Detective Amanda Lacey Box Set

by Linda Coles

  “I can’t do it,” he whispered. “You’ll have to do it.”

  Clinton gasped. “What? No way! Get on with it!”

  “But I can’t!” Luke’s voice was quiet and urgent as he tried to make Clinton understand.

  “Too late. Pull the damn trigger and let’s get out of here! Come on!”

  Luke turned back towards the bed and his target, who lay under the covers sound asleep. It had seemed a good idea at the time, an easy way to earn a few quid, but now as he stood in the darkened room, he wasn’t so sure. A slight movement followed by a groan from the bed made him jump. The target was coming round.

  “Get on with it!” urged Clinton. “Take him now!”

  But Luke was frozen to the spot. That was, until Duncan rolled over fully onto his back and groaned again. What Luke couldn’t see in the darkness was whether the target’s eyes were open or not, whether he was staring up at him. Oh God – perhaps he could see him. That would never do. Being identified was out of the question. It was all he needed to spur him into action. Raising the gun again, he pointed it directly at the man’s chest and fired. But his intended victim had other ideas, rolling quickly off the bed onto the floor at the far side.

  Luke had missed.

  “Shit!” he cursed. Duncan must have seen him; otherwise, why roll so quickly? There was no way he could leave the job half-finished now. It became a mad scramble.

  “And again!” urged Clinton as Luke moved like lightning and fired again at the man, who was now lying on the floor. Even with a silencer, the noise of the gunshot filled the room. It was nowhere near as quiet as he’d assumed it would be, he thought, as though from a great distance. He peered across the bed. There was no way he could have missed from such close range. Duncan lay face down, not moving and not making a sound. He had to be dead.

  Not wanting to risk the noise of a third shot, Luke shoved the gun into his waistband.

  “Let’s go!” he urged.

  Clinton didn’t need telling twice and both men bolted towards the door. Grabbing the Do Not Disturb sign as they left, Luke fastened it to the outside handle, then softly closed the door behind them. They slowed their steps now and walked briskly, as casually as they could, down the hall and into the nearby stairwell.

  Neither Luke nor Clinton said a word until they were safely in their car. They’d left it parked a little way down a side street out, of the glare of any streetlamps or cameras. Adrenaline rushed through their veins, but both men were grimly silent. Luke started the engine and moved off down the side street, away from the main entrance of the hotel, as a precaution. Clinton looked back through the passenger wing mirror for activity – lights turning on or someone outside the entrance looking, perhaps, but there was nothing. It was a good ten minutes before either of them spoke.

  “Are you sure he’s dead?”

  “Yes.”

  At least, Luke hoped so.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  He’d been shot. Duncan lay face down on the floor, a bullet hole through his right shoulder. It must have gone right through because it had pierced his hand, which had been trapped beneath him during the fall. Being shot at point-blank range stung like all hell, he realized with a strange sense of detachment, but there had been little time to do much about it. Right now, he was grateful he was still alive and breathing, though he wondered if they’d be back to finish him off. He’d heard them leave. He’d also heard them whispering earlier, or had he imagined that part?

  After a few moments, he figured it was safe to move. He tried to get himself back upright, or at least on his hands and knees, and call for help, but his head sloshed about like a wave pool and the pain in his shoulder and hand was excruciating. Nausea rolled over him again and he felt a fresh urge to vomit, but he knew there was nothing but bile left in his stomach. Everything else was on the curry house toilet floor.

  Slowly, using his uninjured hand, he managed to get himself back up on to the bed and steady himself for a moment. Blood seeped down his front from his shoulder wound and mingled with the blood from his hand. Although it was good that the bullet had exited, he didn’t hold up much hope for his hand to work properly ever again – there were likely too many small bones damaged. He knew he needed to find his phone urgently before he passed out again, but the room was also a crime scene and he was aware he could be contaminating it by moving. But he had to get help or he would die, he told himself sternly, and since he hadn’t finished with his life yet, he’d risk contaminating the scene.

