by Carol Wyer
There was a response from the radio, ‘Roger that. We’ll intercept at junction fourteen at the A34 exit.’
‘Anna, keep an eye on that vehicle. What’s the estimated time to junction fourteen?’
‘Twenty minutes, guv.’
‘Unit one, ETA twenty minutes.’
‘Roger. On our way.’
‘Unit two, Matt, where are you?’
‘Just outside Sainsbury’s, boss,’ replied Sergeant Matt Higham. He was new to Robyn’s team and had transferred from Oxford so his wife could be closer to her family. They were expecting their first child and had just taken out a mortgage on a large house. At thirty-one, with a bald head and a round, unlined face like a large baby’s, Matt was a joker.
‘Head towards junction fourteen and rendezvous with unit one.’
Anna spoke up. ‘Sean Holland has no previous, guv. Sixty-six, widowed, no children. Used to run a small window-cleaning business.’
Robyn shook her head. Sean Holland didn’t fit in. ‘How come a retired man in his sixties is friends with a thirty-something-year-old criminal?’ She tilted her head to one side and tapped the pencil against her teeth – a staccato rhythm. ‘We’ve been too eager to get Nick. We can only really identify the luminous backpack in the photograph. I don’t like this any more,’ she repeated, shaking her head. ‘Mitz, anything on Nick Jackson yet?’
‘Still searching through the database. Hang on, I think I’ve got him.’
The radio burst into a crackle. ‘In position,’ said David Marker.
Mitz was staring at his screen, concern etched across his fine features. ‘Guv, you need to see this. Now.’
She hurried to the screen and, reading what he was referring to, stood there, her lips one thin tight line. ‘Shit,’ she whispered. She turned to regain control.
‘David, Matt – stand down. Stand down immediately.’
‘Copy that,’ Sergeant Matt Higham said, unfazed by the change of plan.
David Marker’s voice was incredulous. ‘What’s going on? How do you know Jackson isn’t our perp?’
The pencil spun around and around between her fingers. ‘He’s not our man. Nick Jackson couldn’t have robbed the stores. He doesn’t drive. He can’t. Nick Jackson is blind.’
There was a crackle and another crackle then, ‘Returning to base.’
Robyn refrained from thumping the wall. It was the backpack. Mitz had been right. It was a stupidly conspicuous colour. It drew attention to him. What robber, who attacks people with knives, would choose a fluorescent backpack, yet go to great lengths to hide his face from cameras? A robber who knew a fluorescent backpack would be memorable. She headed towards the coffee machine in the corner. The adrenalin that had coursed through her veins was subsiding and she needed a caffeine fix. She shoved a paper cup in place and stabbed at the espresso button. The machine burst into life, bubbling and spitting, before black liquid squirted into her cup.
The door opened and, without ceremony, DI Tom Shearer swaggered in.
‘I’ve run out of sugar again. Thought I’d come and see if my neighbour could spare me a spoonful.’ Robyn scowled at him. She was no fan of Detective Inspector Tom Shearer. He had transferred from Derbyshire, following the departure of one of her colleagues. She had had several run-ins with the man, who treated everything and everyone with a cavalier attitude. She ignored his smug expression and the overwhelming smell of aftershave that accompanied him.
‘What do you really want, Shearer?’
‘Decent coffee. You have a coffee machine. I haven’t yet convinced Mulholland I’m worthy of such pampering. Besides, the machine downstairs is bust again and I need a drink. My head is pounding.’
‘Help yourself.’
‘Thanks. I’ve had a shitty morning.’
‘Join the club.’ She took her paper cup of black coffee from the machine and handed Shearer an empty cup to use.
‘I bet, in a game of top trumps, my morning has been shittier than yours.’ He held her gaze and gave a lopsided grin. His eyes were pink through lack of sleep.
‘Go on. I’ll start.’
‘I thought you might. You like to take the lead, don’t you?’
