Team Spirit (Special Crime Unit Book 1) (34 page)

She
said, ‘What are you thinking?’

It
was her disconcerting habit to ask very direct questions out of the blue, and
it nearly always caught him on the hop. Actually he’d been worrying whether her
choice of an armchair, rather than the settee, had been deliberate. Under the
circumstances, he was ashamed of himself for thinking it. But what
ought
he to say? He plumped for,
‘Just wondering how the soup’s doing.’

She
grinned. ‘Go find out, huh?’

He
went back to the kitchen and groaned. Buster’s idea of table manners was to
leave lumps of Felix all over the floor, and he’d excelled himself tonight as a
protest at being locked out. By the time Jeff had gathered them all up the soup
was ready. He served it up into bowls and onto trays and carried it through.
True to form, Buster had sat on their guest’s chest and was purring at her
adoringly.

‘Hop
it, you.’

Buster
jumped down and went over to the fire.

‘He’s
lovely,’ Jasmin said.

‘Happen
his breath isn’t,’ Jeff grumbled, remembering the kitchen floor.

‘I
don’t mind.’ She brushed ginger fur off her sweater.

Jeff
looked admiringly at his cat. ‘You’re in there, mate.’

She
giggled and tasted her soup.

‘OK?’

‘Great!’
She paused and qualified it. ‘Maybe less pepper.’

‘You’re
probably right. It’s only ‘cause I like pepper.’

‘Your
mom taught you to cook?’

‘Not
really. It’s just I found, living on my own, a constant diet of fish and chips,
Chinese takeaway and frozen bung in the oven stuff palls a bit after a while.
So I started teaching myself.’

Jasmin
said, ‘I cook a lot also. Where I live, often the kitchen with the stove on is
the warmest place in the house.’

Further
talk seemed unnecessary as they set to eating, and thinking. With the soup
finished there was a short, awkward spell; then, as is the way of things, they
both started at once.

She said, ‘Jeff, I have to - ’

He
said, ‘I was wondering - ’ He stopped. ‘Go on,’ he said, anxious.

‘I
have not forgotten the other night,’ Jasmin said.

‘Me
neither.’

She
gulped. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Jeff. It was... great. Beautiful, a beautiful
thing. And now I don’t know the answer, what it means.’

‘You
were lonely,’ Jeff said. ‘Why I was there, remember?’

‘I
guess it seems kind of like I have been avoiding you since.’

He
shrugged. ‘We’ve been flat out, with what’s been happening.’

‘It’s
not that. Ach, maybe it is.’

‘Aye.’
He frowned. ‘I mean when you think Nina must’ve been lying there bleeding half
to death while we were - ’

‘Falling
in love?’

The
words were out. She felt her face go warm.

‘What’s
going on?’ he said.

She
brushed a hand across her eyes. ‘I don’t know what is right or wrong. Maybe
until I’ve figured that out...’

She
stopped, peering at her lap. Jeff thought hard. She was alone in a foreign
land, living on the breadline, a cold dank room for shelter, no respite in
immediate view. Small wonder a thing so unexpected, unplanned, should throw her
into a morass of uncertainty. He understood - he thought - her need for space.
Yet as he saw it she was, by her words, leaving the door ajar. He could wait.

He
said, ‘You want to cool it?’

She
nodded gratefully. ‘You don’t mind?’

‘No,’
he said, hoping he meant it.

‘You
are very special, Jeff.’ She looked up and smiled in a way that made his heart
pole vault. ‘Let it be our secret, OK?’

‘Aye,’
he smiled, ‘OK.’

Surprisingly,
the idea held great appeal.

He
gathered up the dishes. ‘Get you owt else? Coffee, cocoa, Horlicks? First class
ticket to the Bahamas?’

She
yawned.

‘You
don’t need Horlicks,’ he chuckled.

‘I
am fine.’

‘Right.’
He snapped out of the catatonic trance he’d momentarily been in, realised he
was standing there with the empty bowls, and took them out to the kitchen. When
he came back she was asleep again, Buster tucked under one arm.

