DEAD AND

GONE

An utterly gripping, edge-of-your-seat crime thriller

SHERYL BROWNE

DI Matthew Adams Book 2

Originally published as Sins of the Father

Revised edition 2025

Choc Lit, London

A Joffe Books company

www.choc-lit.com

First published in Great Britain in 2017 as Sins of the Father

© Sheryl Browne 2017, 2025

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The spelling used is American English except where fidelity to the author’s rendering of accent or dialect supersedes this. The right of Sheryl Browne to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems. In accordance with Article 4(3) of the Digital Single Market Directive 2019/790, Joffe Books expressly reserves this work from the text and data mining exception.

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Cover art by Nebojša Zorić

ISBN: 978-1781898246

CONTENTS

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Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Thank You

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Discover More Books By Sheryl Browne

Also by Sheryl Browne

The Choc Lit Story

Glossary of English Usage for US Readers

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I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Professional Book Reviewer at Breakaway Reviewers, Rony G Cambell, who not only believed in me, giving After She’s Gone an outstanding review, but convinced me to believe in me too.

Thank you for the pep talk, Rony.

For you and all those friends and family who have cheered me on.

Chapter One

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Matthew studied his foster daughter thoughtfully over his wine glass. She was still shy, retreating under her curtain of hair whenever she felt embarrassed or nervous, but Ashley had grown into a beautiful young woman. She wasn’t entirely confident in company yet, but that would come. Thanks to the counselling sessions, which he and Becky had made damn sure Ashley had attended after the kidnapping, she finally seemed comfortable in her skin, which she was revealing plenty of on the dance floor. The last thing Matthew wanted to do was play the heavy father and try to dictate what she wore, but he couldn’t help wishing she was wearing a little more of it.

Glancing around, he noted more than one or two blokes eyeing her up as she moved sensually to the music. Late teens, early twenties most of them, Matthew had absolutely no doubt what would be going on in their testosterone-fuelled minds.

Berating himself, he took a sip of his drink. He really needed to stop doing this. He was getting paranoid, imagining every male who came near her was a threat. Too many years on the force, he supposed. Too many years seeing young girls falling prey to perverts. He’d never forgiven himself for what happened with Patrick Sullivan. Matthew closed his eyes, attempting to shake his head free of the image of the pimping, drug-pushing piece of scum, down on his knees, begging for his miserable life, swearing he hadn’t touched Ashley or his wife. Hadn’t touched them? Matthew swallowed back the bile the memory brought to his throat. Even realising he was on the wrong end of his own shotgun, Sullivan hadn’t been able to resist digging the knife in, twisting it, claiming the ‘accident’ that had previously taken the life of their innocent five-year-old daughter had only meant to be a warning. He’d engineered it, the bastard. In prison at the time, he’d pulled strings, murdered Matthew’s child, and he’d made damn sure he knew it.

Knocking back the contents of his glass, Matthew tried to oust the sour taste from his mouth. He could still hear Sullivan’s taunting voice now, dishing out his own brutal brand of mental torture as he’d held them captive. Oh dear, is that a little wheeze I hear, Adams? He could feel the constriction in his chest, the heart-crushing hopelessness as Sullivan had kicked away his asthma meds. See his wife, petrified, pregnant, the rope cutting into her flesh, the livid bruising around her neck. He could hear the shot. Like a thunderclap in his head, night after night, it exploded, ear piercing, final. Matthew had tried to put it behind him, pretending to everyone that he had, but still the nightmares came, relentlessly, staccato images looping around in his head like sick movie stills. Desperately trying to claw his way back to consciousness, Matthew would feel the cold steel of the shotgun slide icily across his cheek, hear Sullivan’s calculated malevolence as he’d delivered his death sentence: Payback time, Matthew. Comprendre? The words ricocheted around in his head until they drove him halfway insane.

The corpses would follow then, a succession of sordid, stomach-churning snapshots searing themselves onto his brain: the young girls he hadn’t been able to prevent Sullivan squeezing the life from. Broken bodies, eyes vacant, opaque and empty. Limbs fractured and at impossible angles. One shoe taken and replaced with a single red stiletto.

Incomprehensibly, the man had had a daughter around the same age as those girls. Matthew had never been able to get his head around how Sullivan had reconciled his conscience when he’d obviously doted on his daughter. Whatever Sullivan had been, as deranged as he’d been, to Taylor Sullivan her father had been everything. Something else Matthew would never forgive himself for was the part he’d played in her eventual suicide. Now, distractedly watching the girls on the dance floor, he couldn’t help but wonder again how devastated, lonely and desperate she must have been to have deliberately thrown herself in front of a tube train.

‘Hello, earth to Matthew.’ Becky appeared in front of him, cutting his meandering thoughts short.

Forcing himself back to the present, Matthew blinked and focussed on his wife, on her smile, which always reached her beautiful aquamarine eyes when she smiled at him, and wondered again what she saw in him, why she’d stayed with him, when he’d been the cause of all the pain she’d been through. Try as he might to ‘forgive himself’ and ‘move on’ with his life, as the police psychiatrist had urged him, Matthew simply couldn’t. Walking out of one session, when the woman had insisted on raking over old coals until he’d wanted to scream, he’d eventually gone back, determined to tick all the right boxes in order to be able to carry on with his job. He’d listened to what the psych had to say, which on the surface made sense, yet made no sense at all. And then, scraping through his evaluation, he’d washed his hands of it. The recommended further counselling wasn’t going to help. How could it? There would never be a day when he didn’t regret not telling Becky he knew in his gut it had been Sullivan who’d orchestrated the hit and run that had taken their first daughter away. That he’d suspected that Sullivan, who’d borne a hatred of him since childhood simply by nature of the fact that he was a copper’s son, had been determined to seek retribution for the death of his drug dealing brother, along with other perceived sins against him — that is, Matthew doing his job and trying to rid the streets of the piece of scum. His hands had been tied, tied by the law, ironically. With no proof he’d had any involvement in the ‘accident’, Sullivan had walked away. Walked out of prison, which had been his cast-iron alibi, as free as a bird to do what he liked to whom he liked. He’d wanted to destroy Matthew. He’d chosen to kill him slowly by torturing his family. He should have warned her.

‘I’ve been trying to attract your attention.’ Becky held up two drinks, non-alcoholic for her, as she’d volunteered to do the driving. Another wine for him, which he should really decline if he was going to live up to his promise to himself not to indulge too much, given his previous love affair with the bottle. He doubted Becky would be encouraging him if she knew he’d just downed his previous glass in one gulp.

‘Sorry.’ Matthew mustered up a smile. ‘Miles away.’

‘I gathered.’ Becky gave him a knowing look. ‘Do you want to share?’

Matthew quickly shook his head. ‘It’s nothing,’ he assured her, not wanting to drag her down bad memory lane with him.

Narrowing her eyes, in that way she did, which told Matthew she was on to him, Becky sighed. ‘Hmm?’ she hummed, obviously not convinced.

Matthew averted his gaze. His worries were his to cope with, not hers. She’d already had enough worry to last a lifetime.

‘Not spoiling the view, am I?’ Becky asked after a second, nodding over her shoulder, towards the dance floor.

‘Well, if you could just move slightly to your left.’ Matthew gestured with a finger.

Becky arched her eyebrows. ‘Do you want to drink this, DI Adams?’ she asked him, looking suitably po-faced. ‘Or wear it?’

‘Drink, I think. Red will clash with my tie.’ Promising himself to go on to soft drinks after this one, Matthew smiled and reached for his glass. He was sure Becky knew him well enough to know he wasn’t ogling. ‘That’s a bit short on material, isn’t it?’ He nodded towards the girl Ashley was dancing with, who was wearing a dress the size of a postage stamp and who actually looked vaguely familiar, though Matthew couldn’t place when or where he might have met her.

Becky followed his gaze. ‘It’s a sheath dress, the height of cool, apparently,’ she informed him, coming to stand by his side.

It was certainly that. The dress seemed to be moulded to the girl’s every curve, and what little there was of it was more see-through lace than dress. His gaze drifting back to Ashley, who looked as if she could do with taking a break and rehydrating, Matthew took a slow sip of his wine this time. His predilection when he was worried was to go back to his old habits and drink too much, and the murder scene he’d been called out to recently had definitely given him cause to worry: a young girl, Caucasian, a street girl possibly, but not one known to Matthew. An abject feeling of failure washing over him, as it always did when one of these girls turned up bruised and beaten, raped or worse, Matthew had viewed the body and experienced an acute sense of déjà vu. Face down, head twisted to one side, her eye sockets had been purple and swollen, her nose broken, her lip split. He’d noted the ligature marks on her neck, meaning death had probably been from asphyxiation, with a growing sense of foreboding, but what really shook him was when he’d registered the missing shoe.

‘Coincidence, boss,’ his former detective sergeant, who still insisted on calling him boss, had assured him when Matthew had rung him. Aware of everything he’d been through, was still going through, Steve was the one person Matthew felt safe confiding in. Shot while on unofficial duty trying to cover Matthew’s back when his DCI and most of his colleagues had turned theirs, labelling Matthew obsessed with Sullivan, Steve hadn’t judged him. He’d simply done what the man did instinctively and been there for him. Still, he didn’t judge him. He wasn’t slow to point out his paranoia, however. ‘Apart from the red stiletto, I agree it’s a similar MO,’ he’d conceded, ‘but there are always going to be similar cases, aren’t there?’

He’d paused, and Matthew, sick to his gut though it made him, had known there always would be, and that every single such case might remind him. Still, though, he’d been uneasy.

‘Sullivan’s dead, boss,’ Steve had gone on in that gruff, blunt way he did. ‘Let it go, yes, or you’ll drive yourself nuts.’

Which is precisely what Matthew was doing, obsessing, when he was supposed to be relaxing and enjoying himself at a wedding. Also in danger of doing what he’d just cautioned himself not to and anaesthetising himself with booze. While he was proud to be a copper and a ‘chip off the old block’, he’d no intention of following his father’s road to self-destruction, which his old man had seemed hell-bent on when he was forced out of the police. He’d watched his sister start down that route too, before he’d finally convinced her to go to rehab and stay there. It hadn’t been pretty.

‘She is gorgeous, though, isn’t she?’ Becky nodded towards the girl, who was definitely attracting admiring glances. Matthew noticed the male audience at a nearby table nudging each other and all but drooling into their lagers.

‘Very,’ he replied, looking back to his wife, who was most definitely gorgeous, particularly in her also revealing short dress, which showed off her shapely legs to perfection. From her fabulously wild hair, tamed for the evening, but which she normally wore tumbling down her back in all its fiery auburn glory, to her freezing cold toes, he loved every inch of her. Could quite fancy kissing every inch of her in fact, now he came to think about it, though possibly not here.

‘But not as beautiful as you, Mrs Adams,’ he assured her, relieved they’d managed to kiss and make up last night after a stupid argument about nothing. Not nothing in reality, though, Matthew knew. Becky had wanted him to stick at the counselling. She broached the subject again when he’d woken in a cold sweat beside her, urged him to confide in her what was haunting him so violently in his sleep. Matthew had brushed it off, but Becky wasn’t buying it. He was shutting her out, making himself emotionally unavailable, she’d said, clearly hurt by his inability to talk to her. He was. Matthew was aware that was what he seemed to be doing, though he desperately didn’t want to. He’d almost lost Becky once because of his tendency to withhold information he considered would do her more harm than good. But how the hell did he share what was concerning him now without dredging up painful memories for her?

Oblivious to his deliberations, Becky eyed him amusedly. ‘Flatterer.’ She laughed.

Self-effacingly, Matthew noted, amazed at her ability to laugh at all, given what she’d been through. Her complete lack of pretentiousness. She didn’t deserve to be ‘shut out’. But then she didn’t need any more worry heaped on her shoulders. He would talk to her. He’d have to, somehow. But not tonight.

‘Will it get me anywhere?’ he asked hopefully, pushing his worries aside for now and threading an arm around her waist.

Becky snuggled into him. ‘Depends on what you have in mind, Detective.’

Matthew traced the jut of her hip and then allowed his hand to stray around back and just a little bit lower. ‘Everything,’ he whispered, close to her ear. ‘I want to take you home and do terrible things to you.’

Chapter Two

‘He’s good-looking, isn’t he, your dad?’ Jasmine observed as they came off the dance floor and headed to the bar.

‘Yeah, not bad.’ Ashley looked past her to where Matthew and Becky were now seated at a table talking to the mother of the bride, one of Becky’s old friends whose daughter was also a girl Ashley and Jasmine knew from college, who’d decided on pregnancy as a career option.

‘Not bad at all.’ Jasmine gave him a coquettish little wave, as Matthew glanced in their direction.

Matthew smiled and waved back and Ashley tried not to mind that her female friends tended to get the hots for him. Matthew was okay. He didn’t stray, Ashley was pretty sure of that. Nor would he ever. He’d been through the worst kind of crap, losing his daughter, then almost losing Becky. He’d taken everything that sadistic freak Sullivan could dish out to save Becky and her. He’d lied for her. Matthew had almost lost his job because of all that had happened, and his mind. Ashley had heard him, shouting out in his sleep, knew he still had nightmares. They’d all struggled in the aftermath. She certainly had with all the schizophrenic shit they’d labelled her with, determined that the voices she heard were all in her head. Ashley still wasn’t convinced about that. Matthew had been there for her though, made her go to all her appointments. Ashley was glad he had. She hadn’t known how to handle it at first, having two parents who actually cared, where she’d only ever had a mum too drunk to notice she existed. Ashley hadn’t seen her since the day she’d walked out in search of a quick fix and never come back.

Matthew fostering her out of the blue had saved her from the bullying too, physically and emotionally, confiding in her he’d been bullied as a child too. By that sick freak Sullivan she’d eventually realised. ‘I might look as if I can hold my own, but I’ve been there, too,’ he’d told her as she looked at him, struggling to understand how, at five foot eleven and fit, he could ever have been a victim. ‘They’re cowards, Ashley,’ he’d said. ‘Bullies pick on people to shore up their ego in front of their friends, that’s all. It’s their problem, not yours.’

Ashley reckoned there weren’t many men who’d risk their macho image admitting to that. Matthew was different though, like all the stuff he’d had to deal with had made him more caring. He was all right in Ashley’s book, one of the good guys. He loved Becky more than his own life. He’d proved that. It would take them a long time to heal completely, but Becky and Matthew had been stronger as a couple since little Mia had been born. Ashley was glad for them, that they’d managed to have another daughter of their own. She couldn’t help wishing she’d had Matthew for a father when she was little, but she had him now, and he was more like a father than an uncle anyway, and that was pretty cool.

‘Come on, let’s go and join them,’ Jasmine suggested, her gaze firmly on Matthew over the straw she was sipping contemplatively on.

Here we go, Ashley thought. The girls at school had done the same, gone all wilty when they’d clapped eyes on Matthew. Good job Becky knew him well enough to know he simply wouldn’t go there. ‘Okay.’ She sighed and collected her drink from the bar. ‘I wouldn’t waste your time with the fluttery eyes though, Jasmine. Matthew and Becky are solid.’

‘Are they?’ Jasmine raised a neat eyebrow. ‘He’s still in love with her then?’ she asked incredulously, as if it was impossible for a man to stay in love with one woman.

Well, it wasn’t. Unusual, yes, Ashley agreed. Miraculous probably, but he was. ‘Very,’ she assured her.

‘Good,’ Jasmine said, setting forth, leaving Ashley to trail confusedly after her.

I don’t trust her, said the little voice in her head. Emily, as ever. Ashley had been really upset when she’d died and she’d lost the only person she could talk to in the care home. Now, she couldn’t get rid of her. She wasn’t going to listen to her about Jasmine though. She’d known her for almost a year now. A mature student, she was four years older than Ashley, a complete tart, but a good laugh. More importantly, she was a friend, someone to do normal things with. With everyone thinking she was weird, Ashley hadn’t had many proper friends.

Jasmine stopped halfway to the table. ‘Oh no, here he comes.’ She groaned, glancing at Ashley and then nodding towards a guy from college who was heading towards them. ‘My ardent admirer.’

‘Aww, don’t be cruel. He worships the ground you walk on,’ Ashley admonished her as Connor slowed his walk to a saunter. He was trying to look cool, Ashley guessed by his laid-back demeanour. As if he wasn’t desperate to upgrade his status to boyfriend, rather than someone Jasmine used when she felt like it.

‘I know.’ Jasmine sighed expansively. ‘I don’t mind him worshipping me, but he’s a bit, you know, over keen, isn’t he? Like a stray dog. And let’s face it, he might be okay looking, but he’s not exactly the sharpest tool in the box, is he?’ She rolled her eyes and, bitchy though Jasmine was being, Ashley couldn’t quite suppress a smile. Actually, Connor was like a stray dog. He’d been besotted with Jasmine since she’d enrolled, following her around everywhere, even changing his modules to gaze wistfully at her from across the room.

‘I’m a bit busy, Connor,’ Jasmine said as he approached, making sure to give him that saccharine sweet smile she did, which actually did keep him keen for when she wanted him at her beck and call: to hand in her assignments when she couldn’t be arsed to do it herself, provide a taxi service for her, buy her lunch . . . ‘Ashley’s about to introduce me to her parents,’ Jasmine went on as Connor’s face fell. ‘I’ll catch you after, yes?’

Connor immediately brightened. ‘Oh, right. Cool. I’ll get you a drink in then, shall I? Vodka tonic?’

‘Perfect.’ Jasmine blew him a kiss.

‘Cool,’ Connor said again, clearly delighted. ‘Later then.’ He indicated the table he was sitting at, blushed as Ashley gave him a despairing look, and about-faced.

‘Are you going to join him?’ Ashley asked Jasmine, perplexed. Hooking up with Connor at a wedding reception was bound to send out wrong signals to the poor guy.

‘Dunno. Depends.’ Jasmine examined her nail extensions.

‘On?’

‘On whether I get a better offer, obviously.’ Jasmine headed onwards, wiggling in all the right places, all male eyes trailing after her, Ashley noticed. She couldn’t blame the guys. Lithe, tanned, long blonde hair down to her bum, boobs that arrived before she did and in that dress, Jasmine would probably fuel many a male student’s fantasy tonight.

‘You are so cruel,’ Ashley hissed, making sure Connor was a fair distance away. She was cruel where Connor was concerned, but boy, he really did set himself up for it sometimes.

‘Treat ’em mean . . .’ Jasmine shrugged, unperturbed.

‘Keep ’em over keen. Yeah, I know. It’s working.’

‘Hi, Mr and Mrs Adams.’ Jasmine stopped at Matthew and Becky’s table, smiling and extending her hand. ‘I’m Jasmine, a friend of Ashley’s.’

‘Rebecca.’ Becky smiled back, shaking her hand. ‘Lovely to meet you, Jasmine. That’s a beautiful dress.’ She indicated the dress Jasmine was barely wearing.

‘Thank you. It’s Lipsy,’ Jasmine supplied. ‘I do love Lipsy. They always fit so well, don’t they, Ash?’

‘Um, yes,’ Ashley obliged, though actually she preferred her own dresses with a little less cleavage spilling over.

‘I’m not sure they’d fit me that well,’ Becky said doubtfully, no hint of bitchiness as she looked Jasmine over, because Becky was like that, nice and completely unbitchy, which is why Ashley had immediately liked her.

‘Rubbish. You’ve got a fantastic figure.’ Jasmine smiled a wide, ultra-white smile. She was looking at Matthew though, Ashley noted.

‘That’s what I keep telling her.’ Smiling back, Matthew got to his feet and extended his hand. ‘Nice to meet you, Jasmine.’ Looking at her curiously, he cocked his head to one side. ‘Have we, er . . . ?’

‘Met before? Yes.’ Jasmine seemed delighted at that. ‘Fancy you remembering. We didn’t even speak. You came to a call out at a friend’s house,’ she enlightened him. ‘Ages ago.’

‘Ah, right.’ Matthew nodded. ‘Well, lovely to meet you again, Jasmine.’

‘Likewise,’ Jasmine said, leaning in to plant a kiss on his cheek. ‘I’ve heard so much about you, Matthew. I’m so excited to be able to meet you properly.’

‘You are?’ Matthew looked perplexed, as Jasmine, looking definitely excited, beamed him another smile and then skirted around him to plant herself at their table. She was staying then, Ashley gathered, seating herself next to Becky.

‘A real live detective inspector.’ Jasmine sighed wistfully.

‘Well, I was last time I looked.’ Shaking his head, as if bemused by her enthusiasm, Matthew glanced at Ashley.

Jasmine furrowed her brow. ‘Sorry?’

‘Alive,’ Matthew clarified.

‘And he has a sense of humour.’ Jasmine’s sigh this time was almost orgasmic.

At which, obviously unperturbed by Jasmine’s blatant flirting, Becky exchanged amused glances with Ashley.

‘You’re so lucky, Ashley,’ Jasmine gushed on.

‘I know.’ Ashley curled a lip. ‘I have to pinch myself sometimes, I really do.’ Honestly, what was she like, simpering all over him? She couldn’t wait to see her face when Matthew failed to be captivated by her charms.

‘So what’s it like?’ Jasmine asked enthusiastically, resting her chin on her hands and looking at Matthew with obvious adulation.

What was this, Ashley wondered, her bag a sugar-daddy technique?

‘Detecting, I mean. Catching the baddies,’ Jasmine elucidated when Matthew looked blank. ‘Exciting, I bet.’

‘Er.’ Matthew glanced from Ashley to Becky, uncertain. Then, obviously catching the amused glances, he looked quickly down. ‘Sometimes,’ he said, scratching his forehead with his thumb. ‘Mostly, it’s legwork though, tedious stuff.’

‘Oh,’ said Jasmine, now looking disappointed. Evidently she’d been expecting Matthew to preen and regale her with tales of his heroics. Matthew wasn’t like that, though. He’d once told Ashley that whenever a situation called for heroics, it usually meant someone got hurt. He tended not to go into the detail and he absolutely never shared anything that might cause Becky to worry unless he had to.

‘You do lots of undercover work, though, I bet,’ Jasmine pushed determinedly on. ‘You know, investigating crimes in less than salubrious places, mixing with the underworld, mingling with the lowlife?’

Matthew looked uncomfortable at that. ‘Some,’ he answered evasively.

‘Have you ever been tempted?’ Jasmine asked him, and left it hanging.

Matthew scanned her face warily. ‘To?’

‘Take bribes?’ Jasmine said, blinking innocently. ‘You know, look the other way? Or drugs? I mean, it must be hard to avoid if you’re trying to infiltrate a drugs ring or something, pass yourself off as a user or dealer. I bet you’ve been propositioned by sex workers, haven’t you? I bet that happens a lot.’

Clearly wary now, Matthew narrowed his eyes. ‘Yes, occasionally,’ he answered honestly. ‘I don’t do much undercover work though.’

‘I won’t ask if you succumbed,’ Jasmine said, with a wink in Becky’s direction, causing Matthew to laugh incredulously and Becky to almost choke on her drink.

‘Have you ever wanted to set someone up?’ Jasmine fired off another question as they attempted to recover themselves. ‘When you knew they were guilty, I mean, but couldn’t—’

‘What?’ Matthew stopped her, now staring at her thunderstruck.

‘Oh hell, sorry.’ Jasmine obviously noted the look. ‘Sorry, Mrs Adams.’ She smiled apologetically at Becky. ‘I didn’t mean to be so direct. It’s for research, you see. I’m writing a book. A thriller.’

‘Ah.’ Matthew nodded, his expression somewhat relieved.

Ashley watched him carefully. He was trying to compose himself, she could see, but that question was bound to have hit a raw nerve. ‘Fitting him up’ was exactly what that freak Sullivan had accused Matthew of, amongst a million other imagined things. Ashley could still see the malevolence swimming in his evil black eyes as he’d pressed the shotgun menacingly to the base of Matthew’s skull and calmly informed him it was payback time. He hadn’t pulled the trigger, he’d raised the gun instead, slamming it down against Matthew’s shoulders, again, and again, so hard Ashley had been sure she’d heard bones crack.

‘I see.’ Matthew managed a tight smile, as Ashley looked disbelievingly between them. ‘Well, Jasmine, I’m not sure how much detail I can actually give you, protocol, you understand, but I’d love to help you out if I can. Why don’t you give me a ring sometime?’ he suggested, reaching for his phone.