She ignored his comment. ‘I spent all last night fielding calls about possible sightings of a man we believe has robbed village stores and caused GBH to several innocent victims, including a young woman and an elderly man, both of whom are currently seriously injured in hospital. We chased up all the leads and drew blanks. The team came back in at six a.m. and we finally got a break this morning, from an unknown informant who sent us a picture of the suspect getting into a car. We traced the car, deployed the units to apprehend him, only to discover we’d been following a blind man – a blind man being driven by a friend.’ She downed her coffee in one, squeezed the cup tightly and hurled it into the waste paper bin.
Shearer’s lips twitched slightly. ‘Now that’s shitty,’ he replied. ‘Although I can see the humour in it.’
‘So, bet you can’t trump that.’
Shearer pulled out his cup and blew on the hot froth. ‘Is this cappuccino or Fairy Liquid in hot water?’ he asked, causing her to smile.
‘I should have warned you. It makes a lousy cappuccino.’
‘Cheers for that. Oh well, that just about puts the proverbial icing on the cake of a horrendous morning.’
‘Go on.’
‘I woke up with a really sore throat.’ He coughed. ‘I’m sure I’m coming down with something.’ He took another sip and grimaced. ‘That aside, I was called to Bromley Hall at six a.m. while you were all comfy here. It was blowing a right gale and the Hall is down winding lanes. A weathered bough snapped off a tree, crashed onto the Porsche and dented the bonnet, which set me up nicely for what was to come. Got to the Hall and was led to the spa area which is off to one side. It’s very nice there, all blue and white walls – makes you think of Norway and fjords. And there’s the top-of-the-range sauna. It’s what they call a wet sauna and is heated by an electric stove.
‘The deceased, Miles Ashbrook, the hotel manager, must have really liked it hot. I think it’s fair to say he was done to a crisp when I got to him. He was definitely somewhat overcooked. I spent all morning sweating away thanks to the humidity, picking through bits of cooked skin, and trying to establish the time and cause of death. It appeared he had a heart attack and keeled over, which was no surprise – he’d poured so much water over the rocks on the stove the place had heated up to over 110 degrees Celsius, well above what’s recommended. Miles Ashbrook was cooking in there for over five hours. Gruesome just about covers it. It’s put me off bacon for life,’ he added, sipping at his drink. His nose wrinkled. ‘This really does taste of soap.’
Robyn shrugged. ‘You win. I think being humiliated in front of my team and having no idea of the whereabouts of my suspect is nowhere near as bad as trawling through bits of barbecued human skin. Anything suspicious about his death?’
‘I don’t believe so. I couldn’t be certain at first, although there didn’t seem to be anyone else involved. The door to the sauna wasn’t locked or blocked, so Miles wasn’t imprisoned in the sauna, and given the spa is locked after seven at night and no one is allowed in the area, there seemed little cause for suspicion. Guests’ key cards don’t work after that time and only staff key cards are operational all the time. Also, there’s a camera that rotates and films the place. I rooted through the CCTV footage and spotted him stripping off to his boxers, taking a shower in the ice area and entering the sauna at eleven o’clock. He was completely alone, and no one else appears on the footage all night. The camera moves from area to area. We fast-forwarded it, although no one came into shot until the cleaner who found him. At some point while he was in the sauna, Miles Ashbrook appears to have suffered a severe heart attack. I’m waiting for an autopsy report to determine how much alcohol was in his system in case that had a bearing on it and he had meandered in there half-cut. I checked with the bar staff and he certainly hadn�
��t been drinking in the champagne bar, so if he had chugged any alcohol, it was in his office. So, other than being on drugs, or having a desire to top himself by cooking himself to death, I think it was an unfortunate accident.’
‘How old was he?’
‘Forty-one. Two years younger than me. Probably spent too much time behind a desk, and I have no doubt his job managing that place was stressful. I’m confident the autopsy will show that Miles Ashbrook had a heart attack. I doubt his death will be mourned by many of his colleagues. Those I met didn’t seem too upset by it. The commis chef was more interested in getting the breakfasts ready in time for the guests coming downstairs, and the chap who found him – Jakub – made it clear he wasn’t one of Mr Ashbrook’s greatest fans. He told me, “What goes around…”, from which I gathered Miles was not Mr Popular. However, what manager or person in charge is popular? Apart from you, of course.’ He drained his cup, wincing as he did so. ‘That is the most disgusting coffee I have ever drunk. Still, it’s helped remove the smell of burnt flesh.’
