by CJ Carver
‘A GP and a police officer.’
Dan digested this.
‘What else?’
‘Nothing.’ His voice was laced with despair. ‘The police report states it was a suicide, that’s all I know. A girl from his school jumped from the same bridge a few weeks ago and everyone assumes he’s copied her. But why would he do that? She wasn’t his girlfriend. She wasn’t even in his class. Everyone keeps telling me it’s normal to be in denial when someone you love has committed suicide, but I just know he didn’t kill himself.’
Dan thought of Jenny and Aimee, his clients at DCA & Co, his father’s repatriation and the funeral that needed arranging. Then Jenny’s voice came into his mind. Concentrate on Sam and Christopher. They really need their friends right now.
Dan looked across at his childhood friend.
‘You want me to try and find someone to help get some answers?’
At that, Christopher turned his head. Hope flared in his eyes. ‘Yes, Dan. Yes, thank you!’
‘Even though you might not like what you hear?’
Christopher bowed his head and clasped his hands together as though he was praying. ‘I have to know what happened.’ He raised his head and Dan could feel the intensity of his gaze practically burning his cheek. ‘Who do you know?’
‘A GP and a cop.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Detective Constable Lucy Davies was interviewing a leggy brunette who was telling her how she’d crept through the kitchen window of her ex-husband’s home and tried to seduce him.
‘Why use the window?’ Lucy asked. ‘Why not knock on the front door?’
‘I did, but he didn’t answer.’
‘He was inside?’
‘He came to the door and looked through the peephole.’
‘Since he didn’t answer the door,’ Lucy said evenly, ‘didn’t you think you might not be welcome?’
The woman gave Lucy a blank look. ‘But the window was open.’
‘It’s not your house.’
The woman looked baffled.
‘Look,’ Lucy said patiently, ‘if someone knocked on your door and you didn’t answer, how would you feel if they climbed through your window and walked into your kitchen?’
‘But it wasn’t my house. It was his. And the window was open.’
She’s not getting it, Lucy thought. She just doesn’t see that she is totally one hundred per cent nuts. Lucy didn’t dare look at the DS who was letting her lead the interview, in case it triggered a bout of hysterical laughter. Honestly, she thought, the people I meet in my job.
Lucy had started to explain to the woman that not every ex-husband wants to have his ex-wife break into his house and bare her breasts at him in his kitchen while his new wife is upstairs, when someone tapped on the door and opened it.
‘Lucy.’ It was Howard, her old partner. ‘Call for you. It can’t wait, sorry.’
She managed to supress the urge to do handsprings and shout, ‘Yippee!’ and simply leaned over, called out the time and switched off the tape. ‘We’ll resume in half an hour.’
Outside she looked at the DS and immediately wished she hadn’t. He appeared to be holding his breath against the laughter threatening to erupt. His eyes were watering from the effort. ‘Don’t you dare,’ she warned him. ‘Or her brief will have your balls for breakfast.’ But as she turned aside she couldn’t stop the snigger at the back of her throat, and at that the DS gave a half-shout, half-laugh and bolted down the corridor, shoulders shaking.
Howard watched him go. ‘What was that all about?’
‘Don’t ask.’ She rolled her eyes.
‘She looked all right to me.’ Howard was referring to the brunette she’d been interviewing.
‘She looks all right to anyone. Until you start talking to her.’
In the sector office, she picked up the phone. ‘DC Davies,’ she said.
‘Lucy.’
One word and her nerves jumped to attention, quivering like a pack of hunting dogs being called to task.
‘Dan?’
‘Yes. What are you doing right now?’
‘Interviewing a woman who’s been accused of stalking her ex.’
‘Sounds exciting.’ His voice was dry.
‘At least I’m not running around some junkyard with two Rottweilers about to tear me to shreds.’
‘There is that,’ he said agreeably. ‘Look, something’s come up. Any chance you can come to Duncaid, Scotland? If you left now, you’d get here around 8 p.m. and in time for a whisky and a home-cooked dinner.’