Bad move, Ashley thought worriedly, noting Becky shooting him a disapproving look.

Matthew missed it, unfortunately. ‘Do you want to let me have your number and I’ll text you mine?’

‘That would be brilliant.’ Clearly ecstatic, Jasmine quickly supplied her number. ‘Do you mind if I ask one more tiny question?’ she asked as he keyed it in.

Looking apprehensive, Matthew checked his watch. ‘Actually, I think we’re just about to—’

‘Have you ever killed anyone?’ Jasmine asked bluntly. ‘Only I wondered how it felt. What went through your mind,’ she went on, obviously oblivious to Matthew visibly reeling.

Matthew dropped his gaze and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. ‘I, er . . . I’m not sure this is the place to discuss work, to be honest, Jasmine.’

Looking back up, he glanced at Ashley quizzically, as if wondering what this woman was all about. Ashley was beginning to wonder too. What was the matter with her? Had she been popping pills, or what?

‘Oh, right, sorry,’ Jasmine apologised again. ‘It’s just it would really help. You know, to get a point of view from the horse’s mouth, so to speak. My protagonist’s a policeman, you see, and he shoots this man and—’

‘I think it’s time we relieved the babysitter,’ Becky interjected forcefully, planting her glass down on the table. ‘Ashley, do you want to finish up your drink?’

‘I’d better go,’ Ashley said to Jasmine, shooting her another curious glance, as Becky got to her feet. ‘You have company anyway.’ She nodded towards Connor as he approached the table.

‘Jas?’ He smiled uncertainly. ‘You coming, or—’

‘Shit!’ Looking startled, which surprised Ashley, Jasmine shot to her feet before Connor had got the words out of his mouth. ‘Yes, coming. Sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you waiting,’ she said worriedly, unbalancing her chair and almost falling over her feet in her haste to be gone.

Didn’t mean to keep him waiting? Connor? He who she dangles mercilessly on a piece of string? Ashley stared gobsmacked after her, as Jasmine skirted around Connor — timidly? — and then flew through the reception room towards the foyer.

Looking as baffled as she felt, Matthew glanced after Connor, who’d immediately followed her, and then turned to Ashley. ‘What the hell was that all about?’

‘I have no idea,’ Ashley assured him. Drugs. Had to be. Jasmine was being freakily weird. And since when had she met Matthew before? This was the first Ashley had heard of it.

Chapter Three

‘What the hell were you playing at Connor?’ Jasmine hissed angrily, once they were outside.

‘What?’ Bemused, Connor furrowed his brow. ‘When?’

‘Back there!’ Jasmine splayed her arm across the car park in the direction of the hotel. ‘Coming over all possessive boyfriend, embarrassing me in front of everyone!’

‘I wasn’t.’ The furrow in Connor’s brow deepened. ‘I didn’t mean to. I was just wondering—’

‘If you’re going to play macho man, Connor,’ Jasmine baited him, purposefully, ‘why don’t you try bloody well living up to the image for a change?’

Connor was now very perplexed, the gormless look on his face evidence of that.

‘Shout at me,’ Jasmine challenged him.

‘Do what?’ Connor did a double take.

‘I said shout at me.’ Jasmine stepped towards him, jabbing him in the chest with two sharp-tipped fingers. ‘Argue back, why don’t you? Stand up to me.’

‘But . . . why?’ Connor stared at her, his look now a mixture of incredulity and bewilderment.

Jasmine sighed exasperatedly, wondering what she could do to get him to retaliate. Whatever she dished out, the idiot just took it. ‘Because you want to.’

Connor just stared at her, as if she’d lost it. She would, too, in a minute. She hadn’t got time for this. ‘No, I don’t,’ he refuted, that wounded puppy-dog look in his eyes that he wore whenever she hurt his oh-so-delicate feelings, which she did often. A smile and a flutter of the eyelashes, though, and he was soon back in the palm of her hand, where she wanted him. Six foot tall, stacked, and dim-witted, Connor was going to come in very useful. As Ashley had observed, he was totally besotted with her, meaning he was pliable. At least he would be until he’d got what he wanted. And if he was going to get into her knickers, he’d better give her what she wanted.

‘Oh, stop being such a wimp and man up, can’t you, Connor?’ she snapped. ‘I need an alpha male, someone who knows what he wants and doesn’t take any crap, not someone who follows me around like a little lapdog.’

Clearly crestfallen, Connor glanced down. ‘I don’t,’ he said, looking back at her, a flash of humiliation in his eyes.

Not enough, though. Jasmine needed him to be good and angry. Furious enough to fight back. She would have to sleep with him if she was going to offer him incitement in future to do as he was told, when he was told, but right now she had no choice but to goad him into it — and, if she was going to grab the opportunity to set her plan in motion, she had to do it fast, before Matthew Adams and his rusty-topped brainless wife appeared. Still loved her, did he? Rock solid, were they? Jasmine would soon see about that.

‘Yes, you do,’ she scoffed, deciding a full-frontal attack on his manhood might be her only way forwards. ‘Everyone knows it. Your so-called friends at college are staggered you’d take so much shit from a girl. Fight back, why don’t you? Don’t just stand there and take it.’

Connor’s answer to which was to do exactly that, stand there mutely, looking at her as if she’d just ripped the ear off his favourite teddy bear.

Jasmine folded her arms, eyeing him despairingly while she debated her next move. ‘You can’t, can you?’ she said eventually. ‘You have absolutely no idea how to assert yourself, do you?’

Connor’s humiliated gaze flicked down again and then back to hers.

‘Oh, forget it, Connor,’ she said tartly. ‘I want a man, not a wimpy little limpdick.’

At which Connor’s gaze darkened. Finally, Jasmine thought, quashing her irritation.

‘I bet you can’t even get it up, can you?’ She trailed a derogatory gaze the length and breadth of him, pausing momentarily at the appendage in question. ‘Hannah was right about you, wasn’t she? You don’t have a clue what to do with it, do you?’ Referring to his former girlfriend, who Jasmine had actually barely spoken to, she rolled her eyes demonstratively. ‘What a loser. The girls are just going to love this.’

Jasmine felt his hand on her shoulder, as she turned away, his grip firm, that of a man whose delicate ego had been severely undermined. At last, she thought. What did it take to rattle him, a freaking express train?

* * *

‘Well, that was all a bit weird,’ Rebecca commented as Ashley and she headed toward the foyer ahead of Matthew, who’d been waylaid by someone determined to impart their unimpressed thoughts on local policing.

‘Too weird,’ Ashley agreed moodily.

‘I think Matthew thought he was under interrogation.’ Rebecca kept her tone light. She didn’t want Ashley to think she was annoyed by Jasmine bombarding Matthew with questions, but, actually, she was. The girl had been like a dog with a bone, determined almost to rattle Matthew in some way. ‘Is she normally like that?’ she asked, wondering again how long Ashley had known her.

‘What, a complete tart, you mean?’ Ashley muttered. ‘Or stupid?’

‘Ashley?’ Rebecca gave her an admonishing glance. ‘I thought she was your friend.’

‘She is. Or I thought she was. Why would she do that, though? Act like a complete airhead, fluttering her eyelashes and simpering all over Matthew? And you’d think she’d have told me she was going to barrage him with questions, wouldn’t . . . ouch . . .’

Trailing off with a wince, Ashley stopped walking and glanced down at her feet. ‘These flipping shoes are killing me,’ she moaned, and then, huffing, she paused to unbuckle stiletto cuff sandals Rebecca would get vertigo standing up in, let alone dancing in.

Mission accomplished, Ashley straightened up and padded on, a shoe in each hand and looking definitely po-faced. Rebecca hid a smile. She looked more herself like that, truculent, feisty, defensive of Matthew. Ashley had bonded with Matthew immediately, amazingly. Matthew hadn’t even known of Ashley’s existence until, having finally re-established contact with his sister, she’d announced she’d had a child and been unable to care for her. She’d been trying to reach out, Rebecca had suspected, but belligerently, of course. Blaming everything and everyone for her situation bar her addiction to alcohol.

They’d still been grieving then, each in their own private hell, raw with the pain of losing their own daughter. In going to see Ashley at the care home they’d known they would be making a commitment and had worried in light of their own grief whether they could truly provide the sort of parenting a troubled teenager might need. Once they’d met her though, there’d been no going back. Rebecca recalled how her heart had swollen with pride for her husband as she’d watched him quietly gaining the trust of a frightened young girl, who’d looked so utterly lost. He’d used all his wiles, mind. His sense of humour, self-deprecating nature and winning smile could charm the birds from the trees. Rebecca was all too aware of Matthew’s obvious attractions, which more than the odd female over the years hadn’t been impervious to either. No, it hadn’t been the obvious flattery and fluttery eyes that had bothered Rebecca. The questioning though?

Had Ashley confided in Jasmine, she wondered, though Rebecca doubted it. She might only be Matthew’s foster daughter, his niece by birth, but the two were like peas in a pod when it came to opening up. Plus, Ashley had looked surprised when Jasmine mentioned she and Matthew had met before, so they obviously hadn’t had any in-depth conversation about him. Still, though, it was almost as if Jasmine had a pre-prepared list of questions aimed at prising open wounds not yet healed. They’d survived their ordeal, but the scars were still there. Not visible in Matthew’s case. Despite his promises not to, he’d buried his pain, closed himself off, just as he’d done after the car accident that took Lily away. An ‘accident’ that was engineered, Rebecca had learned from the foul mouth of their persecutor, words that she’d thought would kill her as surely as the noose he’d looped around her throat would.

Matthew needed to be in control of his emotions in order to function in his job, Rebecca knew that. A job she’d secretly wished he hadn’t gone back to. But even after all they’d been through, the deep remorse Matthew suffered because he’d kept information from her, misguidedly trying to protect her, still he would treat her as if she were made of porcelain sometimes. Rebecca wasn’t. If anything she’d been made stronger, determined her family would stay intact. She was scared for Matthew, angry with him, too, for not seeking the help it was obvious he needed, obvious to her anyway. She so wished he would see that in bottling things up, he was erecting walls between them again. She knew he was riddled with guilt, plagued by nightmares. Rebecca understood. How could she not? Even now, three years later, her skin would crawl as she recalled Sullivan’s clammy soft palms sliding the length of her thighs. Sometimes, perhaps reminded by a waft of overpowering cologne, she could still smell him, a pungent mixture of stale whisky, cannabis smoke, and sickly-sweet aftershave, see his goading eyes, cold, unyielding, unfeeling, as black as molasses and swimming with pure evil. He’d used her as bait, she and Ashley both. He’d known Matthew would come. It had been Matthew he’d wanted. He wouldn’t have killed him until he’d beaten him sufficiently though, tortured him mercilessly. Rebecca had nightmares too, dreams so real she’d wake from them terrified, and each and every time she did, Matthew would hold her, comfort her. He would never seek comfort though, almost as if he needed to punish himself. Waking drenched in sweat, as he had last night, he would generally disappear to the bathroom, shower, and come quietly back to bed. He wouldn’t sleep. Being reminded of their horrendous experience all over again this evening wouldn’t help him to sleep tonight, that was for certain.

‘Is she an airhead?’ Rebecca asked, though she hated the connotation that beautiful and blonde equalled stupid. She was well aware that Ashley had struggled to make friends in care, bullied because she was ‘different’, but Jasmine seemed an odd choice, given Ashley’s no-nonsense attitude.

‘Not if the grades she gets in her assignments are any indication,’ Ashley supplied, still looking miffed.

‘Oh, right. Her book should be worth reading then. Is that what she’s doing for her final assignment?’ Rebecca asked, thinking she was making too much out of this. Jasmine’s questions might all have been perfectly innocent, if a little near the knuckle. She was on a creative writing course, after all.

‘No. That’s what I don’t get.’ Ashley shook her head and scraped back her hair, which somehow always gravitated to her face. ‘She’s writing a stage play. She’s already submitted her outline and had her first one-to-one. I just don’t get it.’

‘Get what?’ Matthew asked, catching up with them, as they reached the hotel exit.

‘Jasmine.’ Ashley sighed. ‘Sorry about that, Matthew. If I’d known she was going to grill you I wouldn’t have brought her over.’

‘Don’t worry about it, Ash.’ Matthew wrapped an arm around her and gave her shoulders a reassuring squeeze. ‘She was only—’

‘Giving you the third degree,’ Becky supplied.

‘Yeah, she was a bit.’ Matthew furrowed his brow as he pondered again the girl’s line of questioning. He still couldn’t place where it was he’d met her. Must have done, though, he supposed. ‘It’s not a problem,’ he assured her. ‘It happens all the time, people wanting the gory details. No harm done.’

‘And lusting after you.’ Becky slid him an amused glance, as he leaned past her to push open the exit door.

‘Like I say,’ Matthew sighed stoically. ‘Happens all the time.’

‘Ooh, modest, as well as irresistible,’ Becky imparted facetiously as he nodded her on ahead of him.

Ashley laughed as he gave her a neat bow and nodded her on too. ‘And courteous with it.’

‘A fine specimen of manhood, obviously,’ Matthew couldn’t resist.

Becky eyed the skies. ‘Obviously.’

‘Ye-es. Perfection personified, I’d say,’ Ashley added to his list of growing attributes, rolling her eyes as she walked past him. ‘Careful you don’t get your head stuck in the door on the way out.’

* * *

‘You two do my ego the world of good, you know that?’ Matthew’s mouth twitched into a smile as he came down the steps after them.

‘So, would our white knight like to fetch the car, since we have a damsel in a state of undress?’ Becky asked him, turning back. ‘Assuming you have only had two drinks that is.’

‘Sorry?’ Matthew glanced at her, and then, concerned, past her, to where a couple appeared to be arguing.

Becky indicated Ashley’s naked feet. ‘Ashley’s new shoes have crippled her and mine are on their way to doing the same.’

‘Oh, right, yes. Will do,’ Matthew answered distractedly, his attention still on the young couple whose argument was becoming extremely animated. ‘What do you think’s going on there?’ he asked, nodding across the car park towards them.

Becky followed his gaze. ‘Lovers’ tiff?’ she suggested.

‘Must have been one hell of a tiff,’ Matthew observed, wincing as the girl screamed at the guy to piss off and leave her alone. ‘Isn’t that Ashley’s . . . ? Hell!’ Instinct propelled him forward as the guy yelled back, calling her a complete effing bitch. It wasn’t the choice of words he was using that had Matthew intervening though. Couples argued. That was a fact. It was none of his business, particularly when he wasn’t on duty. A bloke laying into a woman, however, Matthew considered that was his business, on duty or not.

Bloody hell. He lunged forwards as the guy’s second blow hit hard. Seeing the girl crumple, Matthew saw red and was on the bastard in an instant.

‘Don’t,’ he warned him, grabbing the guy by the scruff of his neck, as he leaned over the girl, and yanking him upright.

‘Get off!’ The man struggled. ‘I hardly touched her!’

‘Oh, well, that’s all right then, isn’t it, you cowardly piece of shit!’ Definitely irked now, Matthew wrestled the guy into a neck hold, reached for his right arm and locked it high up his back.

‘She made me!’ the guy wailed.

That did it. His temper now dangerously close to the surface, Matthew forced his arm a fraction further. This species made him sick to the pit of his stomach, bullies who picked on people who were weaker than they were. And then tried to justify it? The worst was, they actually believed they were provoked in some way. Contemptible specimens, they were a breed on their own. Tugging in a terse breath, Matthew worked to dismiss an image which assailed him out of nowhere: Sullivan, a vicious bastard even in his youth, looming over him, mercilessly putting the boot in.

‘She did!’ The guy’s voice went up an octave, as Matthew groped for his other arm. ‘She hit me first. She . . .’

Matthew tuned it out. Tried hard to tune out Sullivan’s goading voice. She has nice breasts, your wife. Full and ripe. I like them like that, don’t you? Cat got your tongue? Or do you need a minute, Adams, is that it? Take your time, Matthew, just like you did when you were a shit-scared, snivelling little kid. And then I’m going to make you watch. Comprendre?

Leave it, Matthew warned himself, wondering why the hell he couldn’t. Looking towards Becky, who was now crouching down by the crying girl, he attempted to concentrate on what was happening in front of him, rather than what was going on in his head.

‘Come on, Jasmine,’ Becky said, folding her into her arms and helping her to stand. ‘I’ve got you. You’re all right.’

At which, Jasmine only cried harder. Leaning into Becky, she got shakily to her feet, choking back the sobs and tugging her dress down, trying to protect her modesty.

Bastard. Matthew clamped hard on his jaw. ‘You’re nicked,’ he grated, close to the man’s ear. He was way too close to losing it, he realised, and giving this cretin, who was a head taller than the girl and wouldn’t look out of place on the rugby field, a taste of his own medicine.

‘No! Don’t,’ Jasmine intervened tearfully. ‘I don’t want to press charges. It was my fault.’

What? Incredulous, Matthew snapped his gaze back to her.

Ashley’s expression was also disbelieving, as she stepped towards her. ‘Jasmine, I don’t know what was going down here,’ she said, looking bewilderedly between her and the guy, ‘but you can’t just let him . . . Ouch!’ Her face screwed up in pain, Ashley ground to a halt and gingerly lifted one foot.

‘Oh no . . . Ashley?’ Seeing a thin trickle of blood, Becky moved towards her.

‘I’m fine,’ Ashley assured her, dragging her hair from her face and bending to examine the damage. ‘Broken glass,’ she supplied, with a sigh. ‘It’s not deep. Look after Jasmine.’

‘Oh God, I’m sorry, Ash.’ Jasmine looked, stricken, from Ashley to Matthew. ‘Please don’t arrest him,’ she begged, wiping a hand shakily under her nose. ‘I don’t want to press charges. I just want to go. I want him to go!’ She glared at the guy, who Matthew had still got a hold of, and who he was very reluctant to let go of.

‘But Jasmine?’ Ashley shook her head, uncomprehending. ‘You have to press charges. He hit you.’

‘I don’t want to!’ Jasmine shouted, a fresh bout of tears brimming. ‘I just . . .’ Trailing off, she wrapped her arms defensively about herself and dropped her gaze.

And Matthew’s heart sank. She wasn’t going to give a statement. If he had a pound for every woman who was too scared to give evidence against a man who talked with his fists. Sighing inwardly, he debated. He could do him for causing an affray?

‘Please.’ Jasmine looked desperately towards him. ‘I just want to call a taxi and go home.’

Loath though he was, Matthew drew in a breath and relaxed his grip. ‘Go,’ he spat angrily, dropping the guy and pushing him forwards.

Stumbling, Connor righted himself and turned to glance nervously back at Matthew, and then at Jasmine.

Her gaze hit the floor again fast, Matthew noticed. She was probably too petrified to even look at the bastard in case it was the wrong kind of look. ‘Move!’ he yelled, causing the guy to jump out of his skin. ‘And, trust me, if I see you so much as bad-mouthing a woman ever again, I’ll do you on any and every conceivable charge I can find. Understand?’

The guy nodded, swallowed as Matthew eyeballed him furiously, took a step backwards, and then turned and ran. Coward. Matthew wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and went immediately over to check on Ashley.

‘I’m all right. It’s just a bit of glass,’ she assured him as he examined the wound.

‘You’ll need to go to the hospital,’ Matthew told her, noting it was a small cut, but deep. ‘It might still have glass in it. Better to be safe.’

‘Nah, I’m fine,’ Ashley attempted to brush it off. ‘I’ll bathe it when I get in and stick a plaster on it.’

‘You’re going, Ashley,’ Matthew insisted, his tone brooking no argument. Despite appearances, at seventeen, she wasn’t an adult and sometimes heavy parenting was called for.

‘I’ve called a taxi,’ Becky said, waving her mobile. ‘It’s on its way from a nearby drop-off. I’ll ring the babysitter and take Ashley to the hospital. You make sure Jasmine gets home. Okay?’

Giving him a meaningful glance as she steered a still sniffling Jasmine in his direction, Becky nodded over her shoulder, to where the guy had disappeared like greased lightning.

Matthew got the drift. Make sure she’s okay, she meant, and try to change her mind about pressing charges. No chance. Despairingly, Matthew took the car keys Becky offered him. It was clear from the way she’d reacted when this Connor bloke had approached her at the table that the girl was terrified of him. Matthew wasn’t surprised. Sick to his stomach, but not surprised.

‘Come on, Jasmine.’ He forced a smile, despite his despondency. ‘Let’s get you home safely.’

Chapter Four

Matthew pulled up in front of the private apartment block Jasmine indicated was hers.

‘Will you be all right?’ he asked her, concerned still.

She hadn’t said much on the journey. Matthew would like to have found out where it was they’d met before, but guessing she wouldn’t be up for idle chat, he didn’t push it. He’d noted the finger-shaped bruises on her shoulder as he held the car door for her, which meant this sort of thing had probably been a regular occurrence. One she’d felt powerless to do anything about and would therefore be beating herself up over now, humiliated, ashamed. Christ, these prats masquerading as men had a lot to answer for.

In answer to his question, Jasmine nodded, too quickly, taking a breath as she did. Matthew read the body language, unconvinced. More so, as she glanced worriedly towards the apartments and seemed reluctant to reach for her door handle.

‘You live on your own, I take it?’ he asked her.

A nervous nod of the head this time. Her boyfriend really had done a job on her, hadn’t he? Curtailing his anger, Matthew made a mental note to check this Connor guy out.

‘Does he have a key?’ he asked, though he’d already assumed he must have. Why else would she be scared witless? And she was. Matthew noticed the downcast eyes, the fingers fidgeting with the hem of her dress, another bruise on her thigh.

‘Yes,’ she said, in a small voice. ‘I asked him for it back,’ she said, glancing quickly at Matthew and then away, ‘but . . .’

Figured. Matthew despaired inwardly. The guy was the type: nice to her, protective of her probably, until he’d wheedled a key out of her, parked his feet under the table and decided he owned her. What the hell had she been thinking? Matthew’s practised eye told him she might be a few years older than Ashley, but still she was way too young to be shacking up with someone like this Connor bloke.

Despairing of himself now, Matthew pulled himself up. It was none of his business. She’d obviously been taken in by him. Probably imagined herself in love with him. They were clever bastards some of them, oozing charm on the outside. Behind closed doors, though . . .

Suppressing a sigh, Matthew checked his watch. He should text Becky, find out about Ashley and let her know the state of play. Going inside with the girl alone wasn’t a smart move. He really should call in and enlist the help of a female police officer, but Jasmine was as likely to agree to that as she was to give a statement.

‘Do you want me to come in with you?’ he asked. ‘Make sure it’s safe?’

‘Would you?’ Jasmine glanced hopefully at him. ‘It’s just I’m the only resident at the moment. There’s someone moving into the apartment opposite next week, but . . .’

‘Give me one second.’ Matthew gave her a reassuring smile and reached for his phone. ‘I just need to check on Ashley and let Rebecca know where I am.’

Clearly relieved, the girl turned and smiled back. ‘She’s nice, your wife,’ she said. ‘Kind. I like her.’

‘Yeah.’ Matthew’s smile widened. ‘Me too.’ He keyed in a text: Checking out the property. Back asap. Hope Ash OK. Kiss Mia for me. Matthew then reached for his door and went around to help Jasmine out. He prided himself on his detecting skills but how girls walked in six-inch heels he would never fathom.

‘You’re not flat sharing then?’ he asked as they walked towards the apartment block.

‘No, it’s just me,’ she said, her eyes darting left and right, no doubt looking for signs of the boyfriend.

Who would have plenty of places to hide in, Matthew noted, if he was hanging around here. He turned his attention to the apartments, located not in the usual student type areas, as he’d expected, but on a new landmark development of luxury two-bedroom apartments bordering open parkland and woodland. Way too secluded for Matthew’s liking.

Must have cost a bob or two, he reckoned, noting the motion sensitive lighting and plush carpeting as they entered the communal hallway. ‘Nice property,’ he commented, wondering at Jasmine’s circumstances.

‘Thanks.’ Jasmine offered him a small smile, as they stepped into the lift. ‘I bought it with my inheritance. I thought it would be a good investment.’

‘Inheritance?’ Matthew’s natural instinct was to probe further. She was well spoken, he’d already noted, no particular accent. Her family background must be reasonable if she’d inherited. Still he couldn’t place her, as in when and where he might have run into her.