He balled his cup and threw it in the bin. ‘Better phone the garage. Pissed off about my Porsche. It was my mid-life crisis purchase. By the way, I wondered if you’d heard the latest?’
‘Go on.’
‘According to the rumour mill, Mulholland is being considered for promotion. If that happens, there’ll be a vacancy for a detective chief inspector. I believe in being fair, so I thought I’d let you know, to give you a chance to practise your arse-licking skills. And, of course, give you the opportunity to prepare your CV. It must be well out of date by now.’
He grinned and walked off, leaving Robyn open-mouthed. Mulholland hadn’t mentioned a promotion or even that she was thinking of moving on. Robyn would ask her straight out when she saw her later. Rumours were exactly that – rumours. She brushed aside thoughts of Tom Shearer with his mocking powder-blue eyes and concentrated on her case. Heaven help them if Shearer became the new DCI. She’d have to seriously consider transferring.
Three
DCI Louisa Mulholland’s honey-coloured eyes blinked in surprise. ‘I don’t know how these things get out. For the record, I have been invited to consider applying for the position of superintendent. However, it would mean moving to Yorkshire. It’s a fair distance from my friends and family.’
‘Nice walks in Yorkshire. The Dales are beautiful.’
‘Nice walks here too, DI Carter.’
‘True. So, no plans to race off up north?’
‘I’m not sure yet. As soon as I am, I’ll let everyone know rather than rely on the gossips to decide when the news should be made public. So, tell me. What happened?’
Robyn explained the unfortunate incident of chasing the wrong man.
‘And how are you going to resolve this one, Robyn? We can’t make an additional appeal tonight.’
‘We had another breakthrough. A call from a woman who thinks the robber is her live-in boyfriend, Wayne Robson. She was rooting through a cupboard searching for stuff to donate to a charity and uncovered a backpack filled with cash. She’s currently hiding out at her sister’s until we bring Robson in. Scared of what might happen if he finds out she rang us. Says he’s got a temper.’ She waited for Louisa to comment, but she didn’t.
‘Carry on.’
‘I’ve sent PC David Marker and Sergeant Patel to bring him in for questioning.’
Louisa Mulholland nodded approvingly. ‘Let me know when Wayne Robson has arrived. I’d like to observe the interview and hear what he has to say for himself.’
‘Does that mean I’ll have to be extra polite to him, ma’am?’
‘Indeed, DI Carter, it does not.’
It was well after 9 p.m. when Robyn left the station and headed for the gym. She no longer felt tired or disheartened. Wayne Robson had been officially charged and was sweating it out in the cells, waiting for his case to come up. Robyn felt a weight had been removed from her shoulders. It could so easily have gone the other way, and she could still be scrabbling about hunting for the man who stole for the thrill of it and thought nothing of those victims he had mutilated.
She shook herself and tried to clear her thoughts. She changed into her gear, noting that Tricia was in again. Her Adidas bag was resting in its usual spot in front of locker fifteen. The woman was never out of the place. Ever since her divorce she had become a gym junkie. Robyn didn’t have much to do with the woman. In fact, Robyn didn’t have much to do with anyone. When she was in the gym she was completely focused on her training, and tonight would be no exception. She had signed up for the Staffordshire Ironman Triathlon event, taking place on 17 June, and she was determined to win it.
As she pulled on her Lycra shorts she asked herself why she felt this constant need to prove herself. She glimpsed at her lean frame in the mirror and saw what her team must see every day – a woman with large dark circles under her eyes, who had the hungry look of a bird of prey. She had not aged much, and although she was in her forties, her posture was that of a much younger woman. Robyn was not hung up on looks or ageing. As long as she could do her job and train as hard as she did, all was as well as it was ever going to be. She studied her hands and removed the ring she always wore, putting it safely into her purse before locking it up in the locker. It had been given to her by Davies, and she refused to hide it away. It was almost two years since he had been killed in an ambush in Morocco. Davies, a military intelligence officer, had been her rock, her man, her true other half. He had died unaware she was pregnant. Robyn wished he had known about the baby, even though it had not been born. The miscarriage had been another damaging blow and almost cost Robyn her sanity. She banished the sad memory. Tonight she would drown out all thoughts of the past, all thoughts of her job, and concentrate on improving her physical condition.
