable and homely. With her flair for interior design—natural wood floors throughout, cream leather lounge furniture, white walls and an open fire—Becky had managed to achieve it. She’d even chosen the lighting to create mood and ambience, subtle up-lighting and side-lighting downstairs. Ditto the bedroom, which he’d jokingly christened their French Boudoir when he’d noted the white satin and frills, and voile canopy above the bed. The bed they’d lain in together such a short while ago. Made slow, sweet love in, as if touching each other for the first time after so long apart. Swallowing a lump in his throat, Matthew reached for his glass.
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