Most Gracious Advocate (Terrence Reid Mystery Book 4)

by Mary Birk

  “I doubt it. Nothing ever moves that quickly.”

  “What’s the hurry?”

  “You haven’t heard? The Super’s most likely moving on to greener pastures. MI-5.”

  “What?”

  “That’s the rumor.”

  “What about us?”

  Frank gave her a reassuring smile. “Reid will take care of us.”

  “Right, of course. I’m surprised Harry didn’t mention anything to me about being promoted.”

  “He hasn’t said much about it to anyone. I’m guessing he’s afraid he’ll jinx it, or that something will go wrong.”

  “What could go wrong?”

  “You never know. The brass gets twitchy about certain things.”

  “Like what?”

  “To be blunt, like shacking up with a female DC in his unit.”

  “I’m his tenant. I’m not shacking up with him.”

  “You two need to get along. Last night . . .”

  “We do get along. Well, most of the time.”

  “Good. We don’t want our Harry to lose his chance at this promotion because the brass doesn’t think he can get along with female coppers.”

  Her face got hot. “Right. I’ll watch it.” She thought for a moment, then said, “Frank?”

  “What?”

  “I’ve decided to move my desk away from Harry’s. He’s been saddled with me long enough. If we’re getting more people in, he’ll probably want another DC there to train.”

  Frank nodded. “Good idea.”

  She put herself behind her desk and pushed it over against the wall next to where Oliver’s desk sat.

  Later, when Harry was back in the office, Allison wandered over to his desk. “Frank mentioned that the guv put you up for DI. I hope you get it.”

  “Thanks.” He didn’t look up from his computer.

  “He said we’d be getting more people in here. I moved my desk so you’d have room for whoever else you needed to train.”

  “Yeah, I saw.” He still didn’t look at her.

  “I’m sorry about last night.”

  “Yeah, me too. I was out of line. What you do is your own business.” He gestured at his computer screen. “I’m really busy right now. Was there anything you needed?”

  “I only wanted to wish you luck.” She smiled, trying for friendly. “You really do look nice.”

  “You’re just surprised an ape like me has a decent suit.” He kept his eyes on his computer screen.

  “I’m not surprised at all. I was just saying . . .”

  Oscar called out from the top of the stairs. “Harry, come upstairs, will ya? I need you to look at this.”

  Harry pushed back his chair, got up, and left her standing there.

  * * * * *

  Tim Brighton’s wife had finally sent her solicitor to bond him out, along with a message that that would be the last bit of assistance he’d ever get from her. He was to go home, pack, and leave. When Tim asked the impeccably dressed solicitor who had gotten him released, where he was supposed to go, the other man simply shook his head, looking embarrassed. He hadn’t been surprised, not really. It had been years since he’d fooled himself into believing she cared for him.

  Tim had a little bit of money in his checking account, but his personal credit cards had long been maxed out, and Cassandra had taken him off the ones they shared years earlier, when he’d bought something without asking her permission. He could stay in his office for now, or maybe at his mother’s. He wondered how his mother was taking his arrest. The charge for visiting an underage prostitute was bad, but not as bad as the charge that he’d been involved in Susan Clark’s kidnapping. His mother would be devastated, but he thought she’d still take him in, unlike his wife.

  Either charge by itself would have been enough for Cassandra to give him the boot. She’d just been waiting for a reason, he realized, and he’d conveniently supplied her with a surplus of them. Not only the criminal charges, but the drinking and the nosedive his career had taken. He had no doubt she’d paint herself as a martyred wife saddled with a fuckwit husband. Now she could righteously divorce him and collect sympathy while she bravely, and publicly, soldiered on raising four children alone while managing a brilliant career.

  He didn’t have a chance in hell of getting custody of his children. He’d be lucky if he was even allowed supervised visits. He flagged down a taxi, showed the driver he had the money to pay the fare, and sat back, waiting to be delivered to the house.