‘My parents,’ Jasmine supplied. ‘Well, my dad. Mum died when I was five. Cancer,’ she elucidated, glancing down. ‘I lost Dad three years ago.’

‘Christ, sorry,’ Matthew offered his sincere condolences. ‘How did he . . . ?’

‘Hit-and-run,’ Jasmine said, smiling stoically now and pulling in a huge breath.

Keeping a lid on the emotion, Matthew guessed. He knew all about that. ‘Sorry,’ he repeated, quashing an inclination to reach out to her. ‘That’s really hard.’

Her gaze flicked curiously to his.

‘I lost someone under similar circumstances,’ he explained.

‘Oh?’ She scanned his face.

‘My daughter,’ Matthew supplied, not sure why he was confiding stuff around the loss of Lily; he rarely did, except . . . the worst thing about that kind of pain was how utterly alone you felt with it. At least he’d had Becky. This girl possibly had no one, which might explain more why she’d hooked up with the dickhead of a boyfriend, someone she’d misguidedly thought might care for her. Plus, despite her outwardly confident appearance on the dance floor, she now looked lonely and vulnerable, and much younger than the make-up and clothes might convey.

‘Oh, how awful.’ Jasmine turned to search his eyes. Hers, striking electric blue, were wide with sympathy. ‘How old was she?’

Matthew glanced down, one hand automatically going to his temples, trying to still the flashback that would haunt him forever. His own daughter’s eyes, summer blue and once wide with the innocence of childhood, filled with pain and confusion, silently pleading, begging him, her daddy, to fix things as he’d cradled her in his arms. He hadn’t been able to fix it, to stop the lifeblood seeping from her impossibly tiny body. Feeling a familiar constriction in his throat, Matthew took a deep breath. ‘Too young,’ he said, once his emotions were safely in check.

‘I’m so sorry.’ Jasmine did reach out a hand, lightly brushing his arm.

‘It does get better,’ Matthew assured her, forcing a smile. Physical intimacy with a vulnerable young woman whilst alone in a lift definitely wasn’t a good idea, he reminded himself. ‘The pain never goes away, but it does get better.’

She smiled and nodded. ‘It’s a relief to be able to talk to someone, to be honest,’ she said, facing front as the lift stopped. ‘You know, without them looking awkward, I mean. People never really know what to say, do they?’

Yep, Matthew had been there too. ‘You talked to Ashley though, presumably?’ he asked, noting that Jasmine had stepped cautiously out as the doors opened, scanning the corridor as she did. The bastard had her scared of her own shadow. Matthew felt his jaw tighten afresh. What he’d give to have five minutes alone with this tosser, Connor. Unfortunately, wiping the floor with cowardly scum wasn’t something police protocol would allow either.

‘Ashley is probably the only one I can talk to.’ Jasmine threw him a brighter smile over her shoulder, as she led the way to her door. ‘She never says much about herself though. She certainly never mentioned you’d lost your little girl.’

That would be Ashley, Matthew thought, a closed book unless you prised information from her, which is why he’d been baffled when Jasmine’s questioning intimated she had knowledge of his personal circumstances, information regarding his dealings with Sullivan, some of which he wasn’t proud of. Coincidence, Matthew reassured himself, echoing Steve’s advice. They had been pretty standard questions, the sort of questions you might ask a policeman if you were writing a book, he supposed.

‘I’ll go in first, shall I? Make sure the coast is clear,’ he suggested as she hesitated at the front door.

She breathed out a sigh of relief and turned to drop her keys into his hand. ‘Thank you. I’m sure it will be fine, but . . .’ She stopped and shrugged uncertainly.

‘Best to be safe,’ Matthew assured her, pushing the key into the lock and trying to figure out what his next move should be. He couldn’t hang around all night, but she was scared, obviously with good reason. The fact that she was alone in an apartment building with nothing but open space around it concerned him.

* * *

Unsuccessfully trying Matthew for the umpteenth time, as they waited in hospital reception, Ashley sighed and pulled her phone away from her ear. ‘Do you think he should have gone home with her?’ she asked Rebecca, voicing her concerns for Matthew over again. ‘Shouldn’t he have called for backup or something?’

Rebecca eyed her amusedly. She understood why Ashley worried about him. How could they not worry about each other after all they’d been through? Even Matthew had taken to saying, Yes, Mother, though, when she nagged him, asking him if he had his asthma inhaler every morning without fail. Rebecca didn’t mind Ashley doing that in lieu of her. She did wish she wouldn’t worry quite so much, however. It was almost as if she was frightened that one day Matthew would go out and not come back. Rebecca couldn’t blame her for that either, given the nature of his job. She worried herself, every single day. Ashley’s reasons ran deeper though. Having been abandoned by her own mother, she seemed convinced that they would abandon her too. Rebecca so wished she could help Ashley let go of her ghosts and be as carefree as a teenager should be.

‘Backup? What, in case your friend tries to seduce him?’ she asked, attempting to lighten things a little.

At which, Ashley knitted her forehead into a scowl.

‘Doesn’t give Matthew much credit, imagining he’ll succumb to some young girl fluttering her eyelashes at him, does it?’ Rebecca suggested. Matthew was no saint. She’d caught him glancing at the odd passing attraction. Much as she would, to be fair, if a good-looking hunk of eye-candy sailed by.

‘I’m not saying he’d succumb.’ Ashley dragged her hair from her face. ‘She was all over him, though. He’d barely introduced himself and she’s, Oh, Matthew, I’m sooo excited to meet you. A real live detective inspector. Blinkity, blink.’ Ashley fluttered her own lashes demonstratively. ‘She’s so flipping obvious. It’s a wonder she didn’t say, excuse me, Mrs Adams, do you mind if I shag your husband?’

‘Well, obviously, I wouldn’t have said, help yourself . . .’ Rebecca couldn’t help but laugh, mostly at the affronted expression on Ashley’s face.

Ashley’s scowl deepened. ‘Becky, no offence, but don’t you think you’re being just a touch naïve?’ She twisted in her seat to lock serious eyes on hers. ‘It’s not Matthew I’m worried about. It’s her. Those questions she was asking? And then there was the Connor thing. I’m still trying to get my head around what happened there. He’s just not like that.’

‘They never are,’ Rebecca pointed out. ‘They tend to be sweetness and light in public and do their abusing in private.’

‘I know.’ Ashley shrugged and glanced at her phone again, as if willing it to ring. ‘It’s just . . . I dunno. Something just doesn’t add up.’

A detective in the making, Rebecca decided. ‘Ashley, she’s just a slip of a girl. I’m sure Matthew can handle himself. And if this Connor person is loitering about, which is what I imagine Matthew is concerned about, I’m pretty sure he can handle him too.’

‘Yeah, right.’ Ashley sighed. ‘For your information, though, she’s not a slip of a girl. She’s actually twenty-one and most definitely not a vestal virgin.’

‘Ooh,’ Rebecca gave her a look, ‘bitchy.’

‘Just saying. He should have exercised a bit more caution, that’s all. If I could get hold of him I’d warn him . . .’ Looking sheepish, Ashley trailed off.

‘Warn him?’ Rebecca glanced at her curiously. ‘Ashley, is there something more you’re not telling me?’ she asked, a trickle of apprehension tickling her spine. Had the girl got a reputation, a history of sleeping with married men or something?

Ashley shrugged again, awkwardly.

‘Ashley?’

‘She led Connor on,’ Ashley supplied. Reluctantly, Rebecca noted. Clearly, she was feeling traitorous, which was no bad thing, given she was supposed to be the girl’s friend. ‘A lot,’ Ashley went on. ‘I’m not worried about her actually getting anywhere with Matthew. I know if she comes on to him, Matthew will turn her down. It’s just I’m worried she might be pissed at him, you know?’

And conceivably make claims of some sort? Rebecca hadn’t considered that. And now that she had . . . No, surely not. The girl had been flirtatious, a bit OTT, but imagining she’d make false accusations was ludicrous. The boy had hit her. Admittedly, they hadn’t known the circumstances leading up to the argument, but the fact that he’d struck her was indisputable. Still, Rebecca made a mental note to text Matthew as soon as she could without being obvious. She trusted him, absolutely. She had to. Some of Matthew’s informants, sex workers — she recalled Jasmine’s reference to them — would happily offer him sexual favours to look the other way. She’d drive herself mad imagining scenarios where he might take up any offers. Matthew loved her, Rebecca had had no cause to doubt that. They’d lost their way after Lily, lain side by side in the same bed, yet poles apart, separated by their grief, their guilt. Matthew had carried that around like a lead weight in his heart. Rebecca hadn’t known then why his guilt ran so deep, that Matthew had known that sick animal Sullivan had had a part to play in their daughter’s death and had chosen not to tell her, protecting her, as was his nature. It had consumed him, little by little, eaten away at him each day like a cancer. He hadn’t been able to reach out and seek the comfort he so badly needed in her arms, because he hadn’t felt worthy of her love. She’d been sustained by the knowledge that he did still love her, though. He hadn’t been able to speak the words then, but his eyes — where so many dark shadows had danced — Rebecca had seen his love for her there. She’d felt it when they’d found each other again, made love to each other, tentatively at first, and then more passionately, tasting each other, touching each other to the very core. She wasn’t getting any younger though, the nagging doubt occurred. And as attractive as she’d felt, sexy even, wearing her new short silk slip dress, she’d definitely realised today she couldn’t compete with the Jasmines of the world anymore.

Rebecca pondered Jasmine’s comment about having met Matthew before, something Matthew had apparently been struggling to recall, and then admonished herself. She was being ridiculous. His job brought him into contact with lots of people. Of course, he’d be unlikely to remember if she was just a bystander at some call out.

Still, Rebecca was relieved when Melanie appeared, gesturing them through to the cubicles. Obviously, she’d managed to short-circuit the system, bless her. She was a good friend. Rebecca missed Melanie’s company in the Radiology Department, her penchant for juicy gossip always seemed to make the working day shorter, but she was glad now that her incorrigible friend had moved to work in A&E.

‘And what have you been up to?’ Melanie asked, eyeing Ashley’s party attire as Rebecca helped her hobble over. ‘Not drunken brawling in the streets, I hope.’

‘What, on Coke?’ Ashley rolled her eyes. ‘Chance would be a fine thing with these two keeping beady eyes on me.’

‘You mean they’re not letting you lie around drunk in gutters? Quel horreur!’ Melanie stared at her in mock astonishment. ‘Indulge them, Ashley, they care about you. There’s plenty of time for imbibing once you hit eighteen.’

Giving Rebecca a wink, she motioned them through. ‘No Matthew?’ she enquired, rather hopefully, Rebecca noticed, smiling. Mel made no secret of the fact that she thought Matthew was hot stuff, fanning her face and crying, ‘Oh, my . . .’ whenever she saw him. It was all theatricals, Rebecca knew. Mel had been responsible for bringing them together, made it her mission in life to make sure they stayed together during the bleak times. She’d been there for Rebecca when she’d gone into too-premature labour and lost the child they’d so badly wanted not long after Lily had died. The much-needed friend who’d gently reminded her how rock-solid Matthew was when the foundations of her marriage seemed to be crumbling.

‘No,’ Ashley supplied, over her shoulder. ‘He’s with a trollop.’

‘Ah.’ Melanie furrowed her brow, apparently at a loss for a suitable retort.

* * *

Jasmine really did wonder what he’d got between his ears. Her only hope for the foreseeable future was that what Connor lacked in brains he’d make up for in sexual prowess. Highly unlikely, she thought, irked by the fact that she was having to repeat herself like a parrot. Sporty and good-looking he might be, but Jasmine was pretty sure he’d need a diagram to find her erogenous zones and a dictionary to know how to spell them.

‘I said, I’m sorry, and I want you to come over,’ she repeated it slowly, wondering whether Connor, who was clearly cerebrally challenged, might be the flaw in her carefully prepared plan.

‘Why?’ Connor asked warily.

‘So I can apologise.’ Jasmine scowled, noticed the furrow in her forehead through the bathroom mirror and immediately felt annoyed beyond belief.

‘You just did,’ Connor pointed out sulkily.

Honestly, he sounded like a petulant child. The great bloody wimp. ‘Properly!’ Jasmine snapped, and then glanced worriedly towards the loo door. She really didn’t need Connor playing hard to get with a copper in her lounge in danger of overhearing. ‘I want to make it up to you, Connor,’ she amended her tone to syrupy sweet. ‘I was vile to you. I didn’t mean to be. It’s just . . . I don’t know, hormones, I suppose. And frustration. I’m so horny right now . . . Hormones do that, you know.’

‘They do?’ Connor still sounded wary.

‘They do,’ Jasmine assured him, doing her best to sound seductively wanton, whilst going cross-eyed in despair. She was going to have to spell it out, wasn’t she? ‘I really fancy you, Connor. I want you. Here. Now. But I need you to be forceful. You know, manly. Show me that you want me.’

Connor hesitated, causing Jasmine to clench her teeth hard. ‘I do want you,’ he said eventually in that gruff, strangulated way blokes did when they were getting aroused. He was probably getting off at the thought of it. Ugh. Men, they were so predictable.

‘So you’ll come then?’ Too soon probably. Jasmine sighed inwardly.

‘All right,’ Connor said, after another pause, during which time he’d no doubt been considering what he’d be missing if he didn’t.

Got him, Jasmine thought, immensely relieved. She needed him so she would shag him if she had to, but not yet. He was back on the hook. That was where she needed him for now, on a promise, desperate to get his end away, poor sod. It’s worth waiting for, Connor.

Examining her reflection, Jasmine puckered up her lips and checked her lip gloss, and then trailed a finger over her cleavage, showed off to maximum advantage in her low-cut dress.

Connor would soon be nice and compliant again, she thought confidently. Her dad had been right about men sniffing around, only after what they could get. They’d dump her as soon as they’d had it, he’d warned her. He’d been right. Jasmine traced her torso, her hand coming to rest on her tummy, now as flat and empty as she’d felt. She’d lost everything. Her plans, her dreams, all gone, thanks to that arrogant bastard, Adams.

‘Jas, are you still there?’ Connor said in her ear, like an irritating little bug.

‘What?’ Jasmine answered sharply.

‘I said it’ll probably take me half an hour to—’

‘Give me an hour,’ Jasmine cut him short. ‘I just have to, you know, do what women . . . Bugger. Hold on, there’s someone at the door. My neighbour probably. Forgot her key and after her spare. Ring me back in ten minutes, will you?’

Connor did as obliged. She knew he would. Perfect timing. The copper was just accepting a second coffee when he rang. ‘Connor?’ she answered the call, making sure to say his name whilst turning eyes wide with terror in the copper’s direction. ‘No, it’s fine,’ she said cryptically, keeping the conversation short. ‘Yes, perfectly. Bye.’

Chapter Five

The prat might be trying to wheedle his way back in to her affections, but he wasn’t going to get inside the apartment, if Matthew ever managed to get anyone out tonight that was. Frustrated, he took another large gulp of his second coffee, strong and black and, actually, disgusting, but at least it would keep him awake if he was going to be up half the night. Waiting on his mobile for one of the locksmiths Crime Prevention had supplied the number for, he watched Jasmine wander nervously from the hall, where she’d peered through the peephole in her front door at least four times in the last twenty minutes, to the lounge.

Her arms folded defensively across her breasts, her eyes flicking from her own phone on the coffee table to him, as if willing him to hurry up, Matthew realised she really was petrified. Despite his reservations, he’d definitely made the right decision coming in with her, particularly given the isolated location of the property. What kind of society was it, he wondered despairingly as he waited, that tolerated the Connors of the world reducing young girls to being frightened of their own shadows, too frightened to report the bastards for fear of retaliation? If anyone so much as laid a finger on Ashley or Mia . . .

His thoughts tailed off as the locksmith’s wife came back on the phone, sounding a touch annoyed at being woken in the small hours. ‘He was asleep. He’s just coming,’ she informed him shortly.

‘Right, thanks.’ Matthew stifled a yawn. He was feeling pretty exhausted himself now. Extremely, in fact. ‘I’ll hang on then,’ he offered. ‘Will he, er . . . ?’

‘Will he what?’ the woman asked impatiently as Matthew trailed off.

Be okay with being invoiced, Matthew had been going to say, but couldn’t seem to make his mouth coordinate with his brain. ‘I, er . . .’ Pausing again, he shook his head. He was feeling dizzy, he realised, and suddenly troublingly queasy. Had he eaten something? He was definitely feeling dodgy, way too hot and clammy. Yanking the tie he’d been forced to wear for the wedding loose, he ran a hand up over his face and across his forehead. He was sweating buckets. Either the central heating was on full blast or he was coming . . .

Down, he thought woozily, as the floor seemed to undulate and rise beneath him. He needed to sit . . . Pulling in a slow breath, Matthew attempted to alleviate the sudden tightness in his chest. Breathe, he instructed himself, struggling to recall when he’d last used his inhaler. Last night? This morning? Creeping panic washing over him, he tried to focus, blinked hard and concentrated on the red and purple painting hanging on the wall, as he tried to get his chaotic thoughts in some sort of order. Then cocked his head to one side, as the wall shifted and the abstract colours seemed to bleed into one. Christ, he felt pissed. But, he couldn’t . . . He hadn’t . . .

His panic escalating, Matthew swiped at the perspiration tickling his eyelashes and shook his head hard, as the walls tilted again and the room swayed nauseatingly around him. Attempting to stay upright on legs that were threatening to give way, he stumbled forwards, dropped his phone and groped for something to hold onto, only to succeed in knocking over the coffee. Watching, as if in slow motion, the dark contents spilling onto the table and sliding over the edge like elongated liquorice, he saw the gloop hit the floor. Morbidly fascinated, he watched on, as the mug spiralled sluggishly down after it, finally crashing to the floor to shoot slivers of ceramic in a hundred different directions.

What the . . . ? The room revolving steadily now, like a merry-go-round on slow spin, Matthew turned panic-struck towards Jasmine. Her eyes were wide, curious, mesmerised. Squinting confusedly at her, Matthew swallowed hard. Still, he couldn’t get air past the heavy weight in his chest. He staggered forwards. She stepped back. Cat and mouse, he thought obliquely, as they repeated the manoeuvre. Mantrap. Matthew tried another step, but his limbs refused to acknowledge his brain’s simple instructions to obey. His head reeled, his stomach churned, his instincts screamed.

Again, Matthew tried to draw breath. Again, it stopped short of his chest. Nausea swept through him, his legs buckled beneath him. Matthew dropped to his knees. He was going to throw up. How? How could he throw up if he couldn’t breathe? Groaning, he dragged his hands over his face, tried to still the whirling room as it picked up momentum.

‘Matthew?’ He heard Jasmine’s voice, distant, as if echoing through a tunnel. ‘Oh dear, are you feeling a bit poorly, hmm?’ she asked, her tone that of a mother mollifying a child. He felt her move closer, sharp fingers running through his hair, clutching it, yanking his head back. ‘Trust me, Adams, you haven’t felt anything yet,’ she spat, a whisper away from his ear.

A sharp twist, she released her grip. Walked around him. Circling him. Choosing her spot? Going in for the kill? Matthew didn’t know. Couldn’t ask. Couldn’t move. Muscles . . . unresponsive.

‘Would you like to know why this is happening, Matthew?’ She came around to stand by his side. ‘I’ll tell you anyway, shall I, since you’re so pig-ignorant you can’t even be bothered to answer!’

One shove was all it took. Matthew keeled heavily to one side.

‘You’re all the same, coppers. Pig-ignorant bullies, the lot of you! Intimidating people. Tearing things apart. Thinking you’re entitled to . . . Thought you could get away with it!’

Her voice drifted in and out of his consciousness. Her words were drawn out and slurred, like a warped tape recording, broken sentences punctuated by the dull thud of his heart. ‘Incessant questioning . . .’ Thud. ‘Wouldn’t even let me see . . .’ Thud. ‘He was my . . .’ Thud. ‘Treated me like a . . .’ Thud ‘. . . took it all away!’

She ranted on as Matthew’s blood thrummed loud in his ears, her heels clacking on the wooden floor like the distorted tick of a clock. Matthew stopped listening. Warm cotton wool enveloping his brain, too enticing a blanket, he just wanted to sleep.

A vicious kick to his ribs forced his eyes open. Matthew watched hazily as she removed one of her shoes and lowered herself to kneel right beside him. ‘You’re going to pay for what you did, Adams,’ she spat venomously. ‘Beg for the nightmare to stop and then crawl and beg some more.’

Matthew felt the sharp point of a stiletto graze the length of his cheek. Saw it hover a hair’s breadth from his pupil, and then winced as it dug hard into his temple.

* * *

‘Do you want me to finish you off when we get back, or not?’ Irritably, Jasmine twizzled in her seat to glare at the side of Connor’s stubborn head. They’d argued all the way here, he being the great wuss that he was, and wanting no part in it. Well, that, Connor, is just tough, she thought. He was in it now, up to his neck. Like it, or not.

She watched as he deliberated, his hands clenched tight around his steering wheel and his single brain cell obviously doing battle with his libido. ‘Well?’

‘’Course I do,’ he huffed eventually, his heavy shoulders slumping and clearly miffed at being a slave to his penis, as if all men weren’t.

Out of necessity, she’d primed him as soon as he’d walked through the front door. His face had been a picture as she’d quieted his questions with a kiss and reached immediately down to unzip him. He’d looked like all his Christmases had come at once when she’d closed her hand around what she’d been seeking, which was already standing to eager attention. Determined to give him the best hand job he’d probably get in his life, she’d worked on him diligently, expertly pumping and squeezing, until he’d groaned with pleasure. Sadly for him, not with sweet release.

He’d been a bit put out and somewhat confused when she’d pulled away at what was very nearly the crucial moment. He’d zipped up pretty swiftly when she’d burst into tears and explained there was a policeman in her lounge though. The very same policeman who’d roughed him up, threatened him, interfered in their business, which had had nothing to do with him. Connor, of course, had turned around panic struck and ready to run, until she’d assured him he was safe. That the copper was dead to the world.

Connor had got brave, once he saw Adams really was passed out, from drink he’d assumed. ‘Tosser!’ he’d called him, manfully puffing up his chest. Then, ‘What the bloody hell’s he doing here?’ it had occurred to him to ask her.

‘He just turned up!’ Jasmine had told him, swiping fresh tears from her cheek. ‘He was so drunk he practically fell in. I tried to make him go, but . . .’ Pausing for effect, she’d dropped her gaze embarrassedly. ‘I didn’t know what to do. He was so . . . forceful.’

She’d kept her gaze fixed down, wiping a hand under her nose and leaving Connor to conjure up the implications of what she’d just said.

It had taken him a while, he being last in the queue when they handed out brains. ‘You what?’ he’d blustered, finally, incredulously. ‘You mean, he . . . ?’

Wrapping her arms around herself, Jasmine had nodded. ‘Tried to,’ she’d said, ashamedly. Better not to claim he had actually done the deed, she’d decided, which might have made Connor wonder why she’d want to do the deed with him.

‘Bastard,’ Connor had gasped, and then, ‘You should report him,’ he’d said, more stridently.

‘I can’t!’ Jasmine had looked up at him, beseechingly.

‘What do you mean, you can’t? The wanker tried to rape—’

‘I hit him!’ Jasmine had been improvising then. She knew Connor would ask how high if she asked him to jump, but still, he’d needed handling carefully at that juncture. ‘With the lamp.’ She’d gestured towards the sizeable ceramic lamp on the side table, next to which still lay the broken coffee cup to add weight to her claim. The lamp had actually still been plugged in, but not being Mensa material, Connor wasn’t likely to have noticed that.

He’d furrowed his brow, visibly thinking, which was clearly a strain. ‘He deserved it,’ was the astounding conclusion he’d come to.

‘I know!’ Jasmine had had to work at hiding her frustration. ‘But look at him. He’ll claim I assaulted a police officer. He’s bound to, and it’s his word against mine, isn’t it?’

‘Ours!’ she’d added as Connor pondered. ‘He could say anything, couldn’t he?’ Jasmine had pushed on, needing Connor on side. ‘He might even say it was you.’

Connor had blanched and stared at her aghast. ‘Me?’

‘We need to move him,’ Jasmine announced decisively.

Connor had looked perplexed then. ‘Move him?’

‘Yes, move him.’ Jasmine had sighed inwardly. Honestly, talk about wading through treacle.