  He took several deep breaths and then held the last one in his chest as he moved around the bed towards the desk. He knew he’d left his phone there earlier as he’d collapsed into bed. The pain was piercing, but he pushed through it with gritted teeth. Nothing seemed to work properly, but with his left hand, he found the table lamp and managed to switch it on. The pale lamplight felt like fire on his sore eyes and he squeezed them shut, groaning. Then, gingerly opening one eye, he spotted his phone and reached out with his good hand to retrieve it.

  His hand shook as he struggled to unlock it. Blood made the screen slippery as he punched the keyboard icon and hit 999.

  “I’ve been shot,” he told the operator. His voice sounded like it was coming from another room. He heard himself give his location and room number, asking if she might be able to locate DS Lacey or DC Rutherford from Croydon station.

  He set the phone down on the bed and activated the speakerphone. There was a whooshing sound in his ears now. Dimly, he heard the operator instructing him to put pressure on the wound. He raised his left hand and pressed it onto his right shoulder, but the blood kept flowing. Well, shit, he thought. He was grateful for the soothing comfort of the operator’s voice. She sounded kind, taking his mind off the pain as best she could. Then at last, he heard the distant sounds of the ambulance coming for him – at least he hoped it was, because he was in danger of losing consciousness again, fighting the urge to lie back on the bed and never wake up again.

  He closed his eyes and suddenly saw his girls, all three of them, dancing on the inside of his eyelids, giggling together, enjoying a game. Then Rochelle joined them, but she wasn’t dancing and giggling with them. She was off to the side, a look of concern on her face, watching Sam. What was Rochelle doing there? Then came whispered voices, a man saying he couldn’t do it, and Rochelle crying. And all the time his girls laughed and giggled and danced . . .

  He tried to open his eyes again, but Mother Nature clearly had her own agenda for him right now. He slumped back and let her take him to wherever she had planned.

  When Duncan awoke some hours later, he was in a hospital bed, wired up and bandaged up but still alive. A nurse hovered like a honeybee, working on his chart. She gave him a bright smile as he came to. His mouth felt like the bottom of someone’s old trainer, his throat raw where tubes had lain earlier. A drip was attached to the back of his good hand, fluids to ease his pain and fight off infection. He’d obviously been in surgery.

  “Good morning Mr. Riley. It’s good to have you back with us.” What a killer smile she had, Duncan thought. Then he figured he must be okay if he’d noticed that.

  Always the hot-blooded male.

  Duncan tried to talk, but his throat wasn’t working. He uttered a hoarse croak and then gave up. Instead, he matched her smile with one of his own, though not as dazzling.

  “Your throat will be a little sore, but only temporarily. Just nod or shake your head to my questions, okay?”

  One nod.

  “Are you in any pain?”

  One shake.

  “Great. You shouldn’t be. We operated earlier to stop the bleeding and stitch you up front and back, and your hand has been set, though it may take another procedure or two to get that finally fixed up. Time will tell, but you’re still with us – that’s the main thing.” Another dazzling smile. She went on, “There are a couple of detectives waiting to talk to you, but as you can’t talk at the moment, I’ll tell them to come back.”

/>   One shake.

  “Are you sure?”

  One nod.

  “All right, I’ll send them in when I’ve done with you.” She handed him a glass of water with a straw sticking out the top. “The more you can drink, the better for you.” Duncan drained the glass. God, he was thirsty. She refilled it and set it down on the side table. With a quick rearrangement of his pillows and one last smile, she left the room.

  He closed his eyes for a moment. That moment turned into half an hour, and similar visions filled his head again: Sam, the girls, and Rochelle.

  Rochelle.

  Pre-offence behaviour.

  “A spouse that has a sudden and unexplained change in behaviour towards their partner. A significant change in a partner’s behaviour can mean the partner may have already begun to plan for a change in the status quo. Textbook stuff.”

  It was like thick fog inside his head, but Rochelle’s words filtered through and started to make a modicum of sense.

  When he opened his eyes again, Jack and Amanda were stood together at the side of his bed looking at him with concerned faces. He tried again to speak, to clear the frog that was preventing him from doing so.