  The only good side to this whole mess was that the blackmail would end. There was nothing left to hold over his head. As he was either going to plead guilty or cut a deal, the films and snaps of Lily and him together were worthless.

  He paid the cabbie and walked up the steps to his front door for what was probably going to be the last time in a long time. Maybe someday he’d be allowed to pick his children up and take them to be with him for a day or two at a time, but he’d be coming back to this house as a visitor, an outsider. He was already feeling like an outsider.

  He unlocked the door and went inside, and could tell at once that the house was empty. His mother had also been sent packing, replaced by the nanny Cassandra hired while he’d been in jail. The older children were in school, and the youngest one must have been somewhere with the new nanny. At least Cassandra trusted him enough to let him pack up his things unsupervised. Or more likely, she couldn’t be bothered.

  Walking through the front hall, he detoured to the study and poured himself a badly needed drink. He eyed the tumbler full of golden whiskey, wondering when he’d begun to need it so much. He took a deep pull, closing his eyes while he savored the warm burn it sent through him.

  Tumbler in hand, he ascended the stairs. From the hall to the left of the landing, he opened the doors of each of his children’s rooms, though he didn’t go in. Perfectly neat, as always. Cassandra insisted on that. She did nothing to make it happen, of course, except order it, and exhibit extreme displeasure if she ever found the rooms untidy. She wanted her house to be as well-ordered as her career, for her children to be perfect and a source of pride, without bothering her, and for her husband to be a successful, adoring, and well-groomed ornament at her side. But only when she needed him.

  Tim went to back across the landing to the master bedroom, the bedroom he shared with Cassandra. He knew Cassandra would have preferred having her own room, but there was no way she was going to have the staff see that they didn’t share a bed. In perfect families, husbands and wives shared a bed. Of course, that’s all they shared. She’d long ago told him that he wasn’t to touch her until he stopped drinking so much, and when he told her he’d stop drinking so much when they started having sex again, she’d given him a cold look. In the world where Cassandra was queen, no one but she gave ultimatums.

  The suitcase he took out of the closet was large, but not large enough to fit all his clothes. He’d need at least one more to get enough of his things to tide him over until he could send some boxes over to be packed up with the rest of his belongings. He took his glass and headed for the cellar storage room, where they kept surplus luggage. On his way down the cellar stairs, he remembered something else he’d stored down there. Something he’d hidden. Something the police must not have found during their search, else he’d be looking at a firearms charge in addition to everything else.

  He galloped down the rest of the stairs, and threw open the door to the storage room. He flipped on the light, and pushed the boxes away from the brick wall in the back. He’d need some kind of tool to smash it open. He exited the storage room and crossed to the corner of the cellar that housed a tool bench.

  When had he last touched a tool? Before Cassandra cut off his balls, most likely. He pulled a heavy stone mallet from the pegboard behind the tool bench, and returned to the storage room. Using more muscles than he’d used in years, he swung the mallet against the brick wall. The impact jarred his whole body, but he didn’t stop.

  Blow after b
low, he put his whole mind and body into the job. When finally, a hole opened, he felt a surge of renewed energy. Minutes later, he saw what he’d been looking for. He reached into the hole with both hands, scraping his arms on the jagged edges of the smashed bricks, and pulled out a metal case.

  He brushed off the dirt and brick dust, and ran his hand over the grey metal, looking for the latch. Finding it, he pressed down, but it didn’t budge. Locked. Of course. Where had he put the key?

  Remembering, he took the case and his glass, and went upstairs to the master bedroom, making only a brief stop on the main level to refill his glass. In the bedroom, he put the case down on the bed, and went over to his wardrobe. Inside the top shelf was the leather box Cassandra had given him years ago to store assorted jewelry items.

  He rooted around through tie studs, an old watch, cufflinks, his school ring, finally finding the key. He sat on the bed, took a drink of whiskey, then put the glass down and unlocked the metal case. The gun was there, as was the ammunition. He loaded the gun, and lifted it with both hands, feeling the satisfactory heft of the weapon.