A
yawn caught him and he looked at his watch. After half one. He reached out to
Jasmin, then hesitated.

It
was a quandary. She looked very peaceful. And he didn’t want her to go.

He
reached a decision. He went upstairs and made up the bed in the second bedroom
where his parents stayed on the rare occasions they came down for a visit. He
fetched his spare winter duvet from the airing cupboard, took it downstairs and
gently placed it over her. Then he wrote a note, downed the fire, turned on the
standard lamp and put out the main light. As he was on his way out she stirred
and made a noise, making him turn; but she was pulling the duvet higher over
herself and the somniferous Buster. He grinned, and went to bed, sweet thoughts
of Jasmin Winter filling his dreams.

When Mrs
Stephenson, tearful, had left them alone, after the fifth time of asking,
Juliet felt exhausted. Lucky was in for a hard time. Her mother plainly didn’t
believe her story, wouldn’t even accept having left a window unfastened. Magda
Stephenson came from a culture which attributed blame first to the woman, and
the circumstances surrounding the rape weren’t going to change her mind easily.
She was bewildered because she could not reconcile what those circumstances
told her with her daughter’s obvious hurt. She hadn’t said as much, but Juliet
was afraid she thought Larissa had prostituted herself, and would voice that
allegation the first moment they were alone. But that, Juliet was determined,
wouldn’t be tonight.

They
slept as lovers might, cradled together spoonlike, Juliet’s arms linked round
Lucky’s waist like a safety harness. Lucky had complained of being cold but now
her body radiated heat like a furnace. Juliet sighed deep and long, trying to
cool down but not daring to move away.

‘You
asleep?’ Lucky’s voice made a ripple in the gloom, just a table lamp standing
sentinel against the night.

‘No.’
She couldn’t see her friend’s face, just the back of her head, black hair
bunched up against the nape of her neck like unwoven silk. Under her hands
Juliet could feel the rise and fall of her breathing, uneven, disturbed.

‘Feels
weird,’ Lucky said, ‘having somebody in bed with me.’

‘You
don’t mind?’

‘Don’t
be silly.’ She put a hand over Juliet’s and squeezed. ‘Reminds me of Guide
camp, me and Julia sharing a sleeping bag.’

‘I
never knew you were in the Guides.’

‘Must
be where my uniform fetish comes from.’ Suddenly her shoulders shook. ‘Oh,
fuck, I’m so confused.’

Juliet
let her cry for a while, then spoke. ‘
That’s
why.’

Lucky
twisted her head in a vain attempt to look at her. ‘What?’

‘Barkeley’s,
you having a go at Nina’s husband, banging on about how men treat women. I
thought you were talking about him and Nina but you weren’t, were you?’

‘No,’
Larissa said, sniffing.

‘The
other night,’ Juliet said, ‘you know Kim? She was as bad as me at first, really
freaked. You were the one who kept your head, got me to go for help, did CPR
and all that. I think you saved Nina’s life. You were absolutely brilliant.’
She hugged her closer. ‘I told you so afterwards. I couldn’t figure out why at
the time but you said, “I don’t know any more.” D’you remember?’

‘No.’

‘Well,
you did. God, you must’ve felt so fucked up.’ She realised what she’d said and
winced. ‘Everybody else in a flat spin and you just calmly take charge. Like
you’ve been trained for. And then...’ She shook her head, feeling tears coming.
‘You poor cow. No wonder you’re confused.’

‘Don’t
you start,’ Lucky said, hearing the tremor in her voice. She craned a hand back
and patted Juliet’s hip, which was all she could reach.

She
sighed.

‘
I
dunno.’

Juliet
didn’t either.

Wednesday

This was the first
night she hadn’t felt the need for something to help her sleep, so worn out was
she from the physical and mental effort involved in keeping pain at bay. They
kept insisting so she’d glared at Nurse Aziz until she relented and halved the
dose. Now she was out, wandering somewhere in the endless, empty telescope
corridors of the hospital. Everything was dark, apart from a few emergency
lights casting blurry shadows that shifted and changed shape in the draught.

