by Jay Gill
I checked inside the cupboards and the fridge. “If they were all hiding out here, there would be more food in these cupboards, and I see no evidence of that. These are almost empty, and so is the fridge. I don’t get it. It makes no sense for Fischer to rely on Spicer to get him out of prison and then to kill him days later.”
Hoyle peered into the kitchen. “How are you getting on?”
“We’re almost done here,” I said.
“Hoyle, the report says there are multiple footprints. Someone walked in the blood.” Cotton passed me the police report on the page of the footprint photos.
“Footprints. Yes. A partial handprint, too,” said Hoyle. “One of the men put his hand in the blood on the floor. I heard the forensic guy get really excited about that.”
“Why did you say ‘one of the men’?” asked Cotton.
“Don’t know. From what I heard, I just assumed it was two men. Certainly, more than one person walked in the blood. Suppose it could be women with big feet? Ignore me. I probably put two and two together and got three.” Hoyle smiled to hide her embarrassment.
“Maybe. Maybe not. We need the forensic report as soon as possible,” I said. “Thank you, Hoyle.” We followed Hoyle out of the empty house. As she climbed into her squad car I said, “Hoyle, will you do me a favour?”
“Sure. If I can.” Her face lit up with excitement.
I handed her a card. “Here’s my mobile number. If any developments come to light that you think might interest us – anything at all, like a theory or a suspect – would you call me?”
“Definitely. I can do that,” said Hoyle. She gave a thumbs-up and a wave as she drove away.
“Mr Smooth,” said Cotton. “You’ve definitely got a fan there. She might even have a bit of a Hardy crush.”
“Enough of that,” I said with a sideways grin. “Who better to help keep an ear to the ground than an ambitious young officer?” I tutted. “‘Hardy crush.’”
Cotton chuckled to herself and opened the car.
“Pass me the keys. My turn to drive,” I said. “By the time we get back, there might still be time to visit my neighbour, the one who claims to have identified Fischer and Moon. Are you okay for time? No big date tonight?”
“I’ve got no plans. You know me. Work comes first.”
“What about your date from the other night. Did it go okay?”
Cotton smiled. “He’s nice. We’re taking it slow.”
“Sounds serious.”
Cotton threw me the car keys. “Complicated might be a better word.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Nurse Chukwu stood at the door to Jenny’s room, her hand poised over the handle. It was important Rayner was prepared for Jenny’s condition.
“I spoke to the critical care team,” she told him, “and Jenny will need to remain in the intensive care unit for at least a week. She’ll be drowsy and unresponsive because of the sedatives. It’s important her airways remain unobstructed, so she’ll remain intubated for a while yet. The burns are mainly to the lower part of her body and are severe.”
Rayner nodded that he understood. “I want to see her.” He looked at Nurse Chukwu pleadingly. “I need to be at her side.”
Nurse Chukwu pushed open the door and held it as Rayner entered the room. “Would you like me to leave you alone together? I can pop back in a little while.”
“Thank you, nurse,” said Rayner. He waited for the door to close behind him before anxiously edging towards the bed.
A curtain partially obscured his view. As he approached, he saw only Jenny’s wrapped and bandaged legs and torso. As he moved closer, her arms and shoulders became visible and then, finally, her face came into view. Her eyes were closed in a way he’d seen a thousand times when watching her peacefully sleep beside him. Only now, tubes fed into her nose and wires monitored her body; her face was swollen, and her body was bandaged to protect life-changing injuries. A sob from deep inside forced its way up through his body, immediately followed by an uncontrollable flood of tears. His body trembled as he spoke.
“Oh, Jen, I’m so sorry. Oh, sweetheart. I should have been there for you. I swear, if I could swap places with you, I would. You don’t deserve this. How can this be right?”
