A Velvet Scream (2 page)

She had almost been deceived into believing that there had been a general thaw in her relations with Eloise right up until the moment when they had got engaged. Matthew had invited his daughter to lunch so he could break the news face-to-face. Eloise had stared sullenly at the black pearl engagement ring and scowled at her father's fiancée, unable to proffer even the most insincere of congratulations. Things had gone downhill ever since with the girl hardly even speaking to her future stepmother. Joanna smiled. Now there was a scary thought. Eloise's stepmother. It would be akin to being stepmother to the child from
The Omen
. And oddly enough, when she caught Eloise Levin glancing at her, she knew that she felt the same, that she had inherited another strapline: The Stepmother from Hell.

Joanna turned away from the calendar. Matthew was coming down the stairs, two at a time in a jerky, jumping movement. He was still wearing his dressing gown, which flapped behind him. Seeing her standing near the calendar, he bent and gave her a big smacking kiss on her lips, tasting of toothpaste and mouthwash. ‘Good morning,' he said jauntily. ‘Countdown to the ball and chain, eh?'

She turned around. ‘And whose ankle is this ball and chain attached to?'

He peered into her face and tilted her chin up so she could not hide her expression. ‘Well, traditionally, Jo,' he said carefully, ‘it is the bridegroom who is afflicted. But in this case  . . .' He turned away then but not before she had read the expression in his eyes: one of doubt and concern and hurt.

She felt awful. ‘Hey,' she said, pouring him some coffee, ‘how about you give me a clue as to where we're going on honeymoon?'

‘Not a chance.' His good humour was quick to return.

‘Not even whether it'll be bikini or fur coat weather?'

He chuckled mischievously. ‘You won't get it out of me,' he said. ‘I'm a pathologist, remember?' He grinned. ‘I'm used to keeping the secrets of the dead.'

‘And I'm a detective,' she responded, ‘used to prising information out of the toughest of characters. And I am going to winkle it out of you by interpreting clues.'

Matthew grinned. ‘Want a bet?'

She gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek. ‘Yes, I do, Doctor Levin. I bet you one whole bottle of champagne on our wedding night that I guess where the honeymoon is.'

His eyes took on a luminous look. Catlike and cunning. ‘What sort of champagne?'

‘Krug.'

‘Then you're on.' He was quiet for a moment, then added: ‘Or we could swap secrets,' he suggested. ‘You could tell me what your wedding dress is like and then I'll tell you what to pack on the honeymoon. And buy the champagne.'

Joanna made a face at him. ‘That is one secret you will not winkle out of me, except to say that I shan't be dressed as an angel without wings. In other words, all I'm telling you is that it isn't white.'

‘Well, there's a surprise,' Matthew teased. ‘Thank you for that, Miss Piercy, soon to be Mrs Levin. And now, I suppose, I'd better have my shower.'

Wednesday, 1 December. 7.45 a.m.

His hand was shaking as he pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and pressed out the three numbers.

‘Police,' he managed, then: ‘No, I mean ambulance. Please. Hurry. Please. I think.' He glanced across at the girl. She was still moaning but not conscious. Hardly moving except for shallow breaths. He didn't dare move her himself or do anything except put his coat over her. He felt helpless. He'd touched her briefly and she had felt ice cold. Practically dead already, part of the snow scene. ‘Hurry up,' he shouted into the phone before hunkering down beside her, still speaking into the mobile. ‘She's barely alive. She's freezing to death while you ask your questions. It's no use you asking me who she is. I don't
know
who she is. I don't know what to do with her. She's really cold. Yes, I have put my coat over her. I don't
know
whether she's broken anything. No, she's not bleeding.' Shand got suddenly angry. ‘I'm not a bloody doctor, you know. I'm just a guy picking up my car.'
Hung-over.

The thought was sudden and uncomfortable. He'd summoned the police, hadn't he? He'd been about to climb into his car and drive. What if he was still over the limit and they breathalysed him? He'd had a shedful last night. Bugger. His eyes drifted towards the furthest wheelie bin. Draped across it was a tiny silver skirt, shimmering in the anaemic winter sunshine, dripping as the snow melted.

Oh, hell
, was his first thought. Then:
double bugger
. And he'd be late for work. He felt like kicking the girl, not saving her life.