Something
made her stop and turn. Suddenly, out of the black chasm of an unexpected
doorway, two hideous monsters, devilish vampire demons so horrible that her
eyes, though seeing every detail, failed to form an image her brain could
interpret without sending itself mad. They lunged at her rooted to the spot,
unable to escape: she could only watch, detached as, slavering fangs and teeth
like jackknife blades, one of the creatures bit into her breast with a tearing
of flesh, a cracking of bone, and came away with her pulsing, still living
heart in its jaws, leaving a geyser of blood, cherry red, spewing from the
wound.

An
intense light. Hammers in her chest. Unhealed wounds screaming with the agony
of the tormented. A strained, tired face, square, unshaven, hair receding,
discoloured bruise around one eye, darkly visible against a plain white
ceiling.

‘What?’

‘Don’t.
Just don’t say anything. Bad dreams. All over. Just rest. OK?’

‘OK.’

The
grasp of clammy hands. A tablet in a small plastic cup. Rest. Silence.

From the doorway
Magda Stephenson said, ‘It’s your boss.’

The
moment the doorbell had rung Lucky had known who it was. It didn’t occur to her
to prepare for the possibility that by ‘your boss’ her mother might mean
Coleridge, or (ha!) the Commissioner, or still more likely Inspector
Applewhite, the man Mrs Stephenson had known as her daughter’s boss up until a
fortnight ago. She let slip a resigned sigh and said, ‘OK, Mum.’

The
visitor came into the room.

‘Hello,
guv,’ Lucky said.

‘Hello,
Larissa,’ Sophia Beadle said. She turned a polite blue stare on Lucky’s mother,
who was clutching the open door. ‘Mrs Stephenson, would it be possible for me
to talk to Larissa alone for a little while?’

‘I’ll
be all right, Mum.’

‘Sure,’
Magda said frostily, drawing herself up. ‘Since I am excluded from my own daughter’s
life, why not?’

‘Mum!’

‘It’s
all right,’ Sophia said. ‘If you’d rather stay...’

She
waited. Magda softened. ‘Tea. Would you like tea, chief inspector?’

‘Thank
you,’ Sophia smiled, with a wink at Lucky. It was a compromise. Tea would
remove Mrs Stephenson for a vital few minutes, but not permanently. The DCI
watched her go and accepted Lucky’s offer of a chair. She eased her bulk down,
testing it for gauge. She said, ‘How are you?’

‘A
friend stayed the night,’ Lucky said. ‘She’s gone now. Had to work.’

The
non-answer didn’t seem to faze Sophia, who smiled wryly. ‘I’m not supposed to
be here.’

‘Guv?’

‘Mr
Summerfield’s the SIO, by order of the AC.’

‘Let
me guess,’ Lucky said, ‘I haven’t seen you, right?’

Sophia
smiled. ‘I’m here,’ she said, ‘but without my warrant card. Understand that. As
far as I’m concerned my responsibility for my officers’ welfare extends beyond
the office.’

‘I’m
not sure,’ Lucky said.

‘Not
sure?’

‘That
I do understand.’

Sophia
looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘There’s a lot we don’t understand,’ she said
gently, noncommittally.

Lucky
looked away.

‘Larissa,’
Sophia said, ‘why didn’t you tell anyone?’

It
was the question she’d been dreading. She stalled. ‘About what?’

‘You
carried on for a fortnight without giving the slightest hint of what you were
suffering. Why, Larissa?’

Up
until half a minute ago, she’d had an answer to that question. Now she just
shook her head.

‘I
haven’t been to the office yet,’ Sophia said, ‘but when I get there I fully
expect to find a memo from somewhere on high, the AC or Professional Standards,
suggesting you return to Gipsy Hill. I know Mr Applewhite would love to have
you back. Help him talk down a few more suicides.’