And now here he was, looking perplexed all over again. ‘All you have to do is help me take him into the hotel room,’ Jasmine assured him. ‘I’ll take a few compromising photos of him with my girlfriend and that will be it, job done. He won’t want to be making any false allegations then, will he?’

‘I dunno, Jas.’ Connor glanced at Adams slumped in the back and then worriedly up at the hotel, which was about as seedy looking as hotels in the red-light-by-night part of Wycombe got. Jasmine would have to de-flea herself after this. Needs must though. The plus was, the alcoholic twat on reception would be so inebriated by now, he wouldn’t notice if they carted a camel up the stairs.

‘Plus it will humiliate him as much as he’s humiliated me. You wouldn’t want him to get away with it scot-free, would you? My ex wouldn’t have. He would probably have killed him,’ Jasmine went on, playing on his moral indignation that the copper had dared touch her, his girlfriend, whilst hinting again at Conner’s manliness, or lack thereof.

Still Connor hesitated, causing Jasmine a flutter of panic. If Connor bailed on her at this point she’d be screwed. ‘I like sex, Connor,’ she said, fixing her eyes frontwards and drawing in a shaky breath, ‘but I prefer to choose who I have it with.’

That did the trick.

‘You’re my rock.’ Jasmine smiled and squeezed his fingers, as Connor reached gently for her hand.

* * *

‘Crap!’ Connor balked, as he unhooked the copper’s arm from over his shoulders and lowered him onto the bed. ‘His eyes just opened. He’s coming round.’

He better bloody well not be. Jasmine muscled past Connor, leaning over Adams to scan his face. She’d given him enough Rohypnol to drug a rhinoceros and thrown some regular Valium in there to boot. Thankfully, Tony’s mate had come good. Only because he was on the take, of course, and figured supplying her with what she needed was a better option than trying to explain to Tony why his sums didn’t add up. It was definitely handy having Tony Hayes, big shot drugs kingpin, for a boyfriend, even if he was so gross she felt like puking every time he came near her. Tony looked after her, treated her with a bit of respect, because he wanted to shag her, obviously, but Jasmine tolerated that in order to achieve what she needed to.

‘He’s not breathing right.’ Standing alongside her, Connor peered worriedly down at Adams. ‘You don’t think he’s going to snuff it, do you?’

‘No, Connor. He’s not going to snuff it.’ Jasmine sighed and rolled her eyes. He’d better not do that either, she thought, miffed. She’d got something much more interesting planned for Detective Inspector Adams. Shining hero, was he? White knight in blue prepared to lay down his life for his wife and kids? Yeah, right. In which case, he wouldn’t mind in the slightest proving it, would he? All in good time though.

Satisfied that her plan had worked out nicely thus far, Jasmine glanced over her shoulder as the girl she’d hired emerged from what passed as a bathroom in the disgusting, fleapit of a room Jasmine had booked especially for the occasion.

‘He looks a bit pale,’ the girl commented. Inappropriately. Jasmine shot her a warning glance. Hadn’t she warned her to keep her mouth shut if she wanted the rest of her money? She was here to do her job, that was all. Admittedly, she’d got a bit of a job on her hands, shagging someone who was unconscious, but the Viagra should help, plus she was a sex worker, Jasmine had told her. She’d just have to work at it.

‘He’s fine,’ she assured her. ‘He has asthma. But then, you know that, don’t you, being one of his paid informants?’ Betting that wasn’t the only service the copper paid for, Jasmine looked the girl over, who looked every inch the part, and who Connor was looking over too. Up his eyes travelled, boggling as they did, from the scuffed six-inch stilettos on her feet, then slowly up the long length of her fishnets, where they came to rest on her microdot thong. Jasmine would swear he was going to come right there and then when his dumbfounded gaze landed on her naked breasts.

Men. They really were predictable creatures. She sighed inwardly, and then, noting Connor was still wearing his white wedding shirt, as was the detective, that he was roughly the same height and build, and also dark-haired, as was the detective, saw an opportunity she hadn’t previously considered. In the low wattage lighting provided by the shabby bedside lamp, he might just pass as Adams, from a suitable distance.

‘Do you fancy her, Connor?’ she asked him interestedly, trailing a fingernail down his arm.

‘I, erm . . . No!’ Initially distracted, clearly, Connor hurriedly attempted to deny his obvious lust.

‘Really?’ Jasmine feigned surprise. ‘Oh, pity,’ she said, emitting a long, wistful sigh. ‘I thought you might like to get warmed up. Saving the best bit for me, of course.’

Connor glanced bemusedly up to the girl’s face and then twanged his gaze incredulously to Jasmine. ‘But . . . won’t she mind?’

‘Natalie?’ Jasmine used the girl’s name, for authenticity’s sake. ‘No. Nat does this for a living. Did I not mention that?’ Jasmine thought fast. Having told Connor the girl was a friend, rather than try to explain how she would know her otherwise, now she was having to improvise, again. Damn. Couldn’t he just get stuck in and done with? ‘To pay her uni fees, don’t you, Nat?’

Shooting the po-faced girl a meaningful look, meaning ‘you’re getting paid, so lose the attitude,’ Jasmine moved around in front of Connor.

‘Yeah, that’s right,’ the girl agreed moodily behind her.

Ignoring the truculent tone, Jasmine focussed on Connor instead. Resting a hand on his groin, she brushed his lips with her tongue. ‘Go on,’ she urged him, expelling a heavy breath into his mouth. ‘It will be a bit of a turn on. We can finish what we started earlier then, if you like, once I’ve got the photos we need.’

‘What? Here?’ Connor’s voice was now slightly strangulated, as Jasmine moved her hand to cup his most sensitive parts.

‘In the car, but only if you want to,’ Jasmine purred, and squeezed. At which, clearly incapable of speech, Connor gulped and nodded.

Arching her eyebrows suggestively, Jasmine moved away, leaving Connor free to indulge, while she reached for her phone. Ugh. The man was a Neanderthal. Jasmine watched as he immediately stuffed his face in the slag’s cleavage. Then, satisfied she’d got some useful footage of the back and broad shoulders of a man clearly keen to do business and operating under his own free will, Jasmine paused the video at a suitable juncture. ‘Oh, Connor, you’re such an animal,’ she gasped, laughing. ‘I have to stop you, though, my love. Time flies . . .’

Heaving out another sigh, as if she was actually turned on by his clumsy slobbering, she trailed a finger down his back, leaning into him when he turned. ‘Wait downstairs for me,’ she said. ‘Fantasise about what you want to do to me with that delicious cock of yours.’

‘Right,’ Connor spluttered. ‘Sorry,’ he said huskily, offering the girl an apologetic smile, as if worried he might be leaving her disappointed, and then peeled himself away and turned to the door, walking rather stiffly as he went, Jasmine noted with a wry smile.

‘You’re cruel, you are,’ the girl imparted as the door closed behind him.

‘Oh, I’m definitely that,’ Jasmine assured her, wondering if the girl would be as smart with her mouth when she found out how cruel.

Giving her an unimpressed look from under her false lashes, the girl moved towards Adams. ‘You sure he ain’t going to wake up? His eyes definitely just flickered open,’ she said, bending to peer down at his face.

Good job he is out of it, Jasmine thought, curling a lip. That crap-caked mush blinking down at him would be enough to give him a heart attack. She hadn’t wanted a pretty one for the job though. She wanted a sluttish-as-possible looking one. She’d wanted this one.

‘He’s not going to remember me, is he?’ The girl straightened up, her studded eyebrows almost meeting in the middle, as she scowled in Jasmine’s direction.

‘I doubt he’ll remember much of anything,’ Jasmine replied dryly.

‘Only Matthew’s not bad, as coppers go,’ the girl went on uncertainly. ‘Fair, you know? Looks out for us, too, if anyone gets aggressive or anyfink.’

She was on first name terms with him then? That was a plus, Jasmine decided. ‘What, including your pimps?’ she asked her facetiously. She really did despair of the girl’s street vernacular. It was as if she worked at living up to low expectations.

‘Especially them,’ the girl imparted, with feeling. ‘That bloke he shot, Sullivan? Matthew hated the way he treated his girls. Promised he’d make him pay for what he did to me. Beat me senseless he did, the bastard.’

‘And from what I hear, Adams lived up to his promise,’ Jasmine commented interestedly.

‘Definitely.’ The girl wandered over to her bag, ferreted in it, and then tipped it out onto the carpet, several condoms spilling liberally therefrom. Jasmine made a mental note to secrete some of those in the copper’s car. That would be a nice touch, should the ‘oh, so caring’ Rebecca have any lingering doubts about her precious husband’s fidelity. ‘When he pulled that trigger, I reckon he was doing it for everyone Sullivan had shat on and abused,’ the girl went on.

‘He’s obviously a saint,’ Jasmine retorted drolly. ‘Bet he thanks you when he’s fucked you too?’

‘Just sayin’,’ the girl said, giving her another one of her sly looks as she walked back towards the bed. ‘He’s all right, that’s all. I dunno why you want to go and rubbish his reputation.’

‘Because he’s trying to get my friend banged up for something he didn’t do,’ Jasmine repeated the lie she’d already supplied. ‘And maybe you should have had a fit of conscience before I paid you half your money. Now, get on and do the effing job you’ve been paid to do.’

‘All right, all right. Don’t get yer fancy knickers in a twist.’

* * *

Natalie? Matthew fought to open his eyes, to claw his way from semi-consciousness, to make sense of the nonsense in his head, the bodies in the room, the nimble fingers working at the buttons on his shirt. Don’t, he willed her, desperately trying to flail his way back to the surface, to breathe.

‘No pics of my face, right?’ He heard her, felt the soft brush of material, a rush of cold air prickling his skin.

‘Not necessary. All I need are photos and a short video of you doing what prostitutes do.’

Jasmine? Couldn’t see her. Couldn’t . . . Limbs . . . dead weights. Matthew’s heart thrummed, a steady drumbeat, pounding sluggishly at the base of his neck. Powerless. Panic rose like a sharp knife in his chest.

‘Sex worker.’ Natalie. Indignant. Was it her? ‘And it’s going to be a bit difficult, isn’t it, unless you put some Viagra in with his meds?’

‘I’ve given him a bloody drugs cocktail. Improvise, if you have to. Just get on with it!’

Raised voices. Room swimming. Gut churning. Christ, please stop this.

‘I’m trying to, aren’t I? If you’re in such a flipping rush, why don’t you come over here and give me a hand getting his clothes — crap! His eyes are open again. He’s really spooking me. You sure he won’t remember anyfink?’

‘Oh, for crying out loud! He probably won’t even remember his name.’

‘Only it doesn’t do to make enemies, y’know? Especially not coppers.’

Two sets of hands, tugging at his clothes. Determined. Aggressive. Powerless.

‘I gathered. How you doing, Matthew, hey?’

Jasmine? Sarcastic. Standing over him. Smiling. Smug? Blue eyes? Striking blue. Familiar. Not blue. Who . . . ? He felt her hand on his cheek, protestations dying feebly in his throat, his stomach turning over, as light fingers languidly walked the length of his torso. Don’t. Helpless, Matthew watched from some faraway place inside him. Don’t do this, Natalie, he begged her silently, as he felt the mattress dip beside him.

Chapter Six

Matthew woke abruptly, hurtled from sleep by a nightmare he thought would never end. Sweat saturating his face, pooling in the hollow of his neck, he pulled himself upright and squinted against the thin trickle of sunlight filtering through the slatted blinds at the window. His first thought was that he had a hangover the size of an airdrome. His second, that they had no blinds at their bedroom window.

Easing his legs over the edge of the bed, a wheeze rattling his chest and nausea gripping his stomach as the room revolved in sick-making revolutions around him, his gaze went instinctively to the bedside table. His inhaler was there, the blue curative he carried with him, lined up neatly alongside his phone. Disorientated, Matthew blinked hard. His vision was blurred. His memory? Where the bloody hell was he?

A hotel room. Functional, he registered. Scanning his surroundings, he noted the fire instructions pinned to the door, the ancient fire extinguisher on the wall, the dusty circa nineteen eighties carpet. A shithole. Matthew closed his eyes and swallowed against the acrid taste in the back of his throat, then almost had a heart attack as his phone rang, loud and shrill, screeching through his brain like an express train. Scrambling around his mind for some recollection of what had happened the night before, he came up with nothing that was tangible, his tenuous thoughts seeming to slip away, like sea filtering ineffectually through sand. He had a few grainy, grey memories: Jasmine, the apartment, tastefully decorated; the painting, abstract colours intermingling; coffee, dripping; shoes, clacking, like the ominous slow tick of a clock. One shoe. A stiletto. Connor . . . ? Had he been there? Here? Matthew squeezed his eyes shut, tried desperately to remember. Natalie? Christ, no.

His phone rang again, sharp, insistent. Becky, it had to be, and Matthew had no clue what to say to her. Attempting to control his escalating panic, to regulate his breathing, he let it ring and reached for his inhaler instead . . . and then stopped dead.

Seeing the crimson stains on his hand, Matthew’s heart somersaulted in his chest.

Dried blood, he registered, trying hard not to let the panic, now gripping his gut like a vice, cancel out logical thought. Old blood. His? How old?

Bringing both palms shakily to his face, he examined them. They were ingrained with the stuff. He flipped them over. His knuckles were bruised. Right hand. Sweet Jesus, what had he done? Disentangling himself from the duvet, Matthew scrambled to his feet, then quelling the nausea now clawing its way up his windpipe, he checked himself over. Deep wheals ran vertically down his chest. Four. Matthew swallowed hard. Checked his limbs. Found scratches on his arms. His neck, too. He could feel those, raw and sore.

His pulse rate ratcheting up, he yanked the duvet back. More blood. Too much. Stark against the grey-white of the sheets. Trying desperately to keep a lid on his emotions, he turned, stumbling towards the bathroom, where he leaned over the toilet and vomited the sparse contents of his stomach.

Standing unsteadily, Matthew clutched the sink hard for support. Deep gouges on his cheek, he noted through the mirror, then flinched as a flashback hit him head on: Jasmine, smiling, her eyes flat and emotionless. Her fingernails trailing down his face, his torso. Her touch had been light. She’d inflicted no damage. So how? Who? Natalie? A fresh image assaulted him, Natalie lying next to him. On top of him. Had he? No! His gaze straying to the wall behind him, Matthew’s legs almost gave way. There were blood spatters on the tiles. Perspiring profusely, he dragged an arm over his forehead. Irregular, splattered all over the walls. Christ, this couldn’t be happening.

A terrifying scenario unfurling in his head, Matthew willed himself to turn to the bath. His hand visibly shaking, cold trepidation snaking the length of his spine, he steeled himself to reach for the mould-stained shower curtain, hesitated, and drew it back.

A tap dripped, slowly, steadily. Each drip echoing distortedly around the room, sounding like a nail being driven into his coffin. He registered the watery trickle of blood washing over the carcass of a spider wedged in the plughole.

No body.

Wilting with relief, Matthew turned away. Taking several slow breaths, he grabbed a towel from the rail, whilst simultaneously reaching for the sink tap, and then stopped, his head screaming, his instincts colliding. If he cleaned himself up, he’d be destroying evidence. If he ran . . . Matthew stared hard at himself in the mirror. More images assailed him, disjointed memories. Surreal, foggy recollections. He’d been here with two women. Jasmine and Natalie. Matthew knew that much. Thought he did. And every indication was that one of those women had been badly injured, and worse, possibly by him. If he was going to call this in, and terrified though he was, his conscience told him he had to, he couldn’t wash. He needed to. The smell in the room was cloying. A woman’s scent. It was all over him.

He had to call Becky. Trying to keep calm, to not give into his urge to run from the room and keep running, Matthew headed back to the bedroom, where his phone had been ringing constantly. Whatever had happened, she needed to hear it from him first. He needed to tell her . . . Tell her what? Something’s happened, but I don’t know what? I think I’ve been set-up but I have no idea why? I might have had sex with someone but it wasn’t intentional?

Consensual.

No! Disbelieving, Matthew gulped back an immediate deep sense of shame.

He couldn’t have. Could he? Could she . . . ? No doubt DNA testing would corroborate that distasteful fact. Fury vying with guilt and fear now, Matthew snatched up his inhaler. He’d be no use to anyone if he had an attack. He was no use to anyone. Matthew’s heart dropped like a stone. Least of all Becky. How the hell had he let this happen? Sinking down on the edge of the bed, he buried his head in his hands. He was a copper! He should have known better! What had he been thinking going into an apartment alone with a young girl in the early hours of the morning? He hadn’t been thinking. Clearly.

Matthew gulped back a hard lump in his throat and tried to still his incessant shaking. He couldn’t run. There was nowhere to run to. Nowhere to hide. He knew that better than anyone. Terror settling like ice in the pit of his stomach, he reached for his phone. It stopped ringing as he picked it up, only to ping an incoming text. Selecting his messages, he saw there were many from Becky and Ashley. Scrolling through them, he froze when he saw Becky’s last text: I don’t care what you’ve done. Matthew, please come home. The message from DCI Davies was equally worrying: Get your arse into the station, you idiot! Steve’s text was blunt, as Matthew would expect from his former DS, but he had no hope of making sense of it. You prat! Ring me, was all it said.

Poised to call Becky, that being his priority, he noted another incoming text. Caller unknown, Matthew hesitated and then, with growing apprehension, he checked it. You’re very photogenic, was all it said. Shaking now almost uncontrollably, Matthew opened the YouTube link attached to it and his heart stopped dead.

Graphic, irrefutable, willing or not, the evidence was there. Close ups, body parts. How?

He had to go. Now.

* * *

Guessing Becky didn’t need Mia attached to her legs while she addressed the two uniformed policemen at the door, Ashley cajoled the fractious two-year-old away and gathered her up into her arms.

Smiling gratefully, Becky turned back to the officers. ‘I’m not sure when he’ll be back. He . . .’ She stopped, snatching up the landline to her side immediately when it rang. Glancing meaningfully at Ashley, she hesitated for a second, and then, ‘No,’ she said into the receiver, ‘Matthew’s not here at the moment. Can you call back later?’

Planting the phone hastily down in its cradle, she took a breath and then turned back to their unwelcome callers. ‘It’s been ringing all morning,’ she said, and then made some attempt at courteousness, though what she wanted to do, Ashley knew, was tell them politely to piss off. ‘Would you like to come in and wait?’

Rather than loiter obviously on the doorstep for the delectation of the gathering journalists and nosy neighbours, some of whom had no doubt been online this morning and were now gleefully sharing. So much for Becky and Matthew moving house and attempting to make a new start away from their ghosts. They hadn’t even finished redecorating and they were suddenly fodder for hot local gossip.

The two officers exchanged awkward glances and then stepped in, minding their manners, Ashley noted, removing their hats and wiping their feet. ‘Thank you, Mrs Adams,’ one of them said. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind?’

‘Becky,’ Becky reminded him of her name. ‘I’m not sure it would make any difference if I did, would it, Peter? But two of you?’ She scanned his face questioningly.

At which the officer glanced embarrassedly down. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘orders.’

‘Right.’ Becky shot Ashley another meaningful glance. ‘Well, you know where the lounge is.’ Closing the door, she nodded them on, as Mia declared loudly, ‘Mumm-eeeee! Want a wee wee!’

‘The terrible twos,’ the other officer offered her a sympathetic smile, as he followed his colleague.

‘Tell me about it.’ Becky dredged up a smile and reached to relieve Ashley of Mia, who was kneading her eyes with her knuckles, tired and miserable. Not surprising, with umpteen callers at the door, the phone ringing off the hook and Becky distracted. Ashley would have to make sure Mia had her asthma meds, she decided. The last thing Becky needed right now was to have to fight her way through the gathering ensemble outside to get Mia to a hospital if she had a bad attack, which was likely, given how stressed she was.

Becky was trying to hide it, but she was half out of her mind with worry, no doubt still in a state of shock. The colour had drained from her cheeks when she’d watched that shitty video. She’d paled so much, Ashley seriously thought she might pass out. She hadn’t though. She pulled up her shoulders in that way Becky did and, ‘It’s concocted,’ she stated adamantly, even though it was obviously Matthew with some paid escort starring in it.

She’d told every reporter who’d rung since, ‘No comment,’ and refused to answer the door, until she’d realised it was two uniforms outside. That hadn’t been a reporter on the phone just now though. Ashley hadn’t needed to hear for herself or to have Emily whispering, It’s Matthew, in her head to tell her that. Becky’s look had told her as much.

‘I’d better take her up,’ Becky said as the officers negotiated the decorating paraphernalia in the hall and headed for the lounge. ‘I have to run her a quick bath. Would you like some tea or coffee?’

‘Yes, thanks, Mrs Ad — Becky,’ the first officer accepted cheerfully. ‘I could murder a cuppa. Cheers.’

Which meant they were definitely here to stay. God, Matthew? Ashley’s tummy knotted inside her. What the bloody hell was going on?

‘I’ll make it,’ she offered, guessing Becky might prefer to have some space.

It’s that Jasmine, Emily informed her as Becky turned gratefully to the stairs. I told you not to trust her.

I know, Ashley replied silently, heading towards the kitchen. It was pretty obvious it was something to do with Jasmine. Ashley hadn’t had a chance yet to talk to her properly, other than briefly, before the calls started, and then Jasmine had said she hadn’t got a clue what she was talking about. That Matthew had left her apartment at three-ish, and that she’d been fast asleep ever since. Ashley had no idea what had happened, but what she did know was that Matthew would never do stuff like that. In a seedy hotel room, with a prostitute? Uh, uh. No way. Matthew was no saint, often so moody and broody Becky and she both wanted to shake him. Mostly he was like that though because of some case where girls like the one in the video, underage girls a lot of the time, had been used and abused by some drug pushing lowlife.

Ashley needed to talk to Jasmine more. Find out exactly what time Matthew left and whether he might have said anything about going anywhere else. Though why he’d mention anything to Jasmine . . . ? It just didn’t make sense. Any of it.

Hearing one of the men mention Matthew’s name as she filled up the kettle, Ashley stopped and moved closer to the door.

‘Bloody hell, who’d ever have thought he’d been dipping his wick where he hadn’t ought to be,’ the one called Peter said.

‘Yeah, shining example to rank and file officers, ain’t he?’ the other one replied sarcastically.

‘Looked paralytic to me,’ Peter commented idly.

‘Pissed as a fart. Mind you, you’d have to be, wouldn’t you?’ The other guy chuckled at his unfunny wit.

‘Bet he’s got a sore head this morning,’ Peter said, then cursed quietly as he dropped something, meaning they were poking around in stuff they had no right to.

‘He will have when his missus gets hold of him,’ his sidekick added hilariously. ‘And DCI Davies is going to have his whatsits on a plate. No wonder Adams is keeping a low profile.’

Idiots, Ashley seethed inwardly, her blood literally boiling when she went on in to find them not even discreetly snooping around in the lounge, as if expecting to find Matthew hiding behind the sofa. Ashley’s eyes flicked to the floor, to where Peter was retrieving the framed photograph he’d dropped. It was the one they’d had taken in Cornwall the first time they’d gone away together as a family after the kidnapping. Matthew still had a haunted look in his eyes, Ashley guessed he probably always would, but he was smiling. He’d had his arms around her and Becky. Becky was cradling Mia, the baby she’d thought she might not live to give birth to. It was a good photo. One signifying a happy future, Becky had said. And now they’d gone and bloody well dropped it.

Stomping across the room, Ashley snatched the frame off him. The glass wasn’t broken, but the back had come loose and the photo was still lying face down on the floor.

That’s bad luck, that is, Emily said, sounding not know-it-all like she usually did, but wary, which didn’t help Ashley’s mood one bit. Furious that their things were being tampered with, as if Matthew were a wanted criminal or something, she bent to pluck it up before the clumsy copper could.

‘Sorry,’ the copper said. ‘I was just admiring it and it slipped.’

‘Butterfingers.’ The other one tutted, as if it was all one huge joke. It obviously was to them. They obviously revelled in other people’s misery. Morons.

It’s like an omen, Emily intoned gloomily, exacerbating Ashley’s angry frustration further.

‘Shut up!’ she snapped out loud. The coppers looked surprised, and then contrite in turn, obviously thinking she meant them. Which was fine by Ashley.

‘I have some college work to do,’ she informed them coolly. ‘I’m going upstairs. Would you like to go up first and check Matthew’s not keeping a low profile under my bed?’ The last was added suitably acerbically before she swung around to stride out again. And you can make your own cup of tea. As far as Ashley was concerned, they could die of thirst while they waited.