Bloody women: nothing but trouble. He was bound to be questioned over this and while he'd just decided to dump Claire, as he sobered up he realized he wasn't quite so sure about a life of endless mates' nights out and troublesome women wearing hardly anything but tiny, sexy, shiny skirts. Suddenly, more than anything, he simply wanted to be safe.

Joanna was looking out of the window at the snow when Matthew came tripping back down the stairs, dressed now in a pair of khaki coloured jeans and a navy sweatshirt. As he wore ‘scrubs' practically all day he only wore a suit if he was either in court, at a medical meeting (of which there were plenty), or teaching students. He was combing his still-damp blond hair with his fingers. He followed her gaze out of the window, on to the snow scene.

‘You're not thinking of cycling to work through that, Jo, are you?'

Resenting his proprietary tone, she turned away. ‘No,' she said. ‘Even I'm defeated by this weather. Not only is it slippery on a bike but there's always the chance that some mad car driver will slide right into you.'

‘Never mind,' he said, pouring himself a huge bowl of muesli and sitting down at the breakfast table. ‘In four weeks time we'll be on our way to Barbados  . . .' He waited, grinning and aiming a sideways look in her direction, ‘or Russia or Canada or South Africa or Australia or even somewhere else.' He gave her another sneaky look. ‘We might be skiing or scuba diving or sitting on a train across the Rockies or photographing the Taj Mahal. On the other hand we could also be climbing Machu Pichu or cycling across the Ho Chi Minh Highway.' He grinned at her, chewing his breakfast cereal slowly. ‘Isn't it fun thinking of all the things we
might
be doing?'

‘You,' she said, dropping into a chair opposite and cupping her chin in her palm, ‘are being very irritating and I won't know what clothes to take.'

He gave a noisy yawn and a look of mock reproval. ‘Of course, the honeymoon is conditional on my approving this wedding dress you're being so secretive about.'

Joanna had a moment of terrible doubt. Perhaps all brides do. What would he think of it? Matthew could be, at times, quite conventional. ‘Matt,' she said tentatively. ‘It's not  . . .' She paused, searching for the appropriate word, ‘the usual dress.'

He stood up then, came behind her, put his arms around her shoulders. ‘As long as it's not black.'

‘Umm.'

‘Jo,' he said, his green eyes clouding. ‘You wouldn't do that to me, surely?'

‘Umm.'

‘Well,' he said. ‘I never thought you'd turn up to the altar in the usual white meringue. But black! My parents will never forgive you.'

‘They'll never forgive me whatever I wear, will they?' She tilted upwards, putting her face close to his. He kissed her mouth. ‘Mmm,' he said. ‘Orange juice and coffee.'

It was she who broke it off. ‘Time I went to work, Matt.'

‘Mmm.'

‘And I didn't say it
was
black,' she hesitated, ‘or that it wasn't.'

She put a coat on over her skinny black trousers, red sweater and skiing jacket and gave a vengeful look at the inches of snow. Yes, it was definitely the car today, though she could have done with working off some of her anxieties with a stiff bike ride. She slammed the door behind her. Matthew wouldn't need to leave for another half an hour.

The one advantage of using the car was that she arrived at work at 8.15 a.m. and was already at her desk by the time Korpanski rolled in, which made her feel smug.

‘Morning, Mike.'

‘Hi, Jo.' He hovered. ‘Coffee?'

The phone on her desk interrupted her answer, making her jump with apprehension.

‘Piercy?'

It was Colclough. Or to give him his full title, Superintendent Arthur Colclough. He of bulldog jowls and normally paternalistic attitude towards her. Not today. He sounded like a fierce bulldog. In spite of herself, she smiled. A fierce
Staffordshire
bulldog.

‘Yes, sir.'

‘You're ready for tomorrow's hearing, I hope?'

‘Yes, sir.'

Superintendent Arthur Colclough gave a long, puffy sigh. ‘I never thought I'd see this day, Piercy,' he said. ‘I'm disappointed in you. I've always thought I could rely on you, at least, to toe the line.'

‘Yes, sir.' She deflected Korpanski's sympathetic gaze.

‘It reflects on us as a force, you know.'

‘Yes, sir.' There was no other response she could make.