  It had been his father’s gun. The old man should have turned it in after the Dunblane massacre when handguns became effectively prohibited for private citizens in Scotland. Instead, he’d buried it under a stone fence outside the family cottage, saying he’d not be without protection in case of another war.

  After his father had died, and his mother put the cottage on the market, Tim dug up the case and brought it home with him to Glasgow. Without telling Cassandra, he’d bricked it up behind the storage room, not just because it was illegal, but because he didn’t want the children to find it and accidentally set it off.

  He laid the gun down and went into the bathroom. He needed a shower and a change of clothes. He turned on the shower, manipulating the steam controls to high, and luxuriated in the spray of the hot water shooting from multiple showerheads. After he finished, he dressed in brown pants and a cashmere pullover, then went downstairs to refill his glass. He tried to assess whether he was hungry, and decided he should eat. The kitchen was immaculate and the large refrigerator well-stocked. He filled a bun with chicken salad and took it and the whiskey upstairs. He’d eat while he packed. Food in the bedroom wasn’t allowed, but what the hell did he care now?

  Tim looked at the gun lying on the bed. He could kill her. That would certainly teach her. But it wouldn’t work out too well for him, either. Certainly, she would prefer he killed himself. Not in their perfect house, of course. Preferably in a hotel room where she wouldn’t have to deal with the mess. That would leave his children with just the Snow Queen for a parent. No, his children needed him alive and functioning. Granted, he’d have a long, difficult road to bring himself back from this mess, but was it impossible?

  He knew from what he’d been told in the interrogation yesterday that his blackmailers had been successful in getting at least some of the other fools they’d caught with Lily as underage bait to do what he had refused to do, turn over video and snaps of their own children. That would put him somewhat higher on the evolutionary chain than his fellow maggots. He’d held back something that he could use to cut a deal. He doubted any of the other men had known who was running the show.

  He went to the bathroom sink and poured the whiskey down the drain. He picked up the telephone by the bed and dialed DS Ross’s office number. He got voicemail, and left a message.

  * * * * *

  Harry knew he should avoid Allison at home, but he kept putting himself places where he was bound to run into her. Like now. After work, he’d decided to clean the refrigerator. Eventually, before she went out for the night, she’d have to come into the kitchen. He thought about his interviews. They’d gone well, as far as he could tell, but who knew? Even if he didn’t get the promotion, the fact that his boss had gone to the mat for him meant a lot.

  The increase in salary would be a good thing, especially if he ever decided it was time to settle down. A family hadn’t been in his immediate plans when he was younger, but maybe it was time now to think about it. Not with the kind of girls he’d been messing about with, though, and definitely not with a girl who ran around with a lot of blokes; besides, he didn’t want to marry another cop. Maybe a school teacher or a legal secretary. Or a nurse. Yeah, a nurse.

  When he was almost finished with the fridge, Allison finally padded upstairs in her pink socks, and turned on the electric teakettle. “Want some tea?”

  “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  “Harry?” Her voice was tentative.

  “Yes?” He kept his head inside the refrigerator.

  “Are you still mad at me?”

  “Why would I be mad at you? You pay your rent on time, don’t you?”

  “You’ve been, I don’t know, out-of-sorts. Is something wrong?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her: her pajamas, her fuzzy socks. He wanted to say something snarky like, you might want to reconsider your choice of outfit for a night of shagging. But it wasn’t his responsibility to give her dating advice; he’d already done enough damage with his helping. She’d made it clear she regretted sleeping with him. Well, that went both ways. He wished he’d never let her talk him into something so asinine.

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Something with your family? Something at work?”

  “Everything is peachy. How’re things with you?”

  “Fine, I guess.”

  “Wonderful. Glad to hear it.” He made a big show of scrubbing inside the fridge as far back as he could reach.

  “How’d your interviews go?”