Once on the landing, she tapped on Rebecca’s bedroom door. Mia wasn’t in the bath. Ashley didn’t think she would be. Becky usually bathed her at night. She was curled up on Becky’s bed instead, her back to Becky and tucked up tight to her tummy, almost as if Becky was trying to keep her safe from all this shit.

Not wanting to wake Mia, Ashley tiptoed across the room and carefully lowered herself to the edge of the bed. ‘Has she had her asthma meds?’ she asked, glancing at Becky and then . . . crap . . . realised she was crying. Her face was buried in Mia’s hair, her own hair entwined with Mia’s so that Ashley couldn’t tell which wild auburn hair belonged to which head, but Ashley could tell Becky was crying by the shake of her shoulders.

Ashley reached out. She would have hesitated to do that once. Reticent to trust anyone, after being abandoned by her mum and bullied at the care home, she’d taken to hiding her emotions. She trusted people now, those that she knew well enough. She trusted Matthew. He’d worked bloody hard to earn that trust too. He was a good bloke, decent to the core. Ashley just knew it.

‘It’ll be okay, Becky,’ she said, the words catching in her throat as she struggled to hold back her own tears.

Becky sniffed, and then took a deep breath and eased herself away from Mia. Wiping her cheeks as she sat up, she smiled, and nodded. Was there conviction in her smile? Ashley searched her eyes. She wasn’t sure. She so hoped so.

‘Was it him on the phone?’ Ashley asked quietly, knowing it had been.

Becky nodded again. ‘Hopefully he’ll call back on the mobile,’ she said, pressing her feet to the floor and pulling herself to standing. Literally, pulling herself up, Ashley knew. She’d seen her do that before, refusing to give into the freak, fighting him with every ounce of her strength, fighting for her, and for Matthew.

Please keep fighting, Becky, Ashley silently willed her, as Becky tucked the duvet lightly over Mia, before turning to look at her.

‘He’ll ring back,’ she said, sounding a little more confident than she had been since the first reporter had rung, breaking the news of the video to them. ‘I’m not sure what’s going on, Ashley, but we have to believe—’

Becky’s mobile vibrating on the bedside table cut her short. Ashley’s gaze flicked from it to Becky as she snatched it up. ‘Yes, it’s safe,’ she said, nodding at Ashley and then closing her eyes, as she turned her attention back to the phone.

Matthew. Immensely relieved, Ashley hesitated, and then headed for the door, closing it quietly behind her. She wanted to stay, but they’d need some privacy, she guessed. She did believe, though. She needed to tell Matthew that. He’d need to know. Meanwhile, she had to get hold of Jasmine. Because no matter what Jasmine had said, after her weird behaviour last night, absolutely no way did Ashley believe her.

Chapter Seven

‘Becky?’ Matthew checked it was her, and then breathed a sigh of relief, the sound of her voice seeming to anchor him for a second in a sea of madness. ‘Are you okay?’ he asked her, stupidly, as if she could possibly be.

Becky hesitated, and then, ‘Mia’s sleeping,’ she said, communicating that she couldn’t speak freely. She probably didn’t want to speak to him at all. Could he blame her?

‘I take it you’ve seen it?’ Matthew asked, his stomach knotting inside him. Of course she had. It was all over social media, plus her answer to his earlier call had already told him as much. Despite the hell she must be going through, she’d been trying to warn him someone was there. Reporters? Police, possibly? He wasn’t surprised. Given his job and the last time he’d been in the news, the video had probably gone viral by now. Matthew could almost see the headlines: Hero Cop’s Halo Tarnished. Until they got hold of the details, that was, the fact that there was blood at the scene. He tried hard not to visualise what kind of headline that would make.

‘You mean your porno flick?’ Becky replied, the bitterness in her voice cutting him to the core. ‘Yes, I’ve seen it. I’m not sure it captures you in your best light, but . . .’

Hearing the sob catch in her throat, Matthew felt like crying with her. He wanted to hold her. To try somehow to explain. How? He had no explanations, none that sounded plausible. He couldn’t bear to tell her what would inevitably sound like a lie. He couldn’t go home either, talk to her face to face, which he desperately wanted to do. Whatever had happened to him, a crime resulting in serious injury had been committed. Whether he was a willing participant in the events that preceded that crime was irrelevant. The fact was, he’d been there. He was part of it. Also a victim of crime, Matthew reminded himself, and then swallowed back that thought, because he simply wasn’t ready to try to deal with the emotions around it. His priority right now was his family’s safety. He obviously had been set-up, but how did he convince anyone else of that? Even to Matthew he looked as guilty as sin. No, he couldn’t go back until he had some idea of why he had been set-up, and to what end.

Steeling himself, Matthew offered all the explanation he could. ‘I’m in trouble, Becky,’ he said quietly, as if she hadn’t already gleaned that much. ‘Whatever happens, whatever anyone says, however . . . damning . . . it looks,’ he went on, though it was crucifying him to do this to her, shut her out, offer her nothing and expect her support in return, ‘please believe I didn’t do it.’

‘Damning?’ Becky laughed incredulously. ‘You mean more damning?’

Matthew heard the hurt in her voice, and it tore at his heart. ‘Possibly,’ he answered evasively, feeling more angry and ashamed of what had actually gone on by the second. Even if he could bring himself to give her details though, it wasn’t an option. He’d ditched his own phone. He doubted his calls would be being monitored that end yet, but he couldn’t give her information that might be accessed and lead to his whereabouts.

‘However damning what might look?’ Becky asked urgently. ‘Matthew, you need to tell me.’

‘I . . .’ Matthew started, and faltered. Even thinking about how stupid he’d been, how useless and powerless, had his heart palpitating. He felt nauseous to his very soul. He couldn’t. Simply couldn’t. Was she really likely to believe he’d been drugged? Unaccountable for his actions? That video showed him standing, functioning under his own steam. How could she accept that he had nothing but vague recollections, no memory at all of how blood came to be splattered all over the walls?

‘Matthew?’

Matthew hesitated, and then, ‘I don’t know,’ he said hoarsely, wishing he was there with her, that she could see how desperate he was. Above all, how desperate he was to know that she would believe him. ‘I can’t say, Becky. Not now.’

‘I see,’ Becky said flatly, causing Matthew’s breath to hitch in his chest.

‘I would if I could, Becky,’ he said urgently. ‘It’s a huge ask, I know, but I need you to trust me.’ His words sounded hollow, even to his own ears. ‘I need some time . . . to sort things out. I will be back, and I will explain. As soon as I can, I promise.’

‘Matthew, you’re scaring me.’ Becky sounded frightened, terrified.

And Matthew hated himself for it. ‘I’m so sorry.’ He swallowed, feeling as if his emotions were going into freefall. Without her, they would be. He couldn’t lose her. He didn’t want her to go through this on her own, but what good would he be if he was arrested? The blood would soon be discovered. And then, with nothing to offer in his defence, nothing that sounded remotely feasible, he might well be charged. He needed time to think, to try to recall. To establish what kind of threat there was to his family. How could he do that without the facts? ‘I have to go, Becky,’ he said quickly, aware of the minutes ticking by. ‘I’ll be in touch soon.’

‘Matthew, I don’t understand. Please tell me,’ Becky pleaded. ‘What’s going—’

‘I can’t explain now,’ Matthew cut across her. ‘I swear I would if I could.’ He was already beginning to sound like a guilty man, he realised, but he needed to end the call. He’d need to dump this phone, too. Frequently changed pay as you go phones were his only option. He shouldn’t have phoned her at all. If information had already been sent to the station by whoever was behind all this, detailed photographs, videos that hadn’t yet been released, then the police would definitely be monitoring all incoming calls and email, trying to locate his whereabouts. He had no way of knowing what was happening. One thing he did know was that he couldn’t go in, not yet. Not until he’d tried to make sense of the mess in his head.

Rebecca didn’t answer, causing a new type of panic to twist in his chest. ‘Becky?’

‘I’m here,’ she said, after a second.

She sounded exhausted, disillusioned. How the hell else did he expect her to sound? He’d failed in his fundamental obligations as a husband and a father, failed to keep his family safe from harm. Not once, but twice, causing her the kind of pain no one should ever have to endure. And now he was failing for a third time. He wanted to ask her whether she believed in her heart he would do such a thing. He wanted to say I love you. Three simple words he’d had to relearn, because he’d convinced himself she couldn’t possibly still love someone who’d kept information from her, information which might have stopped their child being murdered. And now he was doing it all over again, because he’d allowed himself to be victimised all over again. A grown man this time, not a kid mercilessly picked on by male youths bigger than him, defenceless against scum like Sullivan. Yeah, right. Some man.

Matthew squeezed the bridge of his nose hard between his thumb and forefinger. ‘I’ll be in touch as soon as I can,’ he said throatily. Then, not knowing what else to say that she’d be likely to want to hear, he forced himself to press End Call.

* * *

She hadn’t told him she loved him. They hardly ever ended a call without reminding each other of what had sustained them through the horror. The one precious thing that Patrick Sullivan couldn’t destroy, no matter how hard he’d tried. Willing back the tears — she absolutely didn’t want Mia to see her cry — Rebecca dragged a hand under her nose. She hadn’t even said goodbye. He was keeping the truth from her. She felt like laughing at that inspired deduction. Obviously he’d been keeping the truth from her for some while, so someone had felt inclined to open her eyes. Rebecca swallowed back a hard knot of anger. The sex worker in the video? Attempting to blackmail him? In which case, if it was money she’d wanted, she hadn’t given him much time to deliver before uploading that video. Rebecca really did feel like laughing then, at her idiotic naivety. Was that likely to have been the first time he’d done this sort of thing? Wasn’t it more likely the woman had already made her demands and then done this precisely because he hadn’t delivered? The perks of the job were there for the taking, after all. Or rather the ‘buying’, she thought cynically. She’d never kept tabs on Matthew. She’d trusted him, implicitly. Not just because she’d had to for her sanity’s sake, but because of who he was: a man who was determined to rid the streets of vermin who preyed on young girls, depraved parasites, like Sullivan. He’d been obsessed with it, like a man on a mission sometimes, even though it was a hopeless task. Had she been so wrong about him?

Matthew had sounded desperate, as confused as she felt, scared. Something awful had happened, something more terrible than portrayed in that video. The Matthew she knew, or thought she knew, wouldn’t leave her to face reporters at the door, his colleagues, to lie for him without good reason. How had it happened? Any of it? When and where? After he’d dropped Jasmine off, presumably. A girl he’d apparently met before, the thought occurred, and which Matthew had denied any knowledge of. Had he been lying about that, about other things? No one could know another person completely, after all. There would always be secrets in a relationship, wouldn’t there? Were there really so many deep dark secrets in hers?

No, that was nonsense. She was condemning him, and he hadn’t yet explained . . . Dammit! Why hadn’t he? A cold shiver running through her, Rebecca wrapped her arms about herself. She glanced at Mia contentedly sleeping, her thumb plugged into her mouth and blissfully unaware of the chaos their lives had descended into. She pictured Matthew next to her, as he had been just the other night. He’d persuaded Mia to part with her thumb, she recalled, on the pretext of wanting to find out what flavour it was. Mia had giggled when he’d tasted it, laughed until she’d almost wet herself when he’d pulled a face and spat it out, preferring to munch on her tummy. He’d coaxed her to take her inhaler then. Using the adult aerochamber he used for his own preventative medication, even though he hated himself for his weakness, as he perceived it, he’d led by example and then helped Mia with hers, gently trying to convince his little girl it wasn’t a scary thing.

She’d watched them sleeping. Matthew on his back, Mia nestled snugly into the crook of his arm. She was so like Matthew, her rich velvet brown eyes a mirror of his, always inquisitive, so like Lily it broke Rebecca’s heart to look at her sometimes. Matthew’s heart had been broken too, she reminded herself, almost irretrievably. Rebecca had truly thought she’d lost him, so emotionally adrift had he been. He’d found his way back to her though. What had made him retreat again? His job, she’d thought initially, some awful case he simply wasn’t ready to deal with, but now . . . Had he been leading some kind of double life? Seeing other women? The thought was incomprehensible. Matthew, the Matthew she thought she knew, simply wouldn’t. But yet, the evidence was there. She’d seen it with her own eyes.

Doubt assailed Rebecca from all angles. She just didn’t know what to think, to feel. However unsure she was though, however devastated and confused, one thing she knew for certain was that Matthew would die before allowing anything to hurt his children again, to hurt this child. Rebecca wasn’t naïve, not in reality. Men strayed, women did. It was a fact. Love wasn’t invincible, there were no guarantees it was for life, but surely her instincts couldn’t be so wrong. Matthew wouldn’t do this. Couldn’t have.

She wouldn’t judge him. When she saw him, face to face, talked to him, whatever his explanations were, then she would know, then she would judge him. Dragging her unruly tresses from her face, which she hadn’t yet had a chance to brush, Rebecca drew in a long breath. Right now, she needed to pull herself together. She hadn’t caved in before. She’d survived after Lily, after that animal Sullivan had tortured her family in the worst possible way. She’d felt as if she were clinging on by her fingernails sometimes, but she had survived. Never had she thought she’d be so close to the abyss again, but she would not crumble. Mia and Ashley needed her. Matthew did too. And she would be there for him, because though he’d made mistakes, he had always tried to be there for her. For now, until she had Matthew’s side of the story, Rebecca would be strong for her family, because they needed her to be.

Hastily shrugging out of her dressing gown, she reached for her leggings and top and tugged them on. She’d shower later, she decided, quickly tying her hair up in a topknot. Scrutinising herself briefly, she checked again on Mia and then went along the landing. They’d need breakfast of some sort. Perhaps she should ask the reporters outside how long they intended to camp on her lawn and offer them some too, she thought sardonically.

About to tap on Ashley’s door, Rebecca stopped short. Ashley was obviously on the phone to someone. Turning away, Rebecca stopped again, realising she could hear the other person speaking. Jasmine? Fury rising in her craw, even though she didn’t yet know if she had anything to blame the girl for, Rebecca turned back, and listened.

‘I didn’t shag him, if that’s what you’re accusing me of, Ashley,’ Jasmine said defensively.

‘So what time did he leave?’ Ashley asked, holding onto her temper, Rebecca deduced from her tone.

‘I don’t know. I didn’t check the clock.’ Jasmine sounded irritated now. ‘It was late. He left. I went to bed. Obviously he used his time after he left me to go kerb crawling,’ she added nastily. ‘Perhaps you should ask your foster mother why he’d feel the need to.’

Enough. Quashing the anger bubbling inside her, Rebecca eased the door open and slipped quietly inside to see the two girls were Skyping.

‘What was all that crap with Connor?’ Ashley asked, choosing to ignore the previous comment. Rebecca had to admire her restraint.

‘What is this, a blooming inquisition?’ Rebecca heard Jasmine’s peeved reply as she stepped up to the computer. ‘We had an argument. That was all. People do, you know, Ashley. Even your perfect foster parents—’

Obviously noticing Rebecca’s presence — Rebecca making sure she did — Jasmine stopped. ‘Hi, Mrs Adams,’ she said, waving — Rebecca could hardly believe it — and plastering what was fast becoming a very annoying bright smile on her face. ‘How are you?’

‘Pretty crap, actually,’ Rebecca answered honestly. ‘But you will have gleaned that, having watched the video, won’t you?’

‘Oh,’ said Jasmine, glancing sympathetically between Ashley and her. ‘Yes. Sorry about that, Mrs Adams. It was a shitty thing he did but even shittier that someone should upload it. I mean, I can’t imagine what you must be going through.’

Rebecca ignored that. ‘I gather you don’t know what time he left?’ she said, wanting Jasmine to realise she’d overheard her catty remarks.

Jasmine at least had the good grace to look contrite. ‘No. No, I don’t.’

‘So, how long did he stay?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Approximately.’ Rebecca folded her arms and waited.

Jasmine shrugged and glanced away. ‘A while,’ she answered vaguely.

‘Which would be?’ Rebecca pushed on, determined to elicit all the information she could, no matter how painful. ‘One hour? Two?’

‘I’m not sure. An hour and a half, maybe.’ Jasmine’s cheeks flushed. ‘I offered him a coffee,’ she explained, dropping her gaze and fiddling with a long strand of hair. ‘He asked if I had anything stronger and . . . well, he had quite a few actually.’

‘I see.’ Rebecca nodded, though she didn’t see at all. Matthew had turned to drink during his darkest moments: when his father, disgraced and kicked off the force, had taken his own life; after Lily. He would still drink more than was good for him when he was worried, struggling with some gruesome case most likely, but seeing what alcohol had done to his father, to his sister, Matthew had cut down considerably. Drinking more than the legal limit and driving was something he would never do.

Looking Jasmine over, who looked like butter wouldn’t melt, Rebecca steeled herself. ‘Did you sleep with him?’ she asked bluntly.

‘No!’ Jasmine’s gaze shot back to her face. ‘Look,’ she faltered, her eyes drifting down again and then back, ‘I’ll be honest, Mrs Adams, because it’s obvious that your husband isn’t being.’ Again, she hesitated, now looking embarrassed. ‘We had an affair, a while back now, and he wanted to have sex last night, for old time’s sake, but I—’

‘Bullshit!’ Ashley sprang from her chair, almost knocking it over in the process. ‘That’s utter crap, Jasmine, and you know—’

‘I told him no! We just talked!’ Jasmine shouted over her, looking between Ashley, who was visibly fuming, and Rebecca, who was working hard to remain composed.

Focussing on the self-inflicted pain caused by her fingernails digging hard into one of her palms, rather than the pain in her heart, Rebecca held eye contact with Jasmine. She would not give her the satisfaction of seeing her fall apart. ‘About?’ she asked, unsteadily.

Jasmine’s answer to which was another vague shrug. ‘Stuff,’ she said. ‘He’s talked about it before, but he’s obviously still struggling to come to terms with it.’

‘To terms with what?’ Ashley asked, all but spitting the words out.

‘His daughter’s death,’ Jasmine supplied, glancing guardedly at Rebecca and then away again. ‘How he’d held her, after the accident and didn’t want to let her go.’

Rebecca flinched as that revelation hit her like another low blow to the stomach.

‘About how angry and guilty he’d felt,’ Jasmine continued, her eyes flicking back to Rebecca. ‘He said he’d wanted to find the man responsible and kill him. Patrick . . . O’Sullivan or Sullivan, I think he said his name was. He wasn’t making much sense by then, to be honest. He’d had too much to drink.’

Rebecca swallowed back the nausea climbing steadily inside her. ‘What else?’ she asked calmly.

‘That’s utter crap!’ Ashley intervened furiously. ‘Don’t listen to her, Becky.’

But Rebecca wasn’t going to be distracted. ‘What else?’ she demanded.

‘He . . . said his marriage was in trouble. That he’d tried to make a go of it, but it just wasn’t working.’ Again, Jasmine answered falteringly. ‘He said he was lonely, that he just needed someone to talk to. Someone to hold him without any expectations of him.’

Rebecca reeled inwardly as Jasmine’s words sliced through her like the cold steel of a knife.

‘He’s pissed off with the charade, Rebecca,’ Jasmine snapped accusingly, driving her daggers further home. ‘Pretending to be superman. He’s not! He’s human and hurting, just like the rest of us!’

‘You utter cow,’ Ashley seethed. ‘I’ve had enough of this.’ She leaned past Rebecca, about to end the call.

Rebecca stopped her. ‘Did he drive?’ she asked, blocking Ashley with her arm.

‘I told him not to.’ Jasmine’s tone was less hostile. ‘I was concerned about him. I told him to get a taxi home. I even offered him the money, in case he didn’t have the fare, but . . .’ she stopped, glancing away again.

‘But what?’ Rebecca asked, her voice strained, her heart physically breaking.

‘He said he wasn’t going home.’ Jasmine delivered the final stomach-wrenching blow. ‘I think he was disappointed that he . . . we didn’t . . . you know.’

‘I don’t believe you’re doing this,’ Ashley uttered, her astonished gaze on Rebecca. ‘Why are you listening to her?’

Watching Ashley end the call, Becky swallowed back a hard lump of emotion. ‘Because I have to,’ she said, desperately trying to hold onto a sense of reality. Her reality. The Matthew she knew. ‘I have no choice if I want to get to the truth.’

‘Yeah, well, that isn’t it!’ Ashley assured her, shoving her chair back under her desk so hard, the officers downstairs couldn’t fail to have heard it.

Rebecca closed her eyes. ‘I know,’ she said quietly. The girl was a liar, she was sure of it. She’d watched her carefully, recalling what Matthew had once told her about criminal profiling. If a suspect looked up and to the left, he’d said, they’re likely to be activating the creative sensors of the brain, constructing an image to fit their version of events, meaning they’re possibly lying. All the other signs had been there, the blushing, the fiddling with her hair. She might just have been nervous, being questioned by the woman whose husband she’d had designs on — and Jasmine had certainly communicated she had designs on Matthew.

She hadn’t had an affair with him. Rebecca tried to still the rapid rat-a-tat of her heart. She hadn’t! She would have known! Willing the tears back, she looked up to the ceiling. The things she’d said, though, the things that Matthew had supposedly told her, one in particular: how he’d held Lily in his arms, how the medics had had to prise her from him, Matthew had never, ever spoken about that. He found it far too painful. Yet, Jasmine knew. How would she, unless Matthew had told her?

Chapter Eight

That went well, Jasmine smiled, pleased with proceedings. She’d had to adlib a bit, but the affair was a nice touch. That had knocked the wind out of the oh-so-perfect wife’s sails. Dropping her laptop into her bag and hitching it over her shoulder, she had a last check around the apartment. Deciding more obvious indication of a struggle was needed, she walked across to the occasional table the copper had stumbled into, hooked a hand under the top of it and sent it crashing to the floor. His prints would be all over it. Try explaining your way out of that one. The whisky glass she’d made sure his prints were on once he’d passed out wasn’t quite right either. Walking back towards the sofa where she’d parked it on the floor, she kicked that over onto its side spilling the contents, then perused the sofa and debated. Cushions, she thought, despairing of herself. They’d hardly be still neatly fluffed up in corners now, would they? Plucking them up, she tossed them arbitrarily back down, leaving them where they landed. That was better.

Satisfied that the scene was set to fit her telling of events when she gave her statement, stoically recounting details of Adams’ drunken assault on her, she turned back to the front door and picked up her suitcase. She needed to be out of the apartment fast. This would be his first port of call once he was compos, which he probably was by now, and Jasmine didn’t particularly want to be around to greet him. He’d remember being here. Beyond that he’d recall only sketchy images the supplier — who wouldn’t dare blab for fear of Tony collecting his debt, starting with his testicles — had assured her. Even once the drugs were out of his system — all traces disappearing if he didn’t get tested quickly — Adams wouldn’t be able to clearly recall events, she’d also been reliably informed, meaning he’d be well and truly stuffed. Perfect.

Humming, as she pressed the call lift button, Jasmine pondered what the heroic copper’s state of health would be this morning. She hoped he was suffering. And if he wasn’t, he soon would be. Oh, how he would. Jasmine was going to enjoy bringing Adams to his knees.

Twirling her hair around her finger as she waited for the lift to arrive, she imagined what might be going through his disorientated mind. He’d be panicked, obviously, desperately trying to remember what he’d done to get blood on his hands. Would he be worrying about his poor, perfect little family? Wondering what might be going through their minds? What his precious daughters were going to do without their father to provide for them? Jasmine doubted it. Doubted he cared about anyone. More likely, he was only worried about his own skin, imagining what kind of welcome he’d get from the crims he’d arrested when he was banged up behind bars with them. Good. She hoped he was scared shitless.

Jasmine’s buoyant mood evaporated, however, as, stepping into the lift, she managed to get the wheels of her suitcase wedged in the well between the landing and lift doors. ‘Come on. Bloody thing!’ She pulled it, yanked at it, and ended up twisting her wrist. Finally, fuming, she kicked it, a sharp pain shooting through her toe stretching her temper to snapping point. The copper’s fault, she seethed, swiping her hair from her face as the lift doors closed. All of it. Her future plans, utterly destroyed. Her baby. Everything. All his fault. He was going to pay for that, the bastard.