Rayner kissed Jen’s forehead. Tenderly, he moved her hair from her face with a finger. He pulled a chair alongside the bed and sat beside her, watching her breathe. Occasionally, her eyes flickered. He felt sure they flickered when he spoke. He spent the next few hours talking to her. Telling her everything would be okay, how she and the baby were the most precious part of his life. He talked about the time they’d first met. How foolish and clumsy and tongue-tied he’d felt around her as he fell hopelessly in love. About holidays they’d had. Jokes and funny situations they’d shared that had made them both laugh. He vowed he would protect her; he’d never again leave her side… ever.
Chapter Forty
Donny adjusted the pillows so he could sit upright on the bed. His ear felt like it was on fire and his head pounded. He drank down a couple of paracetamols with water. Eyes closed, he soaked up the quiet. He steadied his breathing, slowly in and slowly out. He let his body relax and go heavy. A wave of calm washed over him. He let his mind rest. Long slow breaths in and out, in and out. Peaceful. Soothing.
KNOCK! KNOCK!
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
“Damn it.” Donny climbed off the bed and plodded over to the door. He opened it and walked back to the bed.
Barton dropped the bags next to the bed. “You look like shit,” said Barton.
“What do you expect? Because of you, I got my ear bitten off. I now just need to hope the stitches work. The hospital was a dump. I probably caught some incurable flesh-eating disease while sitting around waiting to be seen.”
“You should get private medical insurance.”
“You have private medical insurance?”
“Of course. In our line of work, it’s important to have a comprehensive healthcare plan. I have the Titanium package. It can be used anywhere in the world.”
“Well, you really are full of surprises. And speaking of which, what’s with you and Mrs Crabb? We’re here to find out about Edward Fischer, not explore your libidinous desires for fleshy suburban housewives.”
“I thought you’d appreciate a gentler approach.” He bit his bottom lip, put a hand behind his head and thrust his hips back and forth.
“Jeez. Enough. Your plan is to seduce her and hope she’ll tell you all during pillow talk?”
“Why not?” Barton checked his hair in the mirror, adjusting strands that were out of place. He shined his boots with the duvet hanging over the edge of the bed. “You take a nap. Leave it to me.” Barton lifted his collar and checked his cuffs. Before leaving, he took out his roots-touch-up pen concealer and went to the bathroom, where he began examining his hair more closely.
Donny closed his eyes and tried to regain his moment of composure.
The sound of humming came from the bathroom.
Donny groaned. He recognised the song as “Take Me Home, Country Roads.” His mother had been a John Denver fan. “Would you mind closing the door? I’m trying to meditate. Still my mind. A little consideration would be appreciated.”
The bathroom door slammed shut.
“Thank you,” called Donny, his eyes still closed. He’d be glad when this job was over and he could be rid of the animal in the next room.
Long slow breath in, long slow breath out. In and out.
Chapter Forty-One
Barton found Mrs Crabb sitting in her office doing the crossword.
“Knock, knock, Fiona,” said Barton, a big friendly smile on his face. He knew he looked good.
“You startled me; I was miles away. I’m stuck on four down. Stewed vegetable rat.” She pointed to the crossword. “You’re not supposed to come back here.” Mrs Crabb leaned back in her leather office chair. “How can I help? Is the room comfortable?”
Barton gently clos
ed the door behind him. He strutted over and perched on the desk beside her. “My late wife loved crosswords,” said Barton. “Sudoku too. Any sort of conundrum.”
“You were married?”
“I was. Best years of my life. She passed away twenty-seven years ago. Twenty-seven long, lonely years.” Barton stroked Mrs Crabb’s hand. She blushed and moved it away. “I’ve found being alone very difficult. Being a passionate, tactile man, the lack of physical contact is hard. The intimacy of a partner to share everything with. I think it’s in our nature to seek human contact. Wouldn’t you say?”
“I suppose I would. Since my husband left, I will admit I’ve felt isolated. There are certainly times when I miss Ian’s companionship. We used to do a jigsaw puzzle on a Thursday afternoon. Sometimes afterwards we’d get a little carried away, and we’d…”
“Yes?”
“We’d do some baking. Cakes. Carrot cake was his favourite. It was our special time together, an opportunity to be close.”