There was no one in the gym at all. Tricia must have finished her routine and gone to the swimming pool. Robyn was glad of the solitude.
She set up the squat rack with a freestanding barbell and grunted her way through six sets of varying weights and repetitions, starting with just the barbell as a warm-up and moving up to the final couple of sets using 80–85kg weights. By the time she had completed the final set she could feel the lactic acid building in her arms and sweat beginning to trickle down her back. She wiped her hands on the towel she always carried and shook the lactic acid away, striding about the gym, avoiding her reflection in the mirrors.
Next on her agenda was a Romanian dead lift. She completed three sets of eight to ten repetitions, using 50kg weights, followed by the same number and sets of shoulder shrugs.
Immediately following this, she did three sets of dead lifts and was moving onto the cable hamstring curls when she spotted Tricia observing her. She lifted her hand when she saw Robyn had noticed her and hurried over. ‘Look, I know it’s bad form to interrupt when someone’s training, but I need to talk to you.’
Robyn wiped the sweat from her face. Some had already got into her eyes and it was stinging like crazy.
‘I’ve got about another half an hour to do.’
Tricia chewed on her lip. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll wait for you.’
Robyn gave her a curious look. This was most unlike Tricia. Ordinarily they nodded or exchanged a brief ‘hi’ and, at a push, pleasantries. They’d only had a few conversations in the past year, and one of those had been about Robyn’s job after Tricia had seen her on television. Robyn decided it must be important if she was willing to hang about and wait. ‘Okay. I’ll catch you in the changing room. What’s so urgent?’
‘I’ll tell you when you’re finished. I’ll wait for you there. I want to talk to you in private,’ she added, as one of the regulars entered the gym.
Four
Tricia was on her mobile in the changing room, her face unusually devoid of make-up. She ended the call as soon as Robyn appeared twenty minutes later. Robyn dropped down onto one of the benches and, rubbing a towel over her face and neck to soak up any remaining sweat, asked,
‘What’s this about?’
Tricia sat down next to Robyn and took a deep breath. ‘I’m going to sound stupid, but please hear me out. My friend Miles Ashbrook died this morning.’
Robyn recognised the name. This was the man DI Shearer mentioned.
‘I’m sorry. I heard about it. Heart attack.’
Tricia nodded. ‘That’s what we were told. I was with Miles’s mum when the policeman arrived. He was a tall guy, bit angry-looking. Nice blue eyes though.’
‘DI Shearer.’
‘He told us Miles was in the sauna when it happened.’
Robyn wondered where the conversation was going, and hoping Shearer hadn’t gone into too much detail about the state of the body. He could be a little blunt at times. ‘That’s right.’
‘Thing is, that can’t have been the case.’
‘Miles having a heart attack? I’m sure DI Shearer was right, and there’ll be a coroner’s report to prove cause of death.’
Tricia shook her platinum blonde head. ‘Not that. I’m not questioning that he had a heart attack, it’s that I don’t believe for a minute he’d have taken a sauna. And that leads me to suspect his death wasn’t an accident.’
‘Did you not discuss any of this with DI Shearer?’
‘I was in too much shock. Then I felt silly bringing it up. He seems so fierce. I can imagine him telling me to calm down and not be hysterical. I was hoping you would know him and would tell him for me.’ Tricia flushed pink with embarrassment.
There was no cause for them to suspect anything untoward about Miles Ashbrook’s death. Shearer might be grouchy, and forthright to the point of being offhand, yet he was one of the best officers she knew when it came to investigating crime scenes. He would have looked at every possible scenario – of that, Robyn was convinced and said so.
Tricia shook her head again. ‘No. Miles would never have taken a sauna. I know he wouldn’t. I’m not making sense, am I? Sorry… Give me a moment and I’ll explain why I think this is a set-up.’