Her mind showered rainbows of yellow and lavender. Thanks to a neurological phenomenon, a type of synaesthesia, her mind lit up with colours when emotionally stimulated in some way, becoming particularly lively when her brain was trying to make disparate connections to do with an intricate police case. It was particularly useful in warning her that she might have missed something, rather like a flashing amber traffic light trying to get a driver’s attention at a busy junction.
‘Is this official?’ she asked.
‘Sorry.’
Not again! She put her hand on her forehead trying to think, but she couldn’t get past the fact that each time she saw Dan she invariably ended up in trouble. Mind you, if it hadn’t been for the case they’d originally been involved with, she would never have been fast-tracked to become a detective so it wasn’t all bad. Besides, she was never bored when Dan was around. Terrified, yes. But the excitement more than made up for it.
‘What’s it about?’
‘I’ll tell you when you get here.’
Inside, she gave a groan. That was the trouble with dealing with an ex-spook. Not only was Dan laconic at the best of times, but he only gave out information when he absolutely had to and usually only at the last minute.
‘How long do you need me for?’ she asked.
‘A few days. All expenses paid. The air’s great too. It’s like breathing champagne.’
For Lucy in her current mood – ebullient, filled with energy, her mind crackling – it was a no-brainer. She’d do anything not to have to go back into that airless interview room with that nutcase of a woman.
‘I’ll ask Mac, OK? I’ll go and see him now and ring you back.’
‘OK.’
They were about to hang up when she said, ‘Hey, did you say Duncaid?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘Did you know Grace moved up there with Ross? She’s working out of the Duncaid Medical Centre.’
The silence told her she’d surprised him.
‘Are you sure it’s Duncaid?’
Quickly she checked her contacts list. ‘Yup. The surgery’s there but she doesn’t live in town. Ross bought a ruined farm that he’s doing up. Middle of nowhere apparently. Would you like her number?’
‘Thanks.’
After they’d hung up Lucy jogged along the corridor, her thoughts whistling.
Dan’s called me, he wants me for a mission and I’m important, vital, I can solve his case with one hand tied behind my back, and then there’s Grace, my friend and confidante, who I haven’t seen for ages, and now I get to see the farm and see Dan and help him . . .
Ten months ago, Grace, Dan and Lucy hadn’t known one another, but the death of Grace’s mother had set off a chain of catastrophic events that had brought them together. Unlike friendships made day-to-day through mutual friends or work, theirs had been forged in fear and desperation, bonding them together as tightly as soldiers who’d fought a war side by side. Lucy couldn’t wait to see them.
When she arrived outside Mac’s office, she stopped. Hell, she thought. She couldn’t go in there in her current mood, could she? Grace had warned her against feeling over-confident when she was riding one of her highs, and to be more mindful at work to avoid making a disastrous mistake of some sort.
You’re vulnerable at each end of the mood spectrum. When you’re high you must be careful not to think you’re invulnerable, and when you’re low you have to ma
ke sure you eat well and keep up your fluids or you could feel so low you don’t want to go to work.
She’d met DI Faris MacDonald two years ago on a team-building exercise in Wales. She could remember the first time she’d seen him, how her skin had tightened all over when she’d seen his hands – big and strong – yearning to feel them on her body, his lips on hers. She’d never felt such a powerful attraction before. And it appeared he hadn’t either because he’d immediately invited her for a swim. Which turned into a five day long fantastic, mind-blowing affair; bunking off for a drink, a cliff top walk, a search to find a sheltered cove where they made love as though they were the last people on earth. It had been crazy, out of control, and she’d panicked. She’d been going out with someone then, and so had he. She’d ended up leaving the course early, blanking his calls. A year later he’d turned up in Stockton as her boss. She’d struggled to keep him at a distance, and now she reminded herself not to drop her guard.
Mac is your boss, she told herself. Yes, you’ve had sex with him (spectacular) and you like him (a lot) but you can’t risk a relationship with him. Not just because it will undermine you – everyone will think you slept with him to become a detective – but the second he gets to know you he’ll write you off as a loony tune. He’ll run a mile. Much better not to go there, so your heart can’t be broken.