“And what about real intimacy, Fiona?” Barton inched closer; he leaned forward and gazed into her eyes. “You look like a woman full of dark, dormant, untapped desires. You may have been forced to suppress your sexuality, but I can feel you’re a passionate woman waiting to be unleashed. In my opinion, there is nothing more arousing than a beautiful, mature woman needing to express and explore and exult in her erotic appetite.”
“I don’t know about that.” Mrs Crabb nervously moved her favourite crossword pen from the desk to the orange plastic stationery organiser. Her cheeks reddened; she suddenly felt very warm. “Ian wasn’t very physical, if you know what I mean. He was never very active in the bedroom department.”
“That’s unforgiveable, Fiona. A crime.” Barton appeared mortified. “A woman like you should be savoured. Every pleasurable inch examined and probed.”
“Goodness, you almost make it sound normal and proper.” Mrs Crabb suddenly felt restricted in her mustard M&S cardigan. “Yet, I’m here all alone. Where would I find a man to take someone like me and shine a light on something so elusive? Feelings padlocked and buried for so long.”
Barton turned Fiona so she was facing him. He moved along the desk and placed a leg either side of her chair, his tight blue jeans front and centre. “I can help you, Fiona. It would be an honour.”
Mrs Crabb looked at her hands, which she clasped in her lap. She got up and walked to the door. She put a hand on the handle.
“You’re right,” said Barton. “I should leave. I’ve offended you.”
Mrs Crabb didn’t turn the handle. Instead, she took a key from off a heavy-duty four-drawer filing cabinet and locked the door. She leaned against the door and looked at Barton. Reaching up, she removed the pins from her bun and shook her hair loose; it fell over her shoulders. She kicked off her fluffy slippers, rolled down her tights and unbuttoned her mustard cardigan. She walked back to the desk and pressed herself against Barton. “You’re not going anywhere, cowboy. This woman needs to be wrangled.”
“Happy to oblige, ma’am.”
Mrs Crabb grabbed Barton by the shirt, pulled him to her and kissed him. She ran her fingers through his dark, thick hair. She twisted them both around so she exchanged places with him. She swept a hand across the desk; her crossword and orange stationery organiser tumbled to the floor. Mrs Crabb lay back on the desk. “Take me,” she demanded.
Barton knelt between her legs and began kissing her softly, his fingers caressing her body like ten tiny Casanovas.
Ratatouille, she suddenly thought. Clue: Stewed vegetable rat. Four Down. Eleven letters. Of course!
Chapter Forty-Two
Watson sat beside Cotton and stared at her. “What?” said Cotton. He rolled onto his back and looked at her. When she didn’t stroke him immediately, he reached out with a paw and meowed. “Typical man,” said Cotton. “Wanting attention all the time.”
The sound of the doorbell made them both look around. Watson got up and ran to the armchair and climbed up on the back, where he liked to sit and watch visitors.
“You just wait there. I’ll get the door.” Watson curled up and stared at her.
Cotton peered through the spyhole. She felt her body tense. What’s she doing here? thought Cotton.
“I’m sorry to bother you at home. I got a sudden urge to check you are okay. I hope you don’t mind. He’s not here, is he?”
“Hello, Louise. No, Alex isn’t here, if that’s who you mean. How did you find out where I live?”
“I followed you. I know that sounds crazy, but I haven’t been able to sleep. I kept going over our conversation, and I’ve been worried I didn’t stress enough how concerned I am for you. How dangerous Alex is. Can I come in?”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Oh? Okay.” Louise looked surprised, a little hurt. “Are you all right?” She tried to peer around the door into the house.
Cotton put the door on the latch and stepped out onto the doorstep, closing the door behind her. “Why are you really here?”
“I told you, I’m worried about you.” Louise reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “My telephone number, in case you need to reach me. Don’t tell him I gave it to you. I’ll be going. Sorry to have bothered you.”
“You know I’m a police officer, right?”
