by Linda Coles
“And no, you haven’t. Put too much on, that is.”
Dear God, he was a mind reader, too.
Finally, he looked up from what he had been reading and smiled at her. Dopey Dupin didn’t have a mean bone in his body, which was one of the reasons the team took the piss. Every DI needed mean bones occasionally.
“What can I help you with?”
While he wasn’t what you’d call an attractive man, he had a nice smile and clear eyes, and had always been decent to Amanda.
“It seems we’ve stumbled on a prescription opioid distribution racket, through mobile food vans. Selling codeine and oxy to the business community, from what we’ve seen so far.” She explained the rest – the salt packets, the app, the clientele.
Dupin sat quietly for a moment before he spoke. “What’s your plan?”
When Amanda explained what they intended to do and that she and Jack were meeting with a DC from Manchester later, he nodded approvingly. “Keep me up to date. I may need to go regional if it’s more widespread, and why wouldn’t it be?”
Amanda nodded her understanding, and Dupin resumed reading his document, indicating she was dismissed.
When she’d left his office, he picked his phone up and dialled.
Chapter Sixty-Four
M1 or M40? That was the question facing Duncan as he skirted around Birmingham heading south towards Croydon. If he hadn’t needed a car he’d have taken the train, caught up with some reports or read the paper, listened to a podcast or something – all much less stressful than afternoon traffic on the Midland’s motorways. Google and Siri told him the M40 was the quickest option, though not by much. He yawned, glanced at the clock on the dash and estimated the time to a service centre he might want to stop at. He dimly remembered that Oxford was the one to aim for, though in truth most of the motorway network’s service stations were pretty grim. Torn seating in the food court areas, filthy toilets, and the general décor and state of repair of these over-used locations left a lot to be desired. Millions of people went through these places every year, so much so they were like small towns, on the move 24/7. Some had designated truck stop areas, some caravan areas, but they all had one thing in common – huge volumes of cars and bikes at any given time. Unfortunately, this meant that refurbishment was almost out of the question.
He made a mental calculation to the stop at Oxford and dreamed of a hot coffee to stir him up with; travelling so far on his own was tedious work. Then he remembered the mini-quiches Sam had made and, driving with his right hand, slipped his left into his bag on the seat and rummaged for the tub.
“Got you,” he said as he wrestled the lid off and removed a little pie. The lightly browned cheese on the top made them look quite delicious and he took a bite from one, sinking his teeth into the soft filling and fresh homemade pastry. He groaned at the taste of them.
“Sam, you’ve outdone yourself, my girl. Absolutely delicious.”
Shame she wasn’t there to hear his praise….
Crumbs fell down his front and he brushed them away before taking another bite, the act of eating relieving the monotony of driving in a straight line for so long. When both pies had been devoured, he savoured the cheesy taste on his lips before calling her to say thanks. She answered almost immediately.
“My God, Sam, those little pie things were delicious. You’ll have to make some more of them.”
“Have you eaten them both already, then?” she enquired.
“I was going to leave one for later, but the first one was so good I thought, Sod it, I can only eat them once.” He heard Sam giggle a little at his praise and enjoyed the sound of it. It was a shame they’d had to go about getting back on track the way they had, but he felt sure she was changing back to the Sam he had loved and married.
“Well, I’m glad you liked them. I hoped you would. Listen, I’ll send you a text later before I go to sleep, all right?”
“Okay. Give the girls a kiss goodnight from me, won’t you?”
“Of course, and enjoy your meal out. Drive safely.” Sing-song. Then she was gone and Duncan was back to the solace of a mind-numbingly boring drive down to Croydon.
It was almost 6 p.m. when he pulled into the hotel car park after four hours of snarl-ups and roadworks, and he parked up below one of the available street lamps for extra security. The amber glow gave his car an eerie finish, changing the colour from navy to almost green. He grabbed his bag and headed inside to check in, feeling dog-tired and wishing he was staying in for the evening rather than going out for a curry. But he’d agreed to go, so that was the end of it, though his stomach didn’t much feel like a curry. Something plain would perhaps ease whatever was going on in there. He put it down to too much coffee and sitting scrunched up for too long.