She lifted her chin. You just have to go in there, explain about Dan and ask Mac if he can spare you for a few days. Mac already knows Dan, and that he’s a bit special, so he shouldn’t have a problem letting you go. Besides, you’re not in the thick of anything that can’t be covered by the team. And then there’s the little fact you’re way overdue your holiday . . .
She squared her shoulders. Rapped on the door.
‘Come!’
She stepped inside to see Mac frowning at his computer screen. Curly brown hair, strong jawline, broad shoulders and hands that could be as gentle as velvet. As she looked at his hands her mind emptied of everything but the need to feel them on her skin. A rush of desire, a pure clean bolt of heat shot through every vein, every cell in her body.
Shit. She had to go. Get out of here before . . .
Mac looked up.
Mismatched grey eyes met hers.
The oxygen in the room suddenly emptied.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he said.
One second Mac was at his desk, the next he was across the room and standing in front of her. His eyes were locked on hers, the pupils so large they appeared almost black.
‘Lucy.’
A mute pounding started in her skull. Sound faded. Keep it together, she told herself. Keep it cool. You mustn’t lose control. You can do this. You have to.
‘I came to ask for some time off.’ Her tone was stiff. ‘Not long. Just a few days. Dan Forrester called. He wants me in Scotland.’
At that, his eyes changed colour from hot black to steel-grey. He glanced aside. Stepped back and took a deep breath. Cleared his throat. Folded his arms.
‘Why?’
‘He couldn’t say.’
Mac didn’t comment, but she could almost hear the cogs whirring inside his head, his thoughts. Couldn’t? Or wouldn’t?
‘He needs me up there by eight,’ she added.
‘What, tonight?’
‘Yes.’
Silence.
‘I’m happy to help him out in my own time. I’m owed lots of holiday.’
‘What about your boyfriend?’ he asked. His tone turned uncharacteristically snide. ‘Or will Baker go too?’
She’d met Nicholas Baker, ex-special forces, on her last big case. Nick wasn’t her boyfriend and was never likely to be, but she wasn’t going to tell Mac that. She wanted to keep Nick as her first line of defence.
‘None of your business,’ she told him.
Mac exhaled sharply, running a hand over his head and making the curls dance. His hair was incredibly soft, she remembered, nothing like she’d imagined. She looked away before she could give in to the temptation to reach up and touch it.
‘OK.’ Mac cleared his throat. ‘I’ll speak to Dan. He’s on the same number?’
‘Yes.’
As Mac moved to his desk she turned to leave the room but he said, ‘Wait. Let’s do this now.’
She tried not to look at him as he dialled, fixing her gaze on a poster offering a £1,000 reward for information on a series of rapes in Middlesbrough.
‘Dan Forrester? It’s . . . yes, I’m fine thanks . . . yup . . .’
Long silence while Mac listened. She glanced across to see his expression was distant, unreadable.
Then he said, ‘It’s nothing that will cause her any conflict of interests?’
Which was Mac’s way of enquiring whether Dan was going to ask Lucy to do anything that might risk her job, from planting bugs to breaking the speed limit, both of which she’d done on Dan’s behalf earlier in the year.
Mac listened some more before saying, ‘OK, I understand. She says she has holiday due. She’ll let you know her ETA, OK? But before you go,’ – his tone hardened – ‘I want you to know that Lucy is an invaluable part of my team, and I want her back unscathed.’
Mac didn’t say goodbye, simply hung up. His face was grim. ‘I don’t like it,’ he told her. ‘Whenever you and Dan Forrester get together you’re like—’
‘What did he tell you?’ she interrupted him, not wanting a health and safety lecture.
He surveyed her for a moment. ‘He needs a cop’s eyes. He wants to brief you himself. He’s going to ring you later . . . it’s a personal matter, but knowing you two, what appears to be a simple task will no doubt turn into some sort of nightmare.’
She decided not to say anything.
He sighed. Looked away. Did the hand over-the-head thing. Sighed again. ‘OK. I need you to tell me what you have outstanding so I can get you covered.’