“No. I don’t know anything about you. Except you’re seeing Alex.”
“I’m a detective inspector. Serious crimes. When I looked, I couldn’t find any record of Alex having been charged with any offence, only a speeding ticket. He has a clean record. You, on the other hand…”
Louise’s face dropped. She wrapped her arms around herself and appeared to shrink in stature.
Cotton stepped forward. “I found you were once charged with assault, though the charges were later dropped. The victim of the assault was Alex. He refused to press charges. How would you explain that?”
Louise’s body started shaking. “I can’t do this. I’m trying to help you, don’t you see? It’s him, not me. He twists the truth. He twists it so you become unsure of what is right and what is wrong. He gets inside your head.” Louise wrapped her arms around her head. “You must stop seeing him. You must.”
“I’ll tell you what,” said Cotton. “I’ll decide who I see and who I don’t see, not you. I don’t want you coming here again. I don’t want to see you again. I don’t want you contacting me or Alex. If I think you’re watching me, or Alex, I will assist him in getting a restraining order against you. Do you understand?”
Louise began to cry. She nodded.
“Now, I suggest you leave.” Cotton watched Louise walk to her car. She never looked back. Cotton went inside and closed the door.
“What?” said Cotton, looking at Watson. “That woman’s trouble. All I did was set out some rules as politely and firmly as possible.”
Watson jumped off the back of the armchair and disappeared through his cat-flap.
“Okay, so you disagree. There’s no need to be rude. Christ, I need a drink.” Cotton opened the fridge and poured herself a glass of ice-cold Chardonnay. “At least with a glass of wine in my hand I don’t appear completely crazy when losing an argument to a cat.”
Chapter Forty-Three
“I’ll have the peppered steak and spicy wedges, please, Cheri,” said Barton. “I need to keep my strength up.” The waitress made a note and took his menu and tucked it under her arm. She looked at Donny expectantly.
“How hot is the vegetable curry?” asked Donny.
“It’s a medium.”
“Is that mild-medium, medium, or medium-hot? Medium varies a lot. I have trouble digesting anything too spicy. My digestive system is very sensitive.”
Cheri did her best to look patient. “How would you like it? I can ask the chef to prepare it to your taste.”
“Really? I wouldn’t want you to go to any trouble.”
“No trouble at all, sir,” said Cheri.
“That would be great.�
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“So, you’d like the curry?”
“Mm. You know, I think I’ll have the deluxe cheeseburger. No onion. Or relish. Or pickle. Or mustard.”
“Christ’s sake,” said Barton. “Why don’t you just have the bun?”
Cheri put her hand over her mouth to hide her giggle.
“Also, just regular fries,” said Donny. “Not spicy fries. If you have tomato, then that would be great on the burger.”
“I’m sure we can do that for you, sir. Will that be all?” said Cheri.
“For now, sweetheart. But don’t go too far. I’ll miss that beautiful smile of yours.”
Cheri smiled politely. “I’ll be right back with your drinks.” She took Donny’s menu and headed to the back of the restaurant to go over the order with the chef.
Barton leaned out of the booth and watched Cheri walk away. “Oh boy, look at the wiggle. Women really are God’s greatest creation. Wow.”
“Why do you have to that?” asked Donny.
“Do what?”
“Humiliate people.”
“What are you talking about?”
“What am I talking about? First you humiliate the waitress…”
“How did I do that?”
“The way you talked to her. She’s doing a job. A hard job. A job she gets paid minimum wage to do. She’s doesn’t need you speaking to her like she’s some bimbo. If that was your daughter, how would you feel about some lecherous old man ogling her? Staring at her backside.”
“‘Bimbo’? There’s a word I haven’t heard in a decade or two.”
“You know what I mean. You’re talking to her in a way that’s, like, I dunno… It’s like you’re groping her with words.”
“I’m being friendly. I’m complimenting her.”
“Try being polite, or civil, instead. You also keep belittling me in front of people. That’s humiliating for me, and them too. It’s embarrassing.”