“Duncan Riley checking in,” he said to the receptionist, an older woman with perfectly coiffed hair. She reminded him of a TV sitcom wife from the 80s. But efficient was her middle name, and within a few moments she was handing over his key and directing him to a room on the first floor. She wished him a good evening.
Duncan skipped the lift and opted for the stairs. His room was near the far end of the first-floor corridor. Silently, he let himself in and browsed around the functional room. Bathroom immediately to the left, bed further in to the left, desk and chair at the foot of the bed against the wall opposite. TV screen, tea- and coffee-making equipment to his right. A piece of nondescript art hung over the bed. The computer-generated image matched the décor colour of green and oxblood almost exactly. The scent of air freshener from a can lingered in the room, probably to mask that someone had smoked there recently; an underlying whiff of tobacco was still evident. He opened the window a little to recirculate the odour back outside, and a cold draft blew into the room. Still, he gave it five minutes to clear.
His head was starting to ache a little as he unpacked his bag and took his toiletries through to the bathroom. Since he wasn’t being picked up for at least thirty minutes or so, he turned the taps on and ran a bath, pouring the little bottle of shower gel into the running water. White bubbles formed and grew upwards while he shaved and stripped. Then, satisfied with the temperature, Duncan slid into the tub. The warm water felt good on his body, the tiring drive easing out of his muscles, and he began to relax a little. His thoughts drifted to Sam and the change in her, her thoughtfulness baking the mini-pies, and he wondered if they’d turned a corner. Perhaps they should go away somewhere soon, the two of them, somewhere warm; maybe the south of France or farther afield even. It wasn’t like they couldn’t afford it, and the girls always enjoyed staying with their grandparents.
His phone rang back in the bedroom and dragged him away from his thoughts, though he didn’t get out of the bath, not yet. Whoever it was would wait or leave a message or call back soon. He closed his eyes a moment and floated somewhere between Sam and work. His phone rang again.
“Sod it,” he grumbled and stood up, letting water and soapy suds run down his legs onto the floor. He wrapped a towel around him before heading to the bedside table.
“DC Riley here.”
“Ah, were you sleeping?” A woman’s chuckle followed, but Duncan didn’t recognize the voice or the number that flashed up.
“It’s DS Lacey, Amanda. Dinner?”
“Yes, sorry. Miles away. Is it that time already?” He glanced at the clock on his phone. 6.40 p.m.
“We’re early, so I called on the off chance, but if you’re sleeping . . .” She let the words hang with a touch of jovial sarcasm.
“Give me five. I’ll be down shortly.” He disconnected the call, quickly dried, and dressed in jeans and a clean shirt with a jacket over the top. With hair that was still ruffled and damp, he left his room to meet his dinner mates, letting the door swing closed behind him.
All three slipped into Amanda’s car, Duncan in the back.
Parked on the other side of the car park were two men in disguise and on surveillance.
They were not detect
ives.
Chapter Sixty-Five
It wasn’t far to the restaurant. Parking directly outside was impossible unless you were happy to be towed away, and even detectives weren’t exempt from that carry-on. And bus drivers got tetchy if you parked in a bus stop. Amanda drove past Chat House and pulled up in a nearby side street with plenty of room. Duncan’s head was now throbbing and he wished he’d stopped at a chemist for Paracetamol on the way. Amanda caught the look of pain on his face and asked, “Are you all right?”
“A headache, that’s all, though I couldn’t tell you when I last got one. I don’t suppose you have any painkillers, do you?”
Considering the topic they were about to discuss over dinner, it was fitting, Amanda thought. She rummaged in her bag and produced a packet with four left in it.
“Life saver – thanks,” Duncan said, and removed two from the individual blisters, popping them straight into his mouth.
“There’ll be water inside,” added Amanda. She handed him the rest of the pack. “Here, take the rest in case you need them later.”
Duncan nodded his appreciation and followed them both into the restaurant. The warmth was welcome; even the short walk from the car was cold enough to require hat and gloves. The smell of rich tandoori spices and garlic filled the room. For a weekday night, the place was busy, and the clientele was heavily male. Amanda wondered where all the women were; perhaps these customers were all on a boys’ night out? She imagined the women doing the same someplace, a wine bar maybe.
A man dressed in black and white showed them to their table and handed out menus.
“Can I get you something from the bar?” he enquired.
“A half for me,” ordered Jack.
“Mineral water, thanks,” Duncan said.
Amanda ordered a white wine, not caring that it was a school night.
With the waiter on his way, Jack took up the small talk. “How was the journey down?”
“The usual. I don’t think I’ve ever driven straight through without roadworks somewhere along the way. I reckon they only need a home for their cones, so they lay them on our motorways.” He rubbed his temple and poured a glass of water from the jug to speed the pills up a bit. A light sheen of sweat had formed on his top lip. It glinted slightly, enough for Amanda to notice. She didn’t say anything.
“Well, I’m famished,” declared Jack, and stuck his head in the menu. “I don’t know why I’m looking because I know what I’m going to have.” He beamed around the table. “Chicken Jalfrezi.”
“Same here,” said Amanda. “Lamb Jalfrezi for me.” She placed her menu back down on the table.
Duncan didn’t fancy anything spicy, “I think I’ll stick with chicken Korma. I fancy mild tonight.” In reality, he fancied a boiled egg and soldiers at home with his girls, but that was a world away. His head was pounding.
The waiter returned with their drinks and Jack placed their order. Poppadums and chutney appeared in front of them and all but Duncan tucked in. He was beginning to feel quite unwell. He figured he should tell them what he knew, then grab a taxi back to the hotel and go sleep off whatever this was. He cleared his throat.
“Tell me where you’re up to, then, and I’ll see where I can fit some missing pieces, perhaps.”
Amanda began with a rundown. “We know now they are using an app, prepaying with crypto currency so no cash changes hands at the van. It seems they place their phone face up with the app showing on the screen, and that’s a signal for the dealer to glance and see the pre-paid order. Tabs are disguised as salt packets and slotted into the bag with the bacon sandwich. I’ve also heard special sauce mentioned – a code word, I expect. That’s as much as we know. But we figure it could be wider than our patch because of the technology.”
She sipped her wine and looked at Duncan. He was quiet. More sweat had surfaced on his upper lip and brow. Suddenly, in one swift movement, he leapt from the table and raced towards the back of the restaurant, looking for the toilets. Jack and Amanda sat speechless, looking at one another.
“He really didn’t look too well,” Amanda said. “His top lip was all sweaty. I think you should see if he’s okay.”
The waiter was approaching the table with their food, but Jack dutifully followed Duncan, hoping he wouldn’t be too long. He’d been looking forward to chicken Jalfrezi all afternoon. He entered the gents’ toilets and heard Duncan before he saw him. The retching sounded like it was coming up from the basement drains of the building.
“Hell’s bells. Are you all right?”
Duncan spat saliva into the bowl and wiped his mouth with toilet tissue. The room smelled of vomit. Jack waited.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” Duncan said weakly. “I think. Maybe it’s a migraine.” He started to get up from his kneeling position but his legs were wobbly. He grabbed on to the tissue dispenser, ripping it from the wall as he stumbled backwards, sending it crashing to the floor. Another wave of nausea coursed through him and he retched again, this time missing the toilet completely and vomiting onto the floor. Jack stepped out of the way, but not before the splashes hit him.
“I think we’d best get you back to your room. Can you stand up?” He put his hand out and Duncan took it gratefully. Once Duncan was on his feet, Jack dampened a paper towel and handed it to him to wipe his face with. Beads of sweat coated his forehead. When Jack was satisfied Duncan was stable on his feet, he slowly led him back out to the restaurant and towards the front door. He caught Amanda’s eye but she could see all was not well. She set her napkin aside and hurried up to them.