Composing herself as she reached the ground floor, Jasmine stepped into the foyer, relieved to find Connor waiting patiently in the car outside, as instructed. It was handy having him imagining he was her boyfriend. As if he ever stood any chance of being anything beyond useful. Checking his car was the only one in evidence, she headed towards it, throwing her suitcase onto the back seat and hopping into the front.

‘Drive,’ she said, yanking the sun visor down and checking her contact lenses in the mirror. She’d almost poked her eyes out putting them in when Ashley had Skyped her. Jasmine doubted they’d ever seen her as she really was, but even with her features tweaked, pleasingly so, and her lips plumped, it wouldn’t have been a smart move to be seen without those.

‘Drive where?’ Connor asked, starting the engine and glancing towards her.

Her eyes flicking towards him, Jasmine noted he looked as guilty as sin, even though he wasn’t yet aware of the events that had unfolded after he’d scarpered last night. His protestations regarding her failure to deliver on her sex in the car promise had soon been forgotten when she’d told him Adams was, in fact, coming round. She’d only been halfway through telling him she and her friend would deal with it, when she’d heard Connor fire up his engine, the big wuss.

He’d rallied a bit when she’d rung him this morning telling him she’d make up for it, meaning she would have to deliver, she supposed. She needed him, unfortunately, onside and pliable.

‘How about your place?’ she suggested, smiling coquettishly and leaning in to tiptoe her fingers lightly up his thigh.

Taking a huge breath, Connor looked up at the roof upholstery, as she found her target and gently squeezed. ‘Can’t,’ he squeaked, sounding as if he was being asphyxiated.

‘Why not?’ Jasmine asked breathily, her lips working seductively on his ear.

Connor’s shoulders slumped. ‘Me mum’s in.’

His . . . What? Unhanding him, Jasmine pulled back and gawped at him. ‘You are joking, aren’t you, Connor?’ she asked him uncertainly. ‘You still live with your mother?’

Connor’s shoulders sagged further. ‘She’s not well,’ he said defensively, his cheeks colouring up. ‘Hasn’t been since my dad left.’

‘But . . .’ Jasmine was struggling with this. She’d assumed he was sharing, but with his mother? ‘When did he leave?’ she asked, imagining it to be a recent event, since his mother clearly couldn’t move on.

His big hands still clamped on the steering wheel, Connor shrugged awkwardly. ‘When I was ten.’

Jasmine’s eyes boggled. ‘Ten?’

‘She gets down. Needs looking out for. I’m all she’s got.’ Connor paused, now dragging the back of a hand under his nose.

Oh, shit. Jasmine stifled a laugh. The woman’s husband pisses off and Connor’s all she’s got. No wonder she’s depressed.

Hmm? Jasmine furrowed her brow contemplatively. Far from being an inconvenience, Connor having a clingy depressive mother, who would probably hang herself if her son were found to be involved in serious criminal activity, it might just be useful. He wasn’t likely to want her to find out what he’d been up to, was he?

‘Well, I think that’s quite nice,’ she offered sympathetically.

Connor’s hopeful gaze twanged in her direction. ‘You do?’

‘I do.’ Jasmine nodded adamantly, hooking an arm through his and giving it a squeeze. ‘It’s shows strength and compassion.’

‘It does?’ Connor sounded doubtful.

‘Definitely,’ Jasmine assured him. ‘A man who looks after the women in his life is a real man in my book.’ She moved to plant a kiss on his cheek. ‘Come on, let’s drive.’

Fastening her seatbelt, Jasmine checked around for signs of Adams, who might show up at any minute. His car was still here, which meant he’d either be on foot or in a taxi, but show up he would. And it wasn’t only his car he’d be looking for.

‘Where to?’ Connor repeated, sounding more chipper.

And definitely malleable, Jasmine thought happily. Like putty in her hands.

‘The woods.’ She indicated the open woodland bordering the apartments. ‘Let’s find a nice secluded spot, shall we?’

* * *

No neighbours, Matthew recalled that much, which meant he’d have to force an entry. And no doubt be picked up by the security camera in the foyer while he was at it, he realised, which might look like he was attempting to tamper with evidence. He couldn’t afford for that to happen, couldn’t afford to be picked up on camera full stop.

Shit! He needed to find another way. He needed to get inside that apartment. If there was any chance of finding traces of the drugs he’d been pumped full of, he needed to do it now. Pulling his hand away from the entry phone system, he noticed he still had a bad case of the shakes. Despite attempting to freshen up in a garage toilet, he also looked like death, and obvious, still wearing his wedding jacket. He shouldn’t be hanging around outside here, where he might be seen.

That video was part of some sick plot to involve him in something much more worrying, that much was clear. Recalling the blood spatters, the thin trickle of blood washing over the spider as it swirled down the plughole, Matthew felt a fresh wave of panic clutch at his insides. He had no way of knowing whether events had taken a new twist either, whether there might be a manhunt already underway, meaning they would be trying to track him via CCTV generally, as well as GPS signals and Smartpay devices. Number plate recognition, too. Dammit. He glanced towards his car still parked outside the apartments.

There would already be footage, of course, he realised. The foyer camera would have picked him up entering the building. Also leaving, which had definitely not been under his own steam. That was something he needed to get hold of. And fast. There might also be footage of the incident after the wedding reception, which could substantiate his story of why he had taken the girl home and then decided to go in with her.

Why the hell had he? On his own? he asked himself for the millionth time as he walked around the building looking for possible ways in. Because he’d been a bloody idiot, not following protocol. More often than not, he was infuriated by the red tape and ‘Duty of Care’ crap they had to abide by. Sometimes, though, that protocol was there for their own protection. And he, being a law unto himself, had decided to flaunt it.

Cursing his stupidity, Matthew tried various ground floor windows, checking for cameras as he went and feeling very much like a criminal. Finding no conveniently accessible windows — did he really expect there to be? — he dragged his hand exasperatedly through his hair and turned to head back towards the front of the building, and then stopped and ducked back.

Seeing the Residential Floorings van pull up in front of the foyer, he thanked God for one small mercy, and quickly considered his options. Guessing he had none, other than to front it out and hope they fell for it, he gave the fitters time to access the back of the van and then walked up to the foyer door after them, messing up his hair and making sure to look the worse for wear as he went. He really didn’t have to try too hard at that.

‘Cheers, mate,’ the guy on the backend of the roll of carpet they were carrying thanked him, as Matthew reached to hold the door for him. And then, noting Matthew’s attire, ‘Late night?’ he asked him, with a knowing smirk.

Matthew raised his eyebrows and smiled tiredly — he didn’t have to try at that either. ‘Very,’ he said, feigning a yawn and following the man in.

Reaching the apartment, Matthew checked for cameras and then, ringing the doorbell several times first, decided to gain access the only way he could and forced the front door. Pausing briefly in the small, sparsely furnished hall, he listened for sounds of anyone home, and then went straight to the lounge — and stopped dead. Upturned table, he noted immediately, his heart sinking. Cushions strewn across the room. Matthew closed his eyes, an image of them neatly arranged in corners flashing blindingly through his mind. Abstract picture, hanging askew. He swallowed hard. One overturned tumbler, the stench from the puddle of spilled whisky next to it overpowering.

Jesus Christ. Fear, like icy fingers, clutched at his chest. Had he done this? Was it possible that he’d had some kind of alcoholic blackout?

No! Frantically he tried to remember. This is not what happened!

Nausea sweeping through him, Matthew headed to the bathroom and, using his jacket as some protection against fingerprints, he searched the cabinet, hoping against hope to find something, anything. Futilely, he went through drawers in the bedroom, kitchen cupboards, bins. Then, coming at last to a useless standstill back in the lounge, he dragged his hands over his face and turned full circle. She would have ‘cleaned up’. He’d guessed she would have done that, disposed of any items that might incriminate her. He hadn’t been sure whether he would find anything, any evidence of the cocktail of drugs she’d fed him would have been a small miracle. But he hadn’t expected to find this. Evidence that would damn him. Clear signs of a struggle, pointing to him having been aggressive.

‘Fuck!’ No. No way! Cursing, Matthew turned and headed fast for the front door.

Gulping back deep breaths as he hit fresh air, he attempted to quell his spiralling panic. He needed to think, try to get his facts straight. He most definitely needed any footage of him leaving that apartment. If anyone could get hold of that, as in be willing to dig around unofficially — Matthew prayed it hadn’t become official business yet — his former detective sergeant could. Aware from his earlier message that Steve had seen the video, Matthew reached for the pay as you go phone and thumbed in Steve’s number, and then braced himself.

‘Steve?’ he said when he picked up. ‘It’s—’

‘You prat!’ Steve said over him.

‘And some,’ Matthew agreed wholeheartedly, relieved to hear his friend’s gruff tones, despite his observations.

‘What the hell were you doing?’ Steve asked him, his tone a mixture of disbelief and astonishment.

‘Would you believe me if I said I had no idea?’ Feeling jaded to his very bones, Matthew dragged a hand over his neck and glanced up at the late summer sky as he walked, taking a second to realise how beautiful it was. He should have stopped before now, smelled the roses. Done what Steve had done after the Sullivan shit and got off the force. Steve had been shot. Shot down like a dog, trying to help him, risking his own job in the process, risking his life. Becky had almost been murdered. Driven close to insanity by the psychopath’s sickening taunting, his filthy hands touching her, sliding all over her. Seeing again the symbolic red stilettos the sick freak had forced his wife to wear, one of which Ashley had wedged in the bastard’s temple, Matthew’s thoughts went off at a tangent, his recollection now not of the red stilettos, but of the long, spiked heel of one silver shoe pressing into his own. One of Jasmine’s shoes? His hand moving to his forehead, Matthew found a small indentation there and groped desperately for more than a fleeting memory. Nothing. Any recollection he did have he couldn’t be sure weren’t fragments snatched from his nightmares.

‘Your claim to fame, was it?’ Steve suggested drolly.

‘Infamy, more like,’ Matthew said despondently. He had to fill him in, he realised. He’d have no way forward without Steve’s help, therefore no choice but to bare his bloody soul and admit what a weak specimen of manhood he was. ‘I wasn’t there willingly, Steve,’ he admitted, shame — which seemed to be his constant shadow — washing over him again.

‘Oh?’ Steve sounded dubious at best.

Realising there was no way to tell it other than the way it was, Matthew steeled himself, then, ‘I was drugged, Steve,’ he said simply, and paused, guessing it would take a second for Steve to glean the implication of that revelation.

‘Drugged?’ Steve spluttered incredulously, after a second. ‘You mean . . . ?’

‘Unwilling,’ Matthew admitted, his throat tight. ‘There’s no way I would go out looking for it, Steve. You must know me well enough to know that.’

‘You mean, as in . . .’ Steve stopped, as if he couldn’t quite get his head around it.

‘Rohypnol,’ Matthew supplied, now feeling acutely embarrassed, and very aware of how a victim of sexual assault might feel having to reveal that in a soulless interview room. ‘Something else in there, obviously.’

‘Shit!’ Steve emitted a long, slow whistle. ‘Do you know who?’ he asked, sounding less incredulous. ‘I mean presumably it wasn’t the hooker? Unless she was planning on early retirement and full board in a nice cosy cell?’

He believed him. Thank Christ. Overwhelming relief sweeping through him, Matthew closed his eyes and nodded. ‘I think so, yes,’ he said hoarsely, ‘but—’

‘You need to get your arse into the station,’ Steve cut in determinedly. ‘I’m assuming you haven’t already gone in, as the delightful DCI Davies has just rung here looking for you. You need to get tested, Matt. Now. The drug only stays in the system for—’

‘I can’t,’ Matthew stated adamantly.

‘Right.’ Steve didn’t sound impressed. ‘Would you like to explain?’

If only he could. Matthew braced himself to get to the point of the call. ‘There’s more to it. Than the video, I mean.’

‘Such as?’ Steve sounded wary.

Matthew hesitated. ‘Blood,’ he said quietly. ‘In the bed. The bath. Spatters on the walls. Pretty much everywhere.’

Steve didn’t answer straightaway, causing a fresh wave of panic to grip Matthew’s insides. If Steve didn’t help him on this . . . ‘Not yours, I take it?’ he asked, eventually.

‘Not mine, no. I have minor injuries though, scratches,’ Matthew answered honestly.

Steve paused again. Matthew guessed he was finding this hard to digest. ‘Where?’

‘Torso and neck. Caused by fingernails, at a guess. Deeper gouges to the face: cheek, left hand side.’ Again Matthew answered honestly, which was probably going to make his next statement seem totally implausible. ‘I didn’t do it, Steve. Whatever violence went on in that room, I didn’t do it.’ At least, not with his knowledge he hadn’t. Matthew swallowed hard on that thought.

‘I don’t doubt it,’ Steve said immediately. ‘The question is how the hell did you get yourself into it?’ Matthew heard his frustrated intake of breath. ‘Look, forget that,’ Steve went on. ‘You’ve said. Whatever, you need to go in and get tested. Immediately, Matt. There will only be residual amounts in your system as it is. The drugs will be virtually undetectable if fluid samples aren’t taken. They won’t get anything from hair samples yet. You know this. I shouldn’t have to be telling you.’

‘I can’t,’ Matthew repeated, forcefully. ‘Not yet.’

‘Oh, for . . .’ Steve sounded exasperated now.

‘Think about it, Steve. There’s a video out there, blood all over the room. The scratches, meaning there’s DNA evidence of . . . Christ knows what. I have no recollection that makes any sense. None. I need something before I go to the station. Anything. Do you honestly think this is going to stop here?’

Steve went quiet again. ‘Does sound a bit iffy,’ he offered at length.

Matthew almost reeled with relief. ‘It’s a set-up of some sort. I don’t know why. I don’t know what, but . . .’ he faltered, guessing what Steve’s reaction to his next claim might be ‘. . . I suspect it’s something to do with Sullivan.’

‘Oh, blimey, Matt . . .’ Steve sighed long and hard. ‘Not that, again. The man’s dead and buried, for Pete’s sake. He’s not a freakin’ ghost come back to haunt you.’

Matthew almost laughed at the irony of that statement. ‘Jasmine, the girl who drugged me—’

‘Who?’

‘Long story. I don’t have time, Steve, as you’ve just pointed out. There’s evidence of a struggle in her apartment.’

‘It gets better and better,’ Steve observed flatly.

‘It’s staged, Steve. I swear to God . . .’ Matthew trailed off, hoping that that’s what it was, because he couldn’t even begin to contemplate the alternative. ‘Look, the point is she removed one of her shoes.’

‘Seems like that’s not all she removed,’ was Steve’s dry retort.

He was entitled to that, Matthew supposed. ‘One shoe, Steve, a stiletto.’

‘And?’

‘She pressed the heel of it into my temple. Remind you of anything?’

Steve didn’t answer.

‘Not coincidence, Steve,’ Matthew insisted forcefully. ‘Not this time. No way.’

Still, Steve didn’t comment.

‘Steve?’ Matthew prayed again hard, willing him to believe that the possibility of a link was there, however ludicrous it might seem. Because if what Matthew suspected was right, then he definitely wasn’t the only target, and that thought scared him above anything else.

‘What do you need?’ Steve had obviously mulled it over and conceded the possibility.

Offering up a prayer of gratitude, Matthew blew out the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding in. ‘CCTV footage for starters,’ he supplied. ‘There are security cameras in the foyer of her apartment building. I’m guessing I came out the same way I went in.’

‘Not quite,’ Steve pointed out.

Matthew’s mouth twitched into a small smile. ‘The same from the wedding reception we were at last night. I’m hoping the hotel will have security cameras overlooking the car park. There was an incident, an argument. The girl’s boyfriend lashed out and—’

‘You intervened.’ Steve sighed exasperatedly. ‘Why am I not surprised?’

Matthew could almost see him rolling his eyes. ‘He knows me so well,’ he joked weakly.

‘Unfortunately,’ Steve grumbled. ‘The bloke’ll be the death of me, I swear.’

It was Matthew’s turn to go quiet then.

‘No pun intended,’ Steve added, sounding apologetic, as if he ever needed to. ‘So, names?’ he said, quickly glossing over the fact that Matthew had almost been the death of him. ‘Jasmine what and who? I take it you want me to do some digging around?’

Matthew sighed inwardly. Kneading his forehead with the heel of his hand, he scrambled through his dysfunctional brain and came up with nothing. No surnames. Dammit. ‘The boyfriend’s called Connor. They’re both students at the college. I don’t have surnames, sorry.’

‘Good job I’m an ex-detective then, innit?’ Steve quipped. ‘Right, well, ID shouldn’t be a problem. Getting access to the CCTV footage might be a bit tricky.’ He thought about it for a second, then, ‘I’ll chat up DS Collins.’

Again, Matthew felt a huge surge of relief. Jamie Collins had been majorly unimpressed with him once. She’d been undercover, covertly collecting information regarding Sullivan’s drug dealings. Matthew’s ‘obsession’ with Sullivan had jeopardised the operation. Provoked by Sullivan, whose continual gibes every time Matthew encountered him had turned to new threats aimed at his family, Matthew had lost it big time and beat the piece of scum to a pulp, meaning a charge was made against him. Investigations pending, he was suspended, which is exactly what Sullivan had wanted. Jamie was pulled, and subsequently she’d made it pretty obvious she thought Matthew was a complete waste of space.

She’d been sympathetic once she’d realised his ‘obsession’, his insistence that Sullivan had been responsible for his daughter’s death, was founded. Becky being kidnapped and tortured had helped sway her opinion. She’d been there for him ever since, on his team, even confiding that the experience had taught her a lesson, reminding her not to judge someone guilty, no matter how damning things looked.

‘Good idea,’ he said, hoping Jamie knew him well enough not to judge him now.

‘Yeah, not sure the missus will think so,’ Steve replied worriedly. ‘She’ll probably reserve a spot for me in the dog kennels. She’ll chop bits of me off and feed them to the dogs if she knows I’m going anywhere near the force, let alone chatting up a female member thereof.’

‘Sorry, Steve.’ Matthew felt bad for him. Lindsey would definitely give him one of her killer looks but Matthew doubted she’d actually chop him up. They’d worked hard building up the dog kennels though, renovating it from rundown, which hadn’t been easy for Steve, whose spinal injury still gave him trouble. The last thing Matthew wanted to do was jeopardise anything for him. ‘I wouldn’t ask, but . . .’

‘Not a problem. I’ll bat my beautiful eyes at her and limp a bit. She’ll soon come round.’

Matthew couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Who could resist?’

‘Talking of Lindsey, she’s just back from dog walking,’ Steve said, lowering his voice. ‘I’ll get on this pronto. You going to give me a number, or you going to ring back?’

‘I’ll ring back,’ Matthew assured him. ‘Steve, one more thing.’

‘Yes?’ Steve’s tone was back to wary.

‘Wheels,’ Matthew said hesitantly. ‘I’m thinking it’s not a good idea to use my car and I hoped you’d, er—’

‘Consider it done,’ Steve said straight up. ‘Give me half an hour and then give me a ring and I’ll meet you. I’ll bring a rental. Oh, and I’ll bring you a bottle to piss in while I’m at it.’

‘So eloquent.’ Matthew smiled and signed off, grateful he had someone he could confide in who wouldn’t assume he’d finally flipped completely. It had taken an awful lot of persuading to convince his supervising officers he was capable of doing his job when his psych report had come back borderline.

Chapter Nine

Slumped down in the driver’s seat, the cap Steve had supplied him, along with a change of clothes, pulled down low, Matthew checked his watch and waited. Steve had come good, background checks on Connor producing an address, plus a profile which, in Matthew’s mind, wasn’t typical of a man who thought it was reasonable to give a woman a ‘slap’ to keep her in her place. The guy had no previous. Sole carer to his mother: a woman suffering clinical depression. Stress might have caused him to flip possibly. But then, Jasmine, whose background check made her look like Snow White, had seemed pretty petrified of him when Connor had approached her at the reception. Or given a good impression of being, because Snow White Jasmine was most definitely not.

None of what Matthew could recall made any sense. He was still having trouble distinguishing between drug-induced dream and reality, but she had pressed the heel of that shoe into his temple. Matthew was now positive he remembered that much. Her ranting and raving as she’d circled around him, like a predator closing in on its prey, was no drug-fuelled hallucination either. Matthew couldn’t recall much of what she’d said; the words were disjointed, floating teasingly around in his head, leading him nowhere. Somehow, someone linked to Sullivan was behind this though. Matthew was sure of it. Someone higher up the food chain? Tony Hayes possibly, who’d probably held him as responsible as he had Sullivan when a jointly funded drugs consignment had gone astray, leaving the man badly out of pocket. But then, if Hayes really thought he’d had a hand in their disappearance, why wait until now and go to such lengths to set him up? If he really imagined Matthew had lined his own pockets, then surely he would have come after him before now, resorted to his usual violent methods of extracting information, information which Matthew didn’t actually have. Despite an investigation, the drugs had never turned up. The assumption was that one of Sullivan’s own had diverted them and that they’d hit the streets some other way. And where did Jasmine fit in? She wasn’t typical of a user, someone desperate enough for her next fix to do anything for it. Hadn’t she said something about an inheritance? A considerable one judging by the apartment she was living in. There was no way an addict would be able to sustain that standard of living.

Christ, he was going around in circles. Frustrated by his inability to think straight, sure that he’d be as likely to be believed by his superiors as the last time he’d supposedly fixated on Sullivan, Matthew banged his hand against the steering wheel, and then looked up sharply, adjusting the rear-view mirror as a car cruised to a stop at the kerb behind him.

Connor, home from college to check on his mother. Matthew had banked on him being a caring enough carer to do that. He hadn’t banked on him being accompanied by his mates though. He noted the other occupants of the vehicle, three, all male, and decided the prudent thing to do would be to wait.

Luck must be on his side after all, Matthew thought cynically, watching as Connor exited from the back passenger seat, alone. Keeping low, Matthew waited for the car to drive on past and then, seeing Connor was almost at his front door, he climbed out.

‘Connor Preston?’ he called. ‘Can I have a word?’

Connor turned back, his brow furrowed in confusion.

‘DI Adams.’ Removing the cap, Matthew re-introduced himself. ‘I wondered if I could have a quick chat.’

‘Shit,’ Connor muttered, paling as the penny obviously dropped.

‘We could talk inside if you like?’ Nodding towards the house, Matthew took a step towards him.

‘About what?’ Connor looked him over, his expression a mixture of fear and trepidation.

‘Last night. The unlawful events of.’

Gulping, Connor took a step back. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’

‘The staged performance outside the hotel, Connor.’ Trying not to lose his cool and spook the guy, meaning he’d get nothing, Matthew kept his tone measured. ‘What was that all about?’

‘I told you, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’ Connor looked belligerent now, and had obviously decided to stick to his guns.

‘Right.’ Matthew appraised him. Clearly, not spooking the guy wasn’t going to work. ‘And the hotel room?’ He paused, watching as Connor went a shade paler. ‘You have no idea what I’m talking about there either, I suppose?’

Now looking panic struck, Connor glanced quickly towards his front door and then past him.

‘Do you think you’ll like prison food, Connor?’ Matthew enquired casually. ‘Because that’s what you’re going to be eating for the foreseeable future if your memory doesn’t oblige soon.’

‘I wasn’t . . . I didn’t . . .’ Connor gulped again, hard.

‘Not that I imagine you’ll have much of an appetite given there are men in there that would prefer to eat you for breakfast.’ Matthew waited for that to sink in, and then, ‘I’d start talking if I were you,’ he suggested. ‘Starting with the whereabouts of Jasmine.’

At that, Connor stumbled another step back, hesitated, and then swiftly about-faced and attempted to make a bolt for it.

Hindered by a rose bush as he fled, however, Matthew was on him in seconds. ‘You’re not doing yourself any favours, Connor,’ he warned him, grabbing hold of his collar. ‘Where is she?’

Connor, it seemed, definitely wasn’t in the mood for sharing. ‘Piss off,’ he spat as Matthew attempted to twirl him around to face him. Then, ducking out of his grasp, Connor took his chance and gave Matthew a heavy shove backwards, which really wasn’t a good idea, Matthew decided, because he was more desperate than this bloke was. More desperate by far.

‘Don’t,’ he warned him regaining his balance, as Connor moved threateningly towards him. Connor, though, clearly wasn’t about to heed his warning, and balled his fist and swung hard.