‘And so near to my retirement,' he finished mournfully.

Joanna rolled her eyes at Mike. What this had to do with her dressing-down was unclear but she kept silent. He'd been threatening retirement for years.

It was one of those things, Joanna had believed, which would never happen, although she knew, inevitably, that one day it would. She felt a bit sad. She had felt affection for Colclough. He had always stuck up for her. She had been his protégée. Thinking he was being a modernist, he had wanted a woman officer in a senior position in his station. And she'd fitted the bill. But right now his involvement was costing him dear and he wanted to let her know this. So he was lecturing her like a father. Well, not like
her
father. Christopher Piercy, or Kit, as he had liked to be known, had never lectured anyone in his life. That would have needed some measure of maturity – something her dad had never quite acquired. Sometimes, when she thought about him, which wasn't often, she decided that it would have been a toss-up to discover who would grow up first: Peter Pan or ‘Kit' Piercy. She wouldn't have bet on either.

‘Nine o'clock, then. Sharp.'

‘Yes, sir.'

As she put the phone down she met Korpanski's eyes across the room. She read his gaze of sympathy but something more too. She glanced at his shoulder, still padded with a dressing. The injury was taking its time to heal. He still had to go for physiotherapy three times a week – in police time. Frances, his wife, would never forgive Detective Inspector Piercy for risking her husband's life. Joanna wasn't sure that she could forgive herself, either.

Korpanski went to fetch the coffee and put it down on her desk. ‘December,' he commented. ‘It's come round quick.'

‘Yes.'

He tried a cheery tone. ‘Not long now till the great day.'

She peered hard into her screen.

‘Jo,' he said tentatively, ‘are you sure you're doing the right thing? I mean, you're a copper. Levin's going to want some sort of—'

She spun around in her chair to challenge him. ‘Oh, you know what he wants, do you?'

Korpanski shrugged. ‘At a guess: same as any man. A wife at home, kids.' He ignored the fury rising in her eyes. ‘Well, you know what this job can be like.' He looked awkward. Korpanski was not good at expressing himself. ‘The hours are crap,' he continued. ‘It's tough enough for a man, let alone a woman. Besides  . . .' He took a long, thoughtful swig of his coffee. ‘You've answered my question, Jo. You wouldn't be so prickly if you knew you were doing the right thing.'

‘Well, thanks for that bit of philosophy,' she snapped and turned back to her screen, glaring into it, so angry she could not read a single word. They worked in uneasy silence for a few minutes. When the phone rang again it was Korpanski who took the call, listening carefully, his face a mask. Joanna stopped staring into her computer screen and watched him instead, knowing something was happening by the stiffening of his shoulders, the beefing up of the muscles in his thick neck and the raising of his tone. Finally he put the phone down and turned to her. ‘We've got a suspected rape, Jo,' he said.

‘A rape? Where?'

‘Outside the new nightclub, Patches. The girl was left for dead. Nearly died of hypothermia. She's been out there all night. It's a miracle she's survived. She was hardly wearing anything. Passed out, I expect.' Typically, Korpanski had already started to put his own interpretation on events. ‘Drunk. Perhaps drugs. Uniformed guys were called out there  . . .' he glanced at his watch, ‘nearly an hour ago. She's in Stoke hospital now, warming up.'

‘Is she conscious?'

‘Barely.'

‘Do you have a description of her?'

‘Five foot four, very slim, long, straight brown hair, brown eyes, wearing one high-heeled silver shoe and a black boob tube.' He looked up. ‘And little else. A short  . . . uniformed guys say
very
short, silver skirt turned up nearby together with the second shoe.'

‘We need to get down to the hospital as soon as possible with one of the WPCs to get a statement. Who's done rape training?'

‘I think Dawn has.'

‘Right. Bring WPC Critchlow along. We'll have to get swabs and stuff.'

She looked into Korpanski's fathomless eyes. ‘I take it this isn't one of those I said yes, I said no?'

‘We won't know till we get there, Jo, but it doesn't sound like it considering she was left out there to die. Pretty heartless.'

She thought for a moment, drumming her fingers on the desk. ‘I think we'd better go to the scene of the crime first and make sure that's being dealt with properly. Then we'll go to the hospital and see if we can get some sort of statement and some samples.'