‘Stop
it,’ Lucky said.

‘I
thought so.’

‘Even
without all this shit,’ Lucky said, suddenly angry at her guv’nor, ‘I failed to
report a crime, right? What price my career?’

‘I
told you the memo would be a suggestion,’ Sophia said. ‘No more than that.’

Lucky
stared at her.

‘I
had the DI, Helen Wallace and Kim Oliver on the phone one after the other last
night. They all know a good copper when they see one, and none of them want to
lose you over this. I’ll be disappointed if I don’t get similar feedback from
the DCs.’

‘Serious?’

‘Zoltan
told me as far as he’s concerned, if you go Prosser’s won,’ Sophia said. ‘He’s
been interviewing him.’

Lucky
felt faint. ‘I thought you said - ?’

‘DCI
Summerfield may be in charge,’ Sophia said, ‘but remember Prosser’s still in
the frame for half a dozen other assaults, and if anyone’s going to nail him
it’ll be Zoltan.’ Lucky stiffened and Sophia saw it. ‘Do you still want to
press charges?’

‘What
happens if I don’t?’

‘Then
Zoltan’s right.’

She
felt light-headed. To her great annoyance, she realised she was crying again.
‘I really thought - ’ She swore and grabbed for a tissue. Sophia waited. ‘It’s
not such a big deal now,’ Lucky sighed. ‘But it was my first day. I hadn’t even
had a chance to prove myself, and that bastard...’

‘Do
you really feel any different?’

‘What
about the disciplinary?’ She felt a sudden rush of despair. ‘I was
investigating my own rape, for fuck’s sake!’

‘Is
that true, though? You honestly didn’t make the connection?’

‘It
was the MO.’

‘MOs
change,’ Sophia nodded.

‘Don’t
I fucking know it?’ Lucky felt like laughing. It was an uncomfortable, frightening
feeling. ‘Lesson one in the detective handbook. What a fucking way to learn.
I’m swearing too much. Sorry, guv.’

‘It’s
your home. Swear all you want.’

‘So...?’

‘No
discipline board.’ The DCI smiled. ‘I can promise you that. There are plenty of
morons who might think you merit one, but no-one wants to be seen as that much
of an arsehole.’

Barely
daring to, Lucky looked her in the eyes.

‘If
I have to move heaven and earth,’ Sophia said, ‘you’re staying in Special
Crime.’

‘Really?’

‘As
Zoltan might say,’ she shrugged, ‘“you want it written in blood?”’

Lucky
found herself smiling. The guv’nor was human after all. She giggled and wiped
the corner of one weeping eye with a fist. ‘Only I think I might be one of the
morons.’

‘What
do you mean?’

‘How
can I do the Job when I can’t defend myself?’ Lucky said. ‘Next time it
mightn’t be just me. Next time somebody else could get hurt because I froze.
It’s very nice of everybody to back me up but I can’t be a passenger and I
won’t.’

Sophia
looked at her for a long while before answering. ‘Kim told me about when you
found Nina, what you did. That wasn’t the act of a passenger.’

‘Oh,
I get blood on me so I’m a hero?’

‘Larissa,
I didn’t make DCI because of my looks.’ Sophia paused and for a giddy moment
Lucky was tempted to put in an appropriate response. ‘And I didn’t appoint you
as a trainee for yours.’

‘I
was paralytic drunk!’

‘Not
so paralytic you didn’t know what you were doing. If you were going to freeze,
the alcohol would just have made you do it quicker. But you didn’t. Nor did you
freeze at the top of that television transmitter.’

‘I
know
.’ Why did people keep saying
these things? Did they think it helped?

‘You
were a copper on both those occasions,’ Sophia said. ‘They were both
unsettling, even frightening situations, but you kept your cool and dealt with
them. I doubt you even stopped to think about it.’

Lucky
hugged herself and shook her head.