Idiot. His personal safety training coming to the fore, fury driving him, Matthew reacted instinctively. Stepping to his side and in behind him, he grabbed the man’s extended arm, dead legging him from behind as he did, then bringing the arm swiftly and violently back. Simultaneously, he brought his own left arm up and under the man’s chin, forcing him backwards over his own leg. Connor landed heavily, twisting onto his side, and Matthew wasted no time. Dropping down fast after him, his bodyweight pinning him down, he forced his knee hard into the squirming man’s shoulder.

‘Bad move, sunshine,’ he grated, wiping a hand across his mouth. ‘Where is she?’

‘I don’t know!’ Connor spluttered. ‘I haven’t seen her!’

‘Since when?’

‘Yesterday!’ Connor definitely sounded desperate now. ‘You’re hurting me!’

‘Bullshit!’ Matthew breathed in, counting hard in his head as he resisted the urge to do the man permanent damage. He knows. He knows what had happened to him. He’d been at the apartment, at the hotel room, Matthew was sure of it. And there was no way the girl would have been able to move an unconscious man on her—

‘Oi, you!’ Matthew’s thoughts were cut short by a shout from behind. ‘Get off him!’ the man closing in on him growled, his tone menacing.

Shit! Matthew eased off a fraction, but didn’t let go. Obviously his mates had glanced back and cottoned on to something. So now what did he do?

‘You heard him,’ another man said, coming to stand by Matthew’s side. Attempting to assess the situation, Matthew checked out his footwear. Trainers, he noted. If they were looking for trouble, they couldn’t do too much damage with those he was thinking, when he received an almighty kick from the other side.

‘Lay off him, you bastard,’ whoever had delivered the blow seethed, putting the boot in again. Another low body blow to the kidneys followed, causing Matthew to keel over. ‘Call the police, Joe!’ the owner of the boot yelled.

Matthew didn’t get a chance to ID himself verbally or any other way, before somebody else delivered a heel kick to the side of his head.

‘Already called ’em, mate,’ the trainer guy shouted, clutching hold of the back of Matthew’s jacket, as he rolled clear of Connor and attempted to heave himself from the ground.

Jesus. Matthew felt a heavyweight press down on his shoulders as he levered himself to his knees.

‘Sit on him!’ the boot guy shouted. More of them on him then, determined to force him face down. Aware of the wheeze in his chest, of distant sirens growing louder, Matthew fought to stay on all fours. With their combined weight on him, they’d bloody well kill him.

‘Go down, you stubborn bugger.’ Someone jabbed a fist, or an elbow, Matthew couldn’t tell, into the back of his neck.

‘Hold him! Keep him down!’ the boot guy instructed.

His strength ebbing, Matthew couldn’t tell who was shouting what anymore. Couldn’t breathe. He felt the gravel of the path bite into his cheek, his lungs compress, as several bodies on top of him squeezed the air from his chest.

That was it. He was stuffed. Matthew clamped his eyes closed, his heart plummeting as he heard the squeal of tyres behind him, followed by a distinct clunk as a car mounted the kerb. He heard the car door open. A scuffle of feet, as the driver climbed out, then, ‘That’s enough, lads,’ someone yelled. ‘Police! Let the man up.’

‘Yerwhat?’ one of the men holding Matthew down gasped, disbelieving. ‘Don’t be daft. He’ll leg it.’

‘I very much doubt it. He’s a copper,’ was the droll reply. ‘I’d get off him pronto, if I were you.’

Thank God. The fight almost out of him, Matthew physically wilted, as his captives climbed reluctantly off, one of them grumbling grudgingly about police brutality as they did. Another pair of feet came into view then, one leg with a distinct limp. ‘Come on, up we come.’ Steve crouched down to his level. ‘Looks like this is another fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into, doesn’t it?’

‘Definitely.’ Winded and hoarse, Matthew gratefully grabbed the hand Steve offered him. ‘You’re my guardian angel,’ he joked shakily as Steve helped him to standing.

‘Yeah.’ Steve rolled his eyes. ‘What I want to know is when do I get some bloody holiday leave?’

Matthew tried to smile, but winced instead, as a sharp pain shot through his shoulder.

‘All right?’ Steve asked, looking him over, his brow knitted in the permanent worried furrow he always seemed to wear around Matthew.

Massaging his bruises, Matthew nodded and then reached to wipe a trickle of blood from his mouth. ‘I’ll live,’ he assured him.

‘Just about.’ Shaking his head despairingly, Steve looked towards where the sirens were growing louder. ‘You need to go in, boss,’ he said, his tone grave. ‘You’re not achieving anything like this.’

‘Can’t.’ Matthew was resolute.

‘Oh, for fu—’ Steve looked at him, now utterly despairing. ‘You’re not doing anything out here that won’t get done at the station. Come on, Matt, see sense.’

Matthew noted he hadn’t said that you can’t do from the station. Meaning Steve knew as well as he did that he wouldn’t be functional if he went in now. He’d be suspended at best, banged up at worst, powerless to do anything in his own defence.

‘I have to see Natalie, Steve,’ he said adamantly, and attempted to dust himself free of the grit from the ground.

‘She’ll get seen,’ Steve insisted. ‘They’ll find her. Give me a break, hey, boss. They’ll be sending plod around to arrest me at this rate.’

Matthew’s gaze snapped back to Steve’s. ‘They’re ready to make arrests then?’ he asked warily, assuming the hotel room and suspect evidence therein had been discovered.

‘No. Not yet, as far as I know, but it’s only a matter of time before they realise you’re on the missing—’

‘I know Natalie, Steve,’ Matthew implored him. ‘She’ll talk to me.’

Steve’s gaze flicked again in the direction of the sirens, which were closing in fast, and then back to Matthew. ‘Go.’ He nodded towards the car he’d loaned him. ‘And text me a number,’ he called as, emitting a huge sigh of gratitude, Matthew headed for it.

* * *

Rebecca felt goosebumps prickle her skin as Detective Chief Inspector Davies stepped into her hall. Nodding his thanks at the officer who’d opened the door, DCI Davies looked towards her.

‘Rebecca,’ he greeted her, with the kind of forced smile that immediately had foreboding washing all over her. ‘How are you?’

‘She’s bloody ecstatic,’ Ashley supplied, coming down the stairs with a still fretful Mia hitched on her hip. ‘How else would she be with reporters camped on her lawn, policemen crawling all over the house, and her husband plastered all over . . .’ Glancing worriedly at Rebecca, she trailed awkwardly off.

‘Bwoody static,’ Mia emulated, around the thumb plugged into her mouth.

‘Shhhh.’ Ashley heaved her up in her arms. ‘That’s a rubbish word,’ she told her, pressing a finger to her nose, and then quickly tickling her tummy while she was distracted. Just like Matthew would, Rebecca realised, her heart constricting inside her, as Mia let out a squeal of laughter.

‘Sorry, silly question,’ DCI Davies apologised, his expression now somewhere between sympathetic and solemn.

‘It’s fine. What can I do for you, John?’ Rebecca managed, attempting some sort of civility.

‘I need to have a little word,’ John said, his eyes now definitely holding a warning. ‘You know DS Collins.’ He indicated the woman police officer behind him, who Rebecca did know, by Christian name, as she did many of Matthew’s colleagues, and which John had pointedly not used.

Trepidation twisting inside her, Rebecca acknowledged the woman, who offered her a concerned smile. ‘Jamie,’ she said, but she couldn’t muster up a smile back. The fact that he’d brought a female officer with him told Rebecca that something had happened. Something more dreadful, if that were possible, than her husband’s apparent infidelity broadcast via the internet for the whole world to see. Matthew had hinted at more. What? Had he had an affair with Jasmine? Rebecca felt her stomach clench sickeningly again. Was that about to be made public as well? She didn’t think she could bear it. For pity’s sake, why didn’t Davies just spit it out, instead of loitering in her hall looking exactly like a policeman about to deliver bad news?

Pulling in a fortifying breath, Rebecca braced herself. ‘I’m all ears, John,’ she said.

John hovered, uncertain for a second, and then stepped forward and gently took hold of her arm. ‘Do you mind if we, er . . .’ Glancing meaningfully back at Ashley, now at the foot of the stairs, he indicated the lounge.

Gulping back her thudding heart, which felt as if it might implode inside her, Rebecca nodded and led the way.

‘Well?’ she asked, turning questioningly towards him, as Jamie followed them in.

‘It’s about Matthew,’ DCI Davies finally imparted, glancing at Jamie, who turned unbidden to quietly close the door.

‘I gathered.’ A silent scream building inside her, as the man insisted on dragging it out, Rebecca reached agitatedly to stuff an errant tendril of hair behind her ear. As if it mattered how she looked. As if anything mattered. ‘John, what?’ she implored him.

‘Has he been in touch?’ John asked.

And Rebecca felt her legs go weak beneath her. She’d been beginning to think . . . Dear God. Gulping back hard, Rebecca vanquished images her mind had just conjured up of her husband lying cold and lonely on a mortuary slab. She’d been so sure he was going to say something had happened to Matthew. That she would never see him again, the tenderness in his eyes as he looked at little Mia; when he looked at her, held her in his arms, touched her, made love to her, to the very core of her. He was breaking her heart. Right now, he was tearing her apart, but he did love her. She was as sure of that as her love for him. Jasmine had been lying through her teeth. She did trust him. Rebecca repeated it again, like a mantra, over and over.

‘Becky?’ John urged her.

‘No. No he hasn’t.’ Gathering herself, Rebecca lied. She had no idea why, other than that Matthew had said he needed time. Privately she was praying, though, that in giving him that time, Matthew might somehow make her heart whole again.

John sighed heavily. His face sombre, he studied her quizzically for a second, then, ‘He’s leaving me no choice, I’m afraid. We have to bring him in, Becky,’ he said. ‘I’ve given instructions for Matthew’s details to be circulated on the Police National Computer.’

* * *

Matthew had picked up the vibes immediately. Word was out on the street and there were one or two people who had made it obvious they would take great pleasure in beating the crap out of him. According to his would-be assailants, blokes who would sell their grannies on street corners, he was the lowest of the low: a copper abusing his position and taking advantage of the services on offer without paying for them. The story going around was that the disgruntled sex worker therefore had decided to name and shame him by posting the video all over the internet. Matthew had declined the invitation to offer explanations to a proprietor of a club who’d suggested his bouncers might be inclined to escort him outside. Pointing out the age of one of the strippers gyrating on stage — underage — Matthew had managed to walk away relatively unscathed.

Doubting his reception at Tony Hayes’ club would be any more cordial, Matthew went in anyway, noting the contemptuous glances from his heavies as he did. They weren’t slow to impart their opinion of him as he waited for Hayes, who was taking his own sweet time.

‘Scum,’ one Neanderthal spat, as in actually spat, as he sauntered past him, clearly confident that Matthew wouldn’t touch him.

Yep, that would be me. Glancing down, lest the man read the considerable contempt simmering inside him, Matthew laughed disdainfully and wiped the gob from his shoe with the heel of his other.

At last the doors to the ‘Gold’ lounge — reserved for A list clientele, as in men whose careers would suffer if their sordid sexual predilections were splashed all over the papers — swung open and the man himself appeared, two henchmen close behind him and blowing a fat cloud of cigar smoke out in front of him.

‘Well, I never, it’s our squeaky-clean cop come to pay us a visit.’

Tony Hayes, a short, stocky, ugly bastard, whose hard as nails expression rarely altered, stopped in front of Matthew, his heavy jowls curving into a smirk. Obviously, he was finding his predicament highly amusing.

‘So what can we do for you, Detective?’ he asked him, perusing him leisurely. ‘Quickie upstairs, is it? We’ve got a gorgeous new girl, Sierra. Dark hair, legs up to her armpits, fantastic tits. Young, but old enough, if you get my drift. Right up your street, I imagine.’

His disdain now in danger of becoming all too apparent, Matthew didn’t bat an eyelid. He wouldn’t give the slimy piece of shit the satisfaction.

‘She’s happy enough to do all the work,’ Hayes went on, alluding to the video and clearly enjoying himself. ‘You’d have to bung her a bit, depending on what you want, but she’s worth it.’

Shaking his head, Matthew glanced down and back. ‘It was set up, Hayes, as you well know.’

‘Was it?’ Hayes widened his eyes in mock surprise. ‘Honestly, the levels some people will sink to. Blackmail, is it?’ He looked at Matthew interestedly, as if he gave a stuff.

‘I wondered if you might know anything about it, Tony?’ Matthew maintained his composure. Making outright accusations would get him nowhere, other than escorted none too gently from the premises. He was here unofficially, and Hayes and his mindless thugs knew it.

‘And why would that be, detective?’ His eyes narrowing to icy slits, Hayes cocked his head curiously to one side.

Sensing two hefty men moving to position themselves at the door behind him, Matthew cautioned himself to play it cool. ‘I’m not sure.’ He shrugged. ‘I was hoping you might enlighten me. Unfinished business, maybe?’

‘Which would be?’ Hayes studied him, his expression hardening to its usual cold, uncompromising glare.

‘Payback for a certain drugs consignment that went mysteriously missing?’ Matthew suggested, guessing Hayes wasn’t exactly going to be forthcoming.

His thick eyebrows shooting upwards, Hayes’ eyes widened again, this time with genuine surprise. ‘Oh, do me a favour, Detective.’ He laughed scornfully. ‘Do you honestly think I’d get involved in anything as tacky as taking porno flicks of you shagging some sad little slapper?’ Looking Matthew incredulously over, he shook his head and turned away, gesturing his heavies to stand down as he did.

‘It’s amateurish, Adams,’ he said, heading for the bar. ‘The sort of thing kids or idiots would do. I mean, given the right incentive, the girl would open her mouth to the law as fast as she’d opened her legs anyway. So what would it actually achieve?’

A drink produced and handed to him in record time, Hayes turned back. ‘No, Detective Adams. It’s not my style,’ he assured him, eyeing Matthew contemplatively over the rim of his glass. ‘If I’d wanted payback, I’d have taken it some other way, trust me on that.’

He could have been playing him, but Matthew thought not. The man was ruthless in his dealings with anyone who crossed him, but somehow always managed to keep his hands clean. Targeting a copper so openly using people he couldn’t trust to keep their mouths shut really wasn’t the way Hayes operated. Knowing there was nothing further to be gained, Matthew left, unassisted, to try any other avenues he could, most of which were fast becoming closed to him.

The girls on the street were pissed with him, inevitably, he soon learned. Matthew had worked hard over the years at gaining their trust. Making it clear to every sex worker he came into contact with that he never sampled the goods, free or otherwise, had eventually won him a grudging respect, also securing him useful informants in various places. Now he appeared to have broken that trust, he was finding it difficult to get anyone to talk to him at all. He was only moderately surprised when one girl he approached, eyed him disdainfully, blew out a fat bubble of gum, and then popped it in his face. ‘Up yours, copper,’ she said, raising a middle finger and walking away.

He spent several more hours scouring the streets, handing out what money he had like it was going out of fashion. Over the years he’d offered girls more than the amount he might normally part with for information, which tended to be more than he should. Steve had called him naïve, pointing out that they were more likely to nip up the road to their supplier for their next fix than get out of the rain and grab a coffee.

Steve was right. Clearly, he was naïve. Never in his wildest dreams would Matthew have imagined Natalie being coerced into . . . screwing him, basically. She’d obviously received some inducement. Some bloody considerable inducement. But then, it was business, after all. He’d just been another sad punter at the end of the day. Another loser.

Weary with pounding the pavements and getting nowhere, and the grey drabness all around him, which seemed to be seeping into his bones, Matthew tried to quell the bitterness gnawing away at him. He’d genuinely had a soft spot for Natalie. Seeing her lying in a hospital bed, having been on the receiving end of Sullivan’s handiwork, he’d promised her the animal would get what was coming to him. He’d made good his promise. He’d covered Natalie’s back ever since. Disappointment didn’t come close to how he felt now. Used, was the only way to describe it. Abused. He quashed that thought down along with the humiliation that went with it and headed back to Natalie’s bedsit, a pit compared to the upmarket pad Sullivan had had her installed in, the one she frequently ‘walked into doors’ in.

He’d called earlier, got no answer. No surprise there. Matthew doubted she’d be home however many times he called. And if she was, he very much doubted she’d roll out the welcome mat. Matthew’s hand strayed to the scratches on his cheek. Had the blood in the hotel room been hers? Was Natalie even capable of answering her door?

Knocking several times and getting no joy, concern mounting inside him, Matthew tried the next door along, hoping her neighbour might be back and be able to offer him anything in regard to Natalie’s whereabouts. Not a chance. Dixie’s first reaction when she opened her door to find him standing there was to close it again, demonstratively. Matthew might have wedged his foot in it, but bullying tactics were something he was inherently averse to. Plus, he couldn’t see her being very communicative if he resorted to coercion other than financial, which wasn’t an option. He’d drawn out as much cash as he could when the shit had hit the fan. He didn’t dare go near another cash machine where there would definitely be cameras, and now he was all out of incentives.

‘Dixie,’ he called, leaning his head against the door instead, part out of exhaustion, part out of sheer frustration. ‘Joanne, I need to ask you some questions,’ he tried, talking through the damn door, which was about as far as he was going to get, he guessed. ‘About Natalie. Do you know where she is?’

Nothing.

Matthew sighed. ‘I need answers, Joanne. Fast.’

‘So phone a fucking friend,’ came the reply from inside. Matthew might have been amused but for the dire situation he was in. Joanne Dixon, Dixie to her friends and acquaintances, was, what, twenty? A runaway at fifteen, she was streetwise and smart. Had a smart mouth on her too.

‘Dixie, come on, open up, will you? Please. It’s cold out here.’

‘What? Want warming up, do you?’ Dixie dripped sarcasm. The door stayed closed.

‘No, Dixie . . .’ Matthew massaged his forehead. ‘Can you at least tell me whether she’s okay?’

More stony silence for answers.

‘No one’s talking, Dixie.’ Hearing the desperation in his own voice, Matthew tried again. ‘I need to know.’

A scuffle from inside then, and, finally, the door squeaked open a few inches.

‘Why?’ Dixie said, eyeing him warily through the crack between door and frame.

Matthew shrugged. ‘Because I care,’ was all he could offer.

The girl didn’t look convinced. ‘Yeah, right.’ Eyeing the ceiling, she walked back inside, leaving the door open.

Taking that as an invitation, Matthew stepped in, glancing quickly around for any kind of reception committee, as Joanne walked across the room to pluck her cigarettes from the arm of a chair.

‘So, why do you need to know?’ Blowing out a fat cloud of smoke, she turned to face him. ‘Bloody hell,’ she gawped, her eyes growing wide, ‘someone hasn’t half done a job on you, ain’t they? You look like shit.’

Matthew smiled half-heartedly. ‘Cheers, Dix,’ he said. ‘You’re not looking too bad yourself.’

‘Yeah, well.’ Dixie used the sleeve of her dressing gown to dab at the mascara under her eyes. ‘Haven’t got me slap on yet, have I? So, you gonna tell me why you need to know about Nat then, or not?’

‘I just need to know she’s okay, that’s all.’ Matthew didn’t quite lie. ‘I’m concerned about her.’

‘You should be more concerned about yourself, coming around here.’ Dixie jabbed her cigarette in his direction. ‘Your reputation is bolloxed, mate.’

Matthew ran his hand over his neck. ‘I gathered.’

‘I mean, what were you thinking? You’re a copper. Didn’t it occur to you that you might get screwed over?’

‘To tell the truth, Dixie, nothing much occurred to me,’ Matthew told her honestly, for what it was worth.

Dixie puffed a line of smoke up at the ceiling. ‘Pissed, were you?’

‘Out of my mind.’ Matthew smiled ironically.

‘Where’d you get them scratches?’ Narrowing her eyes, Dixie nodded in his direction, indicating the apparent signs of a struggle Matthew couldn’t hope to cover up.

He shrugged evasively. ‘I got jumped.’

‘What, by a cat?’ The disbelieving look was back.

‘Four of them.’ Matthew blew out a frustrated breath. ‘Dixie, I don’t have time for this. I just need to know about Natalie. Have you seen her?’

Dixie flicked her ash at the ashtray. ‘No.’

Great. Another cold shoulder. ‘Look, Dixie, I’m not here for any other reason than to check on her, I swear.’

Dixie didn’t look too convinced about that either. Matthew couldn’t blame her, given the circumstances. ‘I ain’t seen her,’ she said, looking him thoughtfully over as she took another draw on her cigarette.

‘Right. Okay.’ Matthew held his hands up in defeat. ‘I’ll go. Get out of your hair. Keep safe, Dixie.’

‘Matt, you’re not getting the drift here.’ She stopped him, as he turned to the door. ‘I haven’t seen her. I haven’t heard her either.’

Getting the implicit meaning, bearing in mind the paper-thin walls, Matthew turned worriedly back. ‘What? Not at all?’

‘Not hide nor hair.’ Dixie stubbed out her cigarette, reached for the pack and pulled out another. ‘Jason’s not pleased, I can tell you,’ she said, lighting up.

Natalie’s pimp. An oily little bastard with aspirations to own his own stables, Matthew guessed he wouldn’t be overly pleased at a drop in earnings thanks to Natalie’s absence.

‘I’m concerned about her too,’ Dixie admitted, now looking more vulnerable than hostile, as she pulled her dressing gown tightly around her. ‘You lot need to be out looking for her, starting with wherever you dropped her off, if you ask me.’

Matthew glanced down, a sick feeling twisting his gut as a worst-case scenario popped into his mind. He’d been working on the theory that a charge of assault might be made against him, serious assault possibly. Now though . . .

‘I know,’ he said quickly. ‘We are. Thanks, Dixie. I, er, need to go. Keep—’

‘Safe,’ Dixie finished. ‘Yeah, yeah, you said.’ She followed him to the door. ‘Be nice if we could, wouldn’t it?’

Pausing on the landing, Matthew didn’t have time to organise his chaotic thoughts, before the heavy Victorian door in the foyer clanged noisily to. Nowhere to go apart from over the stair rail, Matthew stepped back as he heard several sets of footsteps on the uncarpeted stairs.

‘Ought to relieve him of his tackle, if you ask me, takin’ liberties.’ A gruff male voice floated up the stairwell. ‘Chattin’ the girls up so he can satisfy his pervy appetites, and then he has the cheek to haul ordinary, law abiding people in without even a whiff of evidence.’

‘You were carrying, Eric. Caught in possession, eejit.’ A despairing edge to it, an Irish lilt to the tone, Matthew recognised the second voice immediately. Jason. Great. Anticipating the none-too-friendly greeting he might get when they reached the top of the stairs, Matthew braced himself.

‘Yeah, well, it was only for personal use, weren’t it?’ Eric replied huffily. ‘And he’s no bleedin’ saint, is he? Ought to kneecap him, I reckon.’

‘He might struggle to get to the cashpoint then, hey, Jase?’ A third man’s droll observation, accompanied by a chortle at his own razor-sharp wit.

‘That he would,’ Jason concurred. ‘A quiet word I think might be in order first, lads. I’m a reasonable person, after all, not averse to giving a man a chance to make amends. And then if he doesn’t cough up you take him well away from here and break the bastard’s . . . Ah, DI Adams, the man himself.’

Arriving on the landing, his two henchmen flanking him, Natalie’s pimp smiled the kind of smile an executioner who enjoyed his job might. ‘I believe you have a debt to settle, Detective. Would you like to pay in cash? Or would you like my two pet Rottweilers here to take you outside and tear bits off you?’ Adjusting the heavy gold ring on his index finger, which Matthew had no doubt wasn’t purely decorative, Jason waited.

Christ, this Matthew did not need. Not now. Massaging his temples, he glanced down. ‘What I’d like,’ he said, looking back up to lock meaningful eyes with the man, ‘is a key.’

Clearly taken aback, Jason cocked his head to one side. ‘Are you having a laugh, Adams?’ he asked, scrutinising him curiously.

‘Do I look amused?’ His gaze unflinching, Matthew stepped forward. Jason’s two henchmen did likewise. ‘I need a key,’ he repeated, nodding towards Natalie’s door. ‘And I need it now.’

Chapter Ten

‘All right?’ Steve asked quietly, easing through the front door as DS Collins opened it, and then promptly closed it again, when several cameras clicked outside. He was trying to be low key since he wasn’t on the force anymore, Ashley guessed, peering over the bannister. He’d struggle a bit, though, with his height and bulk. The man was built like a bear.