She tried not to grin. It would only annoy him and make him think she’d won. Which she had, she supposed. As she ran him through her cases, he made notes on his computer, telling her who he’d get to do what. He was sharply efficient, and not for the first time she thought what a good policeman he was. Intelligent, confident and trustworthy. Tenacious too. And a bit of a risk taker. Just look at the long leash he gave her. Her old boss at the Met had hated her and tried to rule her with an iron fist. He’d called her a liability. Temperamental. Irritable. Obsessive. Exhausting. All of which Mac had cheerfully said were positive characteristics for a detective, but then he hadn’t seen how crazy she got sometimes, or witnessed her crash. Hopefully, if she kept him at arm’s length, he’d never see the real her. It was the only way she could protect herself.
When they’d finished he looked up at her. ‘Keep me informed. Every day, please.’
It was their usual deal. As long as he felt he was part of whatever was going on, he kept out of her hair.
‘OK,’ she agreed.
‘Be careful, OK?’
‘Of course,’ she said brightly, spinning on her heel.
‘I MEAN IT!’ he yelled after her as she jogged down the corridor.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mac fought to concentrate on the briefing he was giving. What to do about Lucy? What was she going to get up to in Scotland? He couldn’t blame Dan Forrester for wanting her professional view on his godson’s suicide. Where some people thought of Lucy as difficult, struggling to pigeonhole her into a box labelled ‘POLICE’, Mac saw her unorthodox behaviour as a gift. As did Dan Forrester. Both of them appreciated the fact that Lucy’s logic didn’t always run along tramlines and although her judgement could be seen to be off-the-wall, sometimes bizarre, a lot of the time it got results.
He kept seeing Lucy’s face in his mind’s eye, the way her lips had softened as she looked at him, her eyes darkening the same way they did just before he entered her.
Jesus Christ, how the hell were they going to keep working together? Was she as affected as he was? Maybe it was all in his imaginat
ion. What about Nicholas Baker, the pretty-boy ex-soldier that dressed like a surfer and thought he was God’s gift? Was she still seeing him?
It was over six months ago when he saw them together and the memory still burned. He’d been racing to see her, desperate to make sure she was safe, hold her, throw himself at her feet, he hadn’t been sure which, when he spotted them walking across the car park. They’d been sharing an umbrella, Lucy touching Baker’s arm and looking up at him laughing. They seemed so at ease together, comfortable, happy, it just about killed him. He’d sneaked away before they spotted him. Headed straight home where he’d got absolutely, totally, gas-guzzlingly drunk.
Since then he’d managed to keep his equilibrium pretty much in place when she was around. He’d gone online and found himself a couple of dates. Went out with a woman from Leeds for a while, but although she was attractive and very nice in bed and out, she wasn’t Lucy.
Nobody was Lucy.
CHAPTER NINE
Grace rang Dan as she walked to the butcher. No delis here, and thank heavens the butcher sold more than just raw meat or they’d be forced to shop in Elgin every other day. She really had to learn to cook. She really had to learn to do a lot of other stuff, including catch fish and ride a horse, but cooking was at the top of the list; they couldn’t live on takeaways for the rest of their lives.
Dan answered on the second ring. ‘Any luck?’ he asked.
He wanted to know if she’d managed to set up a meeting with the Procurator Fiscal to arrange a post-mortem on Connor’s body.
‘I’m seeing him on Wednesday.’
‘Great.’
‘Look, Lucy’s staying with us. Why don’t you come around for dinner? We can chat then.’
‘Can I bring Christopher? It would be good for him to talk to you. He’s got lots of questions.’
‘Of course.’
She could understand Connor’s father wanting answers. Suicide was a particularly devastating way to lose a loved one, the shock of which could be as violent as a grenade exploding within a family. Survivors were invariably left profoundly distressed, struggling with a complicated grief process often made harder by not knowing why it had happened. She purposely didn’t picture Connor, the way she’d found the boy’s body battered and broken at the bottom of the ravine. Too depressing.