  “Fine.”

  “Were you nervous?”

  That he wouldn’t even dignify with an answer. They definitely weren’t on those kinds of terms.

  When he didn’t answer, she said, “I’m sure they went great.”

  He grunted.

  “Harry?”

  “What?”

  “It’s just that I wanted to talk to you about what I’ve been doing evenings, get your opinion, but you’re always in the middle of something, or too busy to talk, or you bite my head off.”

  He pulled his head out of the refrigerator. “You’re my workmate, Allison. My housemate. Why the fuck would I care what you do with your evenings? You’re a big girl, all set for whatever the hell you want to do. I’m not in a mood for girly confidences about your life. I’m not one of your fucking girlfriends.”

  There was complete silence. He turned away, so he didn’t have to see her face. He’d hurt her feelings. Well, so what if he had? Too bloody bad. He wasn’t going to listen to her tell him about what fellow she was letting in her knickers now that she didn’t have to worry about looking like a beginner. She probably thought he’d praise her like he had when she mastered her shooting lessons. Good girl, Allison, bull’s eye. Well, fuck that.

  He slammed the refrigerator door shut and looked at her sitting there in her flowered pajamas. “But if we’re starting to exchange confidences, I’d probably better let you know that as soon as this case breaks, I’m off to Majorca with this girl I know. Susie.”

  “Susie?”

  “Yeah, Susie. She’s a gorgeous blonde who cooks like an angel and makes me fucking crazy in bed and the only bad thing about her on the beach is that a bikini will have to cover all the bits I love the most.” He took a breath. “So, what was it you wanted to tell me?” Don’t tell me, he thought. Please don’t tell me.

  She held her head up, tilted her nose to him, and gave a crooked little smile. “Nothing so good as that. Do you need help with the refrigerator? I should do my part. I use it, too.” She took a cloth and started to wipe off the jars and other containers he’d taken out of the fridge. “How about if I clean all these off and finish up the job? You can go do something else. Call Susie, or something.”

  “She’s working tonight.”

  “Oh.”

  It’s Friday night, he remembered. Allison would be going out. He had
to be going out as well. “We’re going out later, after she gets off.”

  “You’ve never mentioned her before. Have you known her for a while?”

  “Long enough.”

  “You wouldn’t be going on a trip like that with a girl you just met, I guess.”

  “No.”

  “I thought maybe you and Layla . . .”

  “I don’t date cops.”

  “Right. Can I put these back in yet?” Allison held up some jars.

  He nodded.

  “I didn’t even notice it needed cleaning. If you set up a schedule, I’ll make sure to take my turn.”

  “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “What’s she do?”

  “Who?”

  “Susie.”

  He considered, teacher or nurse? “She’s a nurse.”

  “That’s a good job.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry I got you into this whole thing with you know, you doing what I asked you to do, and me getting all juvenile about it. And I’m really sorry about last night.”

  “Yeah, well, I shouldn’t have said what I said.” He made his voice nonchalant. He had to act like it didn’t matter. “We’re mates, aren’t we? We help each other out, that’s what mates do. Nothing else to it. What did you want to ask me about your nightlife, sweetcakes? Need advice on your young men?” His chest felt like it was on fire.

  She laughed. “Don’t be daft. I’ve been taking these Arabic classes, is all. I signed up for them thinking it might help me get promoted or moved, or something, but now I’m not sure it wasn’t a mistake. They’re really tough, and you didn’t do that, and look how well you’re doing.”

  His mind raced. Arabic classes? When had that happened?

  “You think it’s a dumb idea?”

  “I’m just surprised.”

  “I didn’t want to tell anyone in case I couldn’t stick it out.”

  He shook his head, trying to clear it. “You’ve been taking Arabic classes after work?”

  “Yeah, and staying on after class to study. They have a language lab, with recordings you can listen to, but I’m not sure I’ll ever be any good. I don’t know how the Super learned so many languages.”