A cuddly one, though, Emily, ever present in her head, observed. He’s dead soft.

Yeah, he’s all right, Ashley answered her silently, aware of Mia happily finger painting at her dressing table, unfortunately with a gloopy concoction of caramel ice cream Ashley had given her to placate her, and eye shadow — hers. Ashley wasn’t going to get upset about the mess, though, as long as it kept Mia from being stressed out.

Glancing quickly up the hall, Jamie turned worriedly back to Steve. ‘What are you doing here?’ she whispered.

Steve gave her an arch look. ‘I’m his mate, Jamie. Becky’s, too. Where else would I be when they’re in trouble?’

‘Have you been in touch with him?’ Jamie asked, her gaze darting again towards the lounge where DCI Davies was still talking to Becky.

Steve hesitated. ‘Officially or unofficially?’ he asked her guardedly.

At which, Jamie looked offended. ‘I’m his mate, too, you know, Steve?’ she pointed out. ‘Do you think I’d be jeopardising my job accessing information for you if I didn’t give a stuff?’

Nodding, Steve conceded her point. ‘I saw him,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘Or rather, scraped what was left of him off the pavement after four upstanding citizens had kicked the crap out of him.’

‘What?’ Jamie stared at him, shocked. ‘Why?’

‘He went to have a quiet word with that Connor bloke,’ Steve supplied. ‘The guy on the video tape from the wedding reception. Aggressive little runt, if ever I saw one. Connor tried to leg it, apparently. According to his mates, he had no idea Matthew was the law.’

Bullshit! Ashley thought. What, was he claiming he didn’t meet Matthew at the reception? That he had no idea he was a policeman? Absolute crap.

‘Matthew gave chase,’ Steve went on, ‘and his mates dutifully decided to try and make a citizen’s arrest. If I hadn’t arrived when I did they’d probably have killed him.’

Jamie shook her head disbelievingly and then eyed the ceiling. ‘Twats,’ she growled furiously.

‘Definitely,’ Steve agreed. ‘Might have been a fair fight if they hadn’t waded in. This Connor bloke’s about the same height and weight as Matthew. I doubt he’d have come to much harm.’

He is, too, Emily piped up.

Shush. Ashley furrowed her brow and inched along the landing, crouching down to where she could get a better view. Eavesdropping was her only option as no one seemed to be telling her anything, like they needed to wrap her in cotton wool or something after the kidnapping shit. She was like, hello, I’m not a kid, I can cope. Still, they were all walking around tight-lipped, as if their faces didn’t give away that something really bad was going down. She so wished she could talk to Matthew, if only to tell him they were here for him. Well, she was, whatever happened.

‘How’s Becky doing?’ Steve nodded towards the lounge.

Jamie’s gaze flicked in that direction and then back to him. ‘All right, I think,’ she said, looking uncertain. ‘She’s made of strong stuff that one. I think I would have cracked up if I’d been through half what she has, and that’s without being told Matthew’s about to be arrested. I have no idea how she’ll cope with—’

‘What? Wait.’ Staring at her, astonished, Steve held up a hand. ‘Arrested?’

‘DCI Davies is telling her now.’ Jamie scanned his face apprehensively. ‘The courts are about to issue a warrant.’

Oh no. Her heart plummeting, Ashley sank back on her haunches.

‘Bloody hell! You’re joking,’ Steve gasped, sounding as winded as Ashley felt. ‘What’s the charge?’

* * *

Matthew hit the answer call button on his phone. He’d guessed it was Steve calling, he being the only one he’d texted his number to, but whoever it was, it really didn’t matter any more. He could hear one of the heavies throwing up in the bathroom, feel his own stomach constricting, sense the walls closing in on him.

‘Matt?’ Steve asked, when he didn’t immediately speak.

Matthew ran a hand over his neck, tried to regulate his breathing. ‘Yes,’ he managed, eventually.

‘You need to come in, mate.’ Steve sounded worried.

Attempting to force back the irritating cough tickling its way up his windpipe, Matthew swallowed hard. It was always the same, the smell, he thought obliquely. More pungent depending on the amount of decay, but the same: decomposition, body fluids.

‘Matt, are you there?’

‘Yep,’ Matthew answered shortly, wondering how long it would take for this to hit him fully, before he felt something other than utter hopelessness.

‘They’ve taken blood swabs, Matt,’ Steve went on hesitantly, ‘from the hotel room. They have a match. You have to come in. If you don’t, you’re as good as guilty.’

It wouldn’t have taken them long. They would have checked her medical records, Matthew surmised, made the match in minutes. He nodded, concentrated on his breathing. Still didn’t feel anything very much.

‘It’s Natalie’s,’ Steve’s voice was tight, as if he was struggling to keep the emotion in check. ‘She’s been reported missing.’ He paused, clearly searching for a way to say what Matthew knew was coming next. ‘It’s a murder investigation, Matt. Official. You need to—’

‘I know,’ Matthew said quietly, cutting him short.

‘Know what, Matt?’ Steve asked, his tone now careful.

‘She’s here,’ Matthew answered, feeling disconnected, as if he was viewing this whole sordid mess from some faraway place. Christ, how he wished he was.

‘What? Matthew, what the hell are you talking—?’

‘I’m with her now. The deceased. Natalie.’ Matthew faltered, his gaze straying involuntarily to her eyes. Green eyes, he reminded himself, now grey, opaque and empty. Life fucking extinct. Pulling himself from where he’d been crouching over her, he clamped his own eyes tight shut, fury hitting at last, violently, like a sledgehammer to his chest. Breathe, he commanded himself, fumbling for his inhaler.

Steve didn’t speak for a second, stunned, obviously, then, ‘Where?’ he asked warily.

‘Her bedsit. Squad cars are on their way,’ Matthew informed him, still outwardly calm. Inwardly though . . . Gulping back the sour taste in his mouth, he took in the lifeless, broken body of the girl. Face down, her head twisted to one side, she was unrecognisable, her eyes swollen, her nose and lips split. Right arm, fractured. One shoe missing, replaced with a single red stiletto. Clothes . . . in brutal disarray. Matthew looked away. It was Sullivan. All over again. MO identical. Matthew felt sick, sick to his soul.

‘Okay, I need you to stay calm.’ His tone quiet but authoritative, Steve switched to police mode.

Instinctively, Matthew guessed. Detaching from the situation in order to deal with it. He didn’t blame him. It was part and parcel of being a copper, a prerequisite of the job. ‘I am,’ he assured him, turning to walk to the window. ‘Perfectly.’

‘Right. Are you there alone?’ Steve didn’t sound convinced. ‘Apart from—’

‘Natalie,’ Matthew supplied the girl’s name, one that would be printed indelibly on his brain, along with these last images of her, all the other images he could never hope to escape. ‘No,’ he said, glancing back towards Jason. Seated on Natalie’s bed, his head buried in his hands, the man was quietly sobbing. He did have feelings then. Matthew was surprised. The guy wasn’t in Sullivan’s league, a bigshot pimping bastard, completely devoid of any emotion remotely human. Jason had hurt her, humiliated her, intimidated her, pumped her full of the drugs she couldn’t function without, pimped her out to any sad bastard who wanted to use her, but he obviously had some kind of conscience in there somewhere.

‘Okay, Matthew, so you know the drill, yes?’ Steve asked him. ‘Stay put. Don’t touch anything.’

Matthew did know the drill. He knew it by heart. He’d be charged. Read his rights. Fingerprinted. Poked, prodded, DNA samples taken. He’d be interviewed, questions asked he couldn’t hope to answer. Analysed. Psych evaluations made. Questioned again. His clothes would be taken. Not the tie, though. His gaze drifted back to Natalie.

‘It’s probably not a good idea to move around too much.’ Now glancing through the rain slashed window to the grey pavement below, Matthew could hear Steve still talking, but he wasn’t really taking it in. ‘You could cross contaminate—’

‘Asphyxiation,’ Matthew said evenly. ‘Ligature to the neck.’ He paused, knowing that the last nail in his coffin had been driven well and truly home. ‘My tie.’

He heard Steve’s shocked intake of breath. ‘Right. Okay,’ he replied shakily. ‘Stay where you are. Don’t touch anything, hey, mate. Please?’

‘It’s tied in a bow. Sullivan, but with frills.’ Matthew laughed, a hollow, humourless laugh.

‘Matt, pack it in.’ Steve sounded scared, but not half as terrified as Matthew felt.

‘Judging by lividity, or lack of, I’d say the body’s been moved,’ he went on, relaying what information he could, trying to stay sane, which was the biggest joke of all because, if he’d had any part to play in this, he was clearly completely insane. ‘From the body temperature and degree of rigor mortis, I’d guess the postmortem interval is about nine, maybe ten hours.’

Steve didn’t speak for a second, then, ‘You need to stay in control, Matt,’ he warned him. ‘Matt? Are you listening?’

‘I have to go now, Steve,’ Matthew said thickly. ‘Look after Becky for me? Will you do that?’

‘Go where?’ Steve asked apprehensively.

‘Not sure.’

‘You need to stay put, Matthew. You can’t—’

‘Steve, I didn’t do this!’ Matthew shouted over him.

‘I know you didn’t! But you have to come in, Matt! You have to trust—’

‘Trust?’ Matthew shook his head incredulously. ‘Trust who, Steve? Davies, who had me down as a psychiatric case? Put me on gardening leave while that bastard kidnapped my wife?’

‘Yes!’ Steve tried. ‘What the bloody hell else are you going to—’

‘The system?’

‘Matt—’

‘It’s not going to end here, Steve. You know it’s not!’ Matthew’s attention was caught by distant flashing blue lights. Watching the squad cars, first one, then two cut the traffic lights at the corner, Matthew swallowed hard and headed for the door. ‘I have to go. Promise me, will you? Look after Becky?’

‘Of course I bloody well will, but where are you—’

Matthew ended the call as the squad cars squealed to a stop below.

* * *

‘Mia no like the policemens, Mummy. Mia no like!’ Mia screamed as a cacophony of phones seemed to ring all at once, including the landline.

‘It’s all right, darling. They’re just trying to find Daddy.’ With a desperate edge to her voice Rebecca tried to reassure her, and then almost laughed at the absurdity of what she’d just said. Trying to find Daddy so they can arrest him? This could not be happening. Please don’t let this be happening.

Confused and terrified, and trying hard to hide it, she looked towards Ashley, who came in with tea for her, as if tea could make anything better.

‘I brought some biscuits,’ Ashley said, placing the mug and two digestives on the coffee table. ‘Try and eat something, Becky. You need to keep your strength—’

‘I don’t want to bloody well eat anything!’ Rebecca snapped, and immediately regretted it when Mia, her voice shooting up an octave, screamed, ‘No like Mummy shouting!’

‘I’ll take her.’ Ashley came across to her, as Mia went rigid in Rebecca’s arms, about to set off on the mother of all tantrums.

Rebecca nodded and swallowed, handing her distressed daughter over to the one she’d probably just also distressed. ‘Thanks, Ashley,’ she said, holding her gaze. ‘Sorry,’ she mouthed.

‘What, ’cos you shouted?’ Ashley eyed the ceiling as she gathered Mia to her. ‘I don’t think they’ll be sending social services round yet, Becky. Give yourself a break, yes?’

Wiping a tear from her cheek, Rebecca watched Ashley go, collecting up Mia’s Peppa Pig soft toy from the sofa as she did, and placating Mia with promises of watching her favourite DVD with her big sister in lieu of what should have been a nice normal day at nursery. She was the best big sister she could have wished for her, Rebecca reminded herself of that, though she couldn’t help but be reminded of Lily and all that they’d suffered. Too much. This was all too much.

‘What’s happening?’ she asked DCI Davies, who was standing with his back to her at the window, his mobile pressed to his ear.

He turned towards her, raising a hand in a halt sign. ‘I see,’ he said into his phone, his eyes flicking to Rebecca’s and then down again.

Rebecca waited, pacing uselessly around the room, as he continued to listen, nodding occasionally as he did.

‘I see,’ he said again, what seemed like an eternity later. ‘Right, well, mobilise all available bodies, will you, DC Weaver,’ he added, his tone almost light, as if Rebecca wouldn’t understand, as if she wouldn’t realise the gravity of the situation implied by that order. She was married to one of their own! What was the matter with them?

‘For pity’s sake, what?’ she implored as he finally lowered his phone and looked at her, his face grim.

‘Sit down, Becky, would you?’ DCI Davies requested, obviously about to be the bearer of yet more bad news.

‘I. Don’t. Want. To. Sit. Down!’ Rebecca repeated what she’d already told him and Jamie umpteen times. ‘John, tell me!’

John drew in a long breath, closed his eyes briefly, and nodded again in that interminably annoying way he did. ‘The girl in the video,’ he said, each word like the sharp point of a nail being driven into her heart, ‘her body’s been found, I’m afraid. It’s extremely serious, Becky. You don’t need me to tell you that.’

Becky hardly heard the last sentence. Feeling as if the four walls had slammed into her one by one, her legs almost gave way beneath her.

‘Come on, I’ve got you.’ John was by her side in an instant, supporting her, guiding her back towards the sofa. ‘Jamie! Water, please,’ he instructed as she appeared from the hall. ‘And ask one of the constables to come in, would you? I need a quick word.’

Helping Rebecca to sit down, before she fell down, he seated himself next to her, hesitated for a second and then took one of her hands. ‘You’re cold,’ he said, placing his other hand over hers and trying to rub some warmth into it.

Rebecca doubted she’d ever feel warm again. She felt as if her heart had frozen inside her.

‘I’m so sorry, Becky,’ he said, squeezing her hand now, as if in condolence.

Becky turned to look at him, shocked and bewildered. ‘I don’t want your sympathy, John,’ she said, searching his eyes for some kind of hope that he believed this as much as she did. Whatever else he’d done, Matthew simply wasn’t capable. He must know that. ‘I want you to go out and do your job. You need to prove Matthew’s innocence.’

He held her gaze for a second. Then, drawing in another long breath and sighing heavily, he glanced down. He didn’t believe Matthew was innocent. He truly thought . . . God, no.

‘The thing is Rebecca, we need to hear Matthew’s side of the story. He’s not exactly helping his own situation . . .’ John stopped as Jamie came in with the water, glancing at Rebecca in the same hope-crushing sympathetic way John had, as she placed it on the table.

‘Not you, too?’ Rebecca stared at her incredulously. ‘He didn’t do this, Jamie. You know him.’

Jamie looked at her as if she didn’t know what to think. ‘I . . .’ she started, and then stopped as her mobile rang.

Turning away, Jamie answered it. ‘Shit,’ she uttered, after a pause. ‘There’s been a development, sir,’ she said, turning back and handing the phone to Davies.

‘What development?’ Rebecca got shakily to her feet.

Jamie looked from her to Davies, as he pressed the phone to his ear.

‘Jamie, what bloody development?’ Rebecca shouted.

Jamie and John exchanged worried glances, and then, reluctantly, John nodded his acquiescence. ‘The girl Matthew took home,’ Jamie supplied awkwardly, ‘she’s at the station. She’s claiming Matthew . . . assaulted her.’

‘Assaulted her?’ Rebecca felt another nail splinter her heart.

‘Sexually,’ Jamie added, her gaze now anywhere but on Rebecca’s.

Chapter Eleven

‘Hello, Jasmine. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Davies,’ the man introduced himself, even though the detective sergeant had just announced his presence in the room for the benefit of the tape. ‘Are you comfortable with my being here, Jasmine?’ he asked her, his brow creased with concern. There was a wariness in his eyes though, Jasmine noted. As if one of his most highly esteemed officers couldn’t possibly be capable of the terrible crime she was claiming he was.

Well, he could. As far as Jasmine was concerned, a copper who’d done what Adams had done was capable of anything. It was time people realised it, and that the punishment should fit the crime. Jasmine didn’t need to work too hard at the tear that squeezed from her eye. ‘Yes,’ she said, wiping it away. ‘I just want to get this all over with and go home.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course you would.’ DCI Davies smiled understandingly. Then, placing the statement he’d brought in with him on the table, he plucked a tissue from the box there and handed it to her. ‘We’ve registered the incident,’ he said kindly, seating himself opposite her. ‘And I believe DS Collins has explained to you about the need to have a little chat with one of our Specially Trained Officers?’

A little chat? Jasmine would hardly call it that. Mentally rolling her eyes, she blew her nose and nodded.

‘And you’ve offered to refer Jasmine to specialist counselling?’ DCI Davies turned questioningly to his oppo.

DS Collins nodded. ‘Yes, sir,’ she said. ‘I explained to Jasmine we can refer her to Rape Crisis, but—’

‘I’d rather not,’ Jasmine interjected. ‘I just want to get home and get back to normal. You know . . .’ She wrapped her arms about herself and looked beseechingly at him.

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ DCI Davies repeated, leaving Jasmine wondering whether he might be verbally challenged. ‘We do need to record as much information as possible before passing it on to our referral centre though, Jasmine, so if you could bear with us a bit longer?’

‘Sexual Assault Referral Centre,’ DS Collins supplied, smiling supportively in Jasmine’s direction.

‘Yes, thank you, DS Collins,’ Davies said, his expression back to serious as he laced his fingers and placed his hands on the desk in front of him. ‘I just need to clarify a few things. You’re not obliged to answer anything you don’t want to. Is that all right with you, Jasmine?’

Jasmine sighed and nodded stoically. ‘Yes,’ she said, and sniffled.

‘Right. Thank you.’ He smiled shortly again, which was becoming irritating, and actually a bit intimidating. She should report that. ‘So.’ He took a breath and referred to the statement. ‘You say you had an affair with Detective Inspector Adams. Can you just confirm—’

‘A brief affair,’ Jasmine corrected him.

‘A brief affair.’ Davies glanced curiously up at her, and then back to his papers. ‘Yes, right. Can you confirm when that was again, Jasmine?’

Jasmine sniffled and dabbed at her eyes with the tissue. ‘Three months after his daughter died,’ she answered assuredly.

‘Definitely September of that year then?’

‘Definitely. I’m not sure which day it was, but he said he’d been through hell at home since losing her. Obviously he told me when it was, and I remember I calculated how many weeks it had been.’ Jasmine shrugged, making sure to look suitably concerned.

Davies nodded and scanned his notes. ‘And you met at a garage?’

He looked dubious at that, but it seemed perfectly feasible to Jasmine. ‘That’s right. I hadn’t been driving long. I couldn’t get my petrol cap off and he offered to help. We got talking, met for a coffee, and . . .’ Shrugging again, Jasmine trailed off.

‘And where and how often did you meet thereafter?’

‘One or two times a week. Different hotels. His car sometimes.’ Feigning embarrassment, Jasmine glanced down. ‘He had to be careful, you know?’

‘And when did the affair end, Jasmine? Refresh my mind, will you?’

‘After a few weeks or so. It was all getting a bit heavy, to be honest, and he had a family and . . . Well, you know. I didn’t love him or anything, so . . .’

‘So it was you who ended the relationship?’

‘Yes.’ Jasmine took a shuddery breath. ‘He was really upset, but there was no future in it. I mean, he’s a lot older than me, isn’t he, and he has so much baggage.’

‘Right.’ Davies furrowed his brow. ‘Okay, Jasmine, moving on to the night of the alleged assault, you say DI Adams asked for something stronger when you offered him coffee?’

Glancing down, Jasmine fiddled nervously with the tissue. ‘Yes, he did.’

‘And he had several alcoholic drinks, you say, and I quote, “you couldn’t get rid of him”? Is that correct, Jasmine?’

Jasmine answered with a small nod.

‘Could you answer out loud, Jasmine?’ Collins asked, pointing to the recording machine.

‘Yes,’ Jasmine obliged. ‘I couldn’t get rid of him. He wouldn’t take the hint. When I said I was tired, he just parked the whisky bottle on the coffee table, propped his feet up next to it and loosened his tie.’

That was a nice touch, she thought, noting the sharp, worried glances the two exchanged.

‘And what time was it when he said, “I know you want it as much as I do”, approximately?’

‘I don’t know exactly,’ Jasmine answered falteringly, twisting her tissue into a long rope as she did. ‘I’ve already said. He asked if I wouldn’t mind topping his glass up and when I passed it to him—’

‘You passed DI Adams the glass?’

Jasmine eyed him curiously. What was he up to? ‘Yes. Why?’

‘No reason in particular. I just wondered why you would take the glass off him to top it up when the bottle was on the table in front of him.’

‘I don’t know,’ Jasmine said, flustered. ‘He passed it to me. I can’t remember.’

‘No, sorry.’ The furrow in Davies’ brow deepened. ‘I can understand you’d be a bit muddled. The shock, I imagine.’

‘Exactly.’ Jasmine nodded, pacified. ‘But I’m not muddled,’ she added quickly.

‘Right. Good. It is important we get every detail as precisely as we can though, you do see that, Jasmine?’

‘Yes,’ Jasmine acquiesced, with another brave nod.

‘So, can you remind me what happened next, Jasmine? Just for the record.’

As if it wasn’t already recorded, in triplicate. Quelling her irritation, Jasmine answered. ‘He caught hold of my hand and said . . . what you just said . . . and then he pulled me down on the sofa and . . .’ she hesitated. ‘I’ve already said. It’s in my statement. Do I have to say it all over again?’

‘No, that’s fine, Jasmine. Just take a breath and take your time,’ DCI Davies replied, glancing again at his DS, who was about as much use as a fart in a spacesuit, as far as Jasmine could see, sitting there as if she’d been struck dumb.

‘Are you all right to continue, Jasmine?’ he asked gently, after a pause. ‘Would you like a glass of water?’

‘No, thank you. I’m okay.’ Jasmine smiled tremulously and dabbed at her nose.

DCI Davies didn’t smile back. Steepling his hands and pressing them under his chin, he shot her another loaded question instead. ‘Are you absolutely adamant you weren’t interested in rekindling the relationship with DI Adams, Jasmine?’

‘Yes!’ Jasmine widened her eyes. ‘I didn’t mind talking to him, it was obvious he needed a shoulder, but I didn’t want to have sex with him. I have a boyfriend.’

‘Connor Preston?’ Davies eyed her dubiously. ‘The one who hit you?’

‘It was just an argument,’ Jasmine reiterated. ‘I said some awful things to him. He’s a great big puppy really. He was just exhausted. He looks after his sick mum, and . . . He just lost it, that’s all. He’s not like that really.’

‘And did you explain this to DI Adams? Before he insisted on coming into your apartment, I mean?’

Jasmine cautioned herself to be careful. He was trying to trap her. Wondering why she’d have let him in if she hadn’t believed Connor was a threat. Very good, Mr Policeman. ‘No.’ She sighed and shook her head. ‘I was confused and upset. And Matthew said that because of what happened he felt obliged to “check out the property”. But Connor isn’t like that, really he’s not. He came round this morning to apologise. It was him who persuaded me to come here. He’s in love with me. He’d do anything for me.’

Davies paused again, unnervingly, to peruse the statement. ‘But you did mention to DI Adams that Connor had a key?’ he asked, without looking up.

Crap. She’d already said she had. ‘Only because he asked,’ she said defensively. ‘I would have said no if I’d thought for a minute that Matthew was looking for reasons to come in.’

Davies drew in a long breath. ‘Right.’ He smiled, again. ‘Thank you, Jasmine. We do like to double-check we have all the information down correctly. You do understand?’

‘Yes,’ Jasmine said, making a show of dabbing her eyes this time, as Davies got to his feet.

‘DS Collins will stay with you while you’re here. I just need to have a quick word with her about our next step.’ Making eyes at his DS to follow him, Davies turned to the door.

‘Would you like another cup of tea, Jasmine, or coffee?’ the woman asked, obviously finding the use of her vocal chords.

Jasmine shook her head. ‘No, thank you.’ She smiled gratefully. Tastes like piss water.

‘I’ll be back in two minutes,’ Collins said, leaving her with the duty officer. They were obviously going to have a conflab about her. That was okay. Jasmine had accomplished everything she’d set out to. They had more than enough evidence to cast serious doubt on anything Adams would say now. He would have so much shit on his plate he would wonder whether there was any way out. And that’s what Jasmine was working towards: Adams considering his options, until he realised he didn’t have any. Her mouth curving into a slow smile, Jasmine leisurely examined her fingernails.

* * *

‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Becky.’