  “Shhhe. Wan. Mme. De.”

  Each word was laboured and slurred, but Amanda understood immediately what he was trying to tell them. Only moments ago, she had spoken to DS Rochelle Mason, who, once she’d got over the shock of the terrible news, had told Amanda a theory all of her own.

  And she was now en route.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  Jack’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. Rochelle had made the journey in record time and was standing with them beside Duncan’s bed now, her crash helmet in one hand, dressed in black leather from head to foot, catching her breath as Amanda brought her up to speed.

  Jack motioned her to one of the vinyl chairs by the bed, but she shook her head.

  “I’ve been sat down long enough. Thanks, though.”

  She gave him a strained smile, and Jack was willing to bet that, under different circumstances, it would be a knee-trembling one. He also bet she was a ball-buster; her sheer presence in the room changed the vibe from low-key to supercharged. He wouldn’t want to mess with her. He smiled inwardly, musing.

  “Jack? Jack!” Amanda was speaking to him but he hadn’t heard a word.

  “Sorry. Yes, Lacey. I was miles away.”

  “I know you were. Welcome back.” Amanda suspected exactly where he’d been. “I was saying about last night – how ill he was with his headache and what he was like when we dropped him off.”

  “Yeah, he said he was all right, needed an early night. He was looking forward to his training, so we left him at the door. I can’t believe what’s happened to him since. It’s unreal.”

  “Sure is,” said Rochelle. “Do they say when he’ll be allowed home, and has anyone told his wife yet?”

  “He’s probably only in for a couple of days, but they’re looking to move him to Manchester when it’s feasible. To my knowledge, his wife hasn’t been told yet, particularly in light of what you’ve said. Thought maybe it would be best coming from you or one of your team.” Amanda hated notifying next of kin at the best of times; it reminded her too much of when she’d had to tell Ruth’s father that his wife had died. Ruth had been too shocked and upset to tell him herself.

  “In that case, I’ll get Rick – DS Black, I mean – to go round now that I know what state he’s in. Has he said much?”

  “No. His throat is too sore yet, so it’s head nods and shakes when he’s awake. He tried to write some notes but his right hand is shattered, so that’s awkward too. He managed to say he’d been dreaming a lot, imagining things. If it was a migraine, that could be the cause of the strange visions, though that’s usually visual disturbances, not hallucinations. He didn’t eat anything at the restaurant; he was as sick as a dog in the toilet before our food came. He was really sweaty, though. I remember seeing it on his top lip before he ran for the loo.” She checked her notebook. “Apparently the hotel housekeeping had a master key card go missing during the night, so we’re assuming that’s how the culprit got access. Easy enough to garner a room number if you’re intent on getting one.”

  “He must have been ill because when we found him, the bed was soaked. I remember thinking how unusual that was,” added Jack. “Forensics are at the scene now pulling evidence together, but Amanda tells me you might have an idea who’s behind it?”

  “It’s loose, but the pieces seem to fit. I don’t think I’m making them fit. That’s why I’ll get DS Black, to go round to their house. He can watch her reaction if he knows what we’re looking for, see if it’s genuine shock or shock that he’s still alive when he shouldn’t be.”

  “Jesus, that’s rough, isn’t it? Your missus planning your demise and she’s shocked you’re actually alive when she’s likely paid good money to have you bumped. I’d like to be a fly on that particular wall.” Jack shook his head in disgust.

  Rochelle dialled a number and left the room to make the call so Duncan couldn’t hear if he woke up. Even though he’d already mentioned the possibility, she didn’t want to rub it in any further; they’d only just been discussing it in front of him.

  Amanda and Jack raised their eyebrows at each other and waited in silence. Nothing stirred from Duncan’s bed. Jack’s phone vibrated.

  “Hopefully a clue,” he said, picking up his phone.

  Amanda listened to one side of the conversation and picked up that they’d located two bullets from a Colt 45, a gun easy enough to get hold of if you knew the right people. Since nobody had heard the gunshots, the gunman would have used a silencer and that alone pointed to someone more organized. This was not a random hit, and probably not a retaliation from someone Duncan had put away, though uniform were checking recent releases from prisons in case there was someone after him.