‘But
up in your room,’ Sophia said softly, ‘the rules were different. You weren’t
doing the Job. Prosser wasn’t attacking the uniform. He was attacking
you
. You were in your own home, a
place where you should have been, well, safe as houses. You had a shock - a
very personal shock. I’m not sure
I
would have kept my head.’

Lucky
tried to stare at the guv’nor, but more tears were brimming, blurring her
vision like hard rain on a windscreen. Which was ironic, because inside, for
the first time in two weeks, she could feel the first faint, warm glimmer of
sunlight.

Zoltan looked up to
see Summerfield crossing the canteen. He carried two mugs of coffee and placed
one in front of him.

‘Saw
yours was empty,’ he said half apologetically, sitting opposite. He pointed.
‘Funny thing to have for lunch.’

‘What
is?’

‘Kippers.’

‘It’s
lox,’ Zoltan said.

‘Oh.
Course. Forgot. You’re, er...’ The DCI thought better of whatever he’d been
about to say. Zoltan took the coffee without thanks and sipped.

‘Will
you be sitting in this morning?’

‘Yeah,’
Summerfield said. ‘Got anywhere yet?’

‘He’s
still adamant.’

‘What
about?’

‘More
or less everything,’ Zoltan smiled. ‘Stonewalling like his life depends on it.
He knows I’m holding back about Larissa Stephenson, keeps throwing her into the
conversation himself, like it’s a big joke.’

‘Will
he cough?’

‘Probably
not.’ He pushed his half-finished plate of smoked salmon away from him and
leaned back. ‘He’s not denying he did any of the rapes. He’s just not saying he
did them either. Makes it difficult for us to pin him down to anything.’

‘Bastard
thinks he’s clever,’ Summerfield growled.

‘How
much longer should we try?’

The
DCI looked at his watch. ‘Thirty-six hours is up, when, two? Give it till then,
cut our losses and charge the little shit. We’ve got enough to throw at him.’

‘I
want to get him for Larissa.’

‘Think
I
don’t?’
Summerfield glared and for once Zoltan blinked. ‘Just with her statement, the
way she handled it, I don’t think we can.’

‘If
we can link her to the others...’

‘Yeah,
if
. Bastard
changed his MO so we couldn’t. Just wish I knew why. Why he didn’t take
anything this time. And more to the point, I wish I knew how he could be so
fucking cocksure she wouldn’t report it.’

‘He
did take something.’

‘What?’

‘Same
thing he took from Miranda Hargreaves, and Mrs McMinn, and all the others.’
Zoltan took off his glasses and wiped them with a cloth he’d taken from his
pocket. ‘He took their spirit.’

Summerfield
watched him replace his glasses and waited for him to continue.

‘Miranda
Hargreaves’ life was and is music,’ Zoltan went on. ‘Jeff Wetherby’s report,
music and musical instruments all over her house. I’ll bet you it was the same
back when she received the visit from Bayliss and Pegley. It was obvious what
was important to her. Bayliss realised that and took the flute.’

‘Her
most valuable musical item,’ Summerfield scowled.

‘Mrs
McMinn, in a sense, he destroyed her whole life. Didn’t matter that she was
ninety, fragile, in her twilight years. He was going to assault her anyway.’

‘And
Stephenson?’

‘Uniform,’
Zoltan said. ‘Hanging up in plain sight. Commendations on the wall. He raped
her anyway. Wanted her to know her status as an officer of the law mattered
nothing to him.’

Summerfield
nodded. ‘None of which gets us a conviction.’

‘If
only jurors possessed my deep psychoanalytical genius,’ Zoltan said
sardonically, and took another gulp of coffee as an indication that he was
about to change the subject. ‘How are you getting along with the Albion Street
haul?’

‘Twelve
complainants going back over six years, we’ve got either a positive ID on the
property or a strong possible from photos.’

‘Twelve?’

‘Tip
of the iceberg, you ask me.’

‘How
much other stuff is there?’

‘Twenty-one
bits and pieces from the loft and the garage,’ Summerfield said. ‘Mostly
phallic in some way. Chances are there’s more stashed somewhere else.’