“Best get him back,” Jack said uneasily. “Where’s your keys?”
“Hang on – I’ll drive,” Amanda said. “Let me go and settle the bill and I’ll meet you out front. Can you bring my car around?”
Jack nodded and took her car keys from her. Turning to Duncan, he said, “Wait here. I’ll be back in five.”
When Jack pulled up out front, Amanda was waiting with Duncan. Some of the colour had returned to Duncan’s face. He and Amanda both got inside.
“I’m really sorry about this,” Duncan said. “I’ve never experienced anything like this before. If it’s a migraine, I never want another.” He rested his head against the headrest, grateful it was only a short drive.
“It’s no bother, as long as you’re okay,” said Amanda. “We’ll catch up by phone, maybe in the morning? I hope you’ll be all right for your training tomorrow.”
“Me too. Sleep will do me good.”
Amanda pulled up at the hotel entrance and Duncan climbed out, looking only slightly steadier than he had a few moments ago. They said their goodbyes and both watched him go inside before driving off.
“Hell, I hope he’s all right,” said Jack anxiously.
“He’ll be fine. If he’s got a migraine, he’ll more than likely be fine now he’s vomited. A nice dark room and sleep is what he needs right now. It’s still early yet, so hopefully he’ll feel better in the morning. I’ll call him then.”
“You’re a regular Mother Teresa, aren’t you?” chided Jack. He was remembering back to when he had had appendicitis a while back and had vomited lavishly all over Amanda and his own car. To her credit, Amanda had looked after him like a champ that day.
He pulled out into traffic and they headed back to work. Neither of them noticed the surveillance vehicle that was still parked in the car park. But the two men inside noticed Duncan had returned.
Somewhat early.
Chapter Sixty-Six
He felt like death itself. Never before had he felt so ill, had such a splitting headache or been so violently sick. He’d made it back to his room, washed his face, and got straight into bed, leaving his clothes where they fell. It was darkness and peace he craved. The hotel curtains were thick and well fitted, so not even a chink of light from outside could get through. Still, he kept his eyes firmly closed.
But behind the blank canvas of his eyelids was a place for the devil to dance, and he was only just
warming up. Imaginary insects, sounds outside his door, smells drifting from under it were all fighting for places as the devil took over. A beetle with hundreds of legs, like a millipede but with a hard oxblood red and green shell, crawled up the inside of his leg. Duncan reached down and pushed it away, sending it flying across the room towards the bathroom door where it righted itself and raced back to the bed. Only this time it was bigger. Much bigger. Duncan yelled out as he watched it grow in size then sat on the bottom of his bed and laughed at him. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, leaving a lingering odour in its place. Had someone burnt something? Was the hotel on fire?
On and on they went, torments in all shapes and sizes making him cry out in distress. With his eyes tightly closed he thrashed about, sweat beading on his face and chest as the hallucinations drove on and on. Duncan was oblivious to the world around him, floating in another dimension, unable to escape the pain as the devil played with his mind for his own pleasure.
Duncan was in a hell of his own.
At 9.30 p.m., Sam texted Duncan goodnight, a short message followed by a handful of kisses. But Duncan was oblivious. In fact, he was barely conscious and lying drenched in his own sweat, the soaked sheets knotted around him. By 12.30 a.m., the worst had passed, and he rolled onto his side in the wet bed, exhausted and drifting in and out of consciousness.
He didn’t hear the light click of the lock as his door opened and two figures entered, standing in the short passageway by the bathroom door. He didn’t hear their heavy breathing; he didn’t hear or see anything – just the remnants of the devil dancing inside his skull.
They waited for any movement, for their target to call out on hearing them enter, but any sound they had made had not disturbed him. The two men ventured the short distance forward towards the bed, one with an arm outstretched holding a gun, poised ready to fire, the other man slightly back out of the way. The long shape lying in the bed was only just visible in the darkness. A long moment passed and nothing happened. The man stood still, his arm outstretched and ready to shoot. Then, at last, the man lowered his arm and Luke turned to Clinton.