  Then there was the strange fact that he had been shot in the back, through the right shoulder, and left for dead. Gangs, organized crime and experienced criminals tended to be a great deal more accurate – and thorough.

  So, the person or persons they were looking for were sloppy. The burning question was, who had wanted Duncan dead? Was it his wife? Or was it someone else entirely?

  A nurse stepped into the room and gave them both a disapproving look.

  “The rest will do him good, as would the peace and quiet. Perhaps you can wait in the waiting room until he wakes. He’s not going anywhere for a while,” she said. It was more an order than a request. Amanda and Jack both rose to leave, but a croak from Duncan stopped them all, the nurse included.

  “Try again, Duncan,” Amanda said soothingly, avoiding the nurse’s warning look.

  “Looook a Saam. Speak ta Saaam.”

  “We’ll speak to Sam. Rochelle is here and understands. Anything else? Did you see anything?”

  “That’s enough for now,” interjected the nurse sternly. “He must rest. Please, the waiting area?”

  Obediently, Amanda and Jack decamped to the waiting room. They met Rochelle as they moved rooms and she followed them along.

  “Rick is going round now and will inform Sam. He knows what to look for. Then we’ll take it from there. Still asleep, I assume?”

  Jack explained what had gone on and Rochelle rolled her eyes impatiently.

  “I know Duncan well, and he’d be wanting us to get on with this before too much time elapses. It must be frustrating for him if he’s aware, though he is pretty sedated.”

  “Why don’t you stay here and wait? We’ll head back to the room, see where forensics are at, ask some more questions, check footage again. We’re doing no good here.”

  “That’s fine by me,” Rochelle said. “Maybe I’ll get a cup of that horrible hospital coffee before I face Nurse Ratchett again.”

  “I’d be interested in Rick’s observation when you know,” Amanda said to her.

  “So will I,” Rochelle said, narrowing her eyes. “So will I.”
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br />   Chapter Sixty-Nine

  After the call, Rick stood for a moment, thoughtful, looking at his phone. Really? Sam a suspect? Rochelle had not mentioned anything before now, but then why would she? That was between her and Duncan, and she wasn’t one to gossip. Still, if Sam was involved somehow, they needed to find out. He hoped she wasn’t.

  “I’m off out. I’ll be back shortly,” he shouted across to a colleague, who nodded. With Duncan in hospital and Rochelle down there with him, his department was a couple short. Others were out investigating cases of their own, leaving only a couple of civilian clerks to carry on with case research in their absence. He grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair and a half-filled takeaway cup of coffee from his desk and headed outside to his BMW. He swung out of the station gates in the direction of Duncan’s home, a place he’d been to many times but not like this, not to deliver news and dig at the same time.

  His automatic windscreen wipers came on as the first signs of moisture hit the windscreen, tiny wet dots the size of pinheads glistening like diamonds. Whoosh. Whoosh. The rain increased in intensity until it was pouring heavily, bouncing off the car bonnet as he drove the few miles and parked up outside Duncan and Sam’s house. The street was a dark, sodden grey, making everything look more depressing than it was on a brighter sunny day; rain had a habit of doing that. It was like Manchester was crying at its own pain. He glanced up at the front window of the house hoping she was home, not wanting to have to psych himself up again to deliver the news later.

  Sam. He hoped this was all a big mistake. What motive had she got? What reason could she possibly have to want her husband, her loving Duncan, dead? And who had she organized to do the deed? Sam certainly didn’t mix in those circles. Maybe he didn’t know Sam at all. And maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t even involved. Maybe this whole thing was the product of an overactive imagination on Rochelle’s part. But a sudden and unexplained change in behaviour was not something to take lightly, he knew. It was a well-known ‘tell’ that something was adrift; a well-known FBI profiler had figured it out some years ago, and it was now taught as part of advanced police training. He wondered about motive again. Maybe the change was to do with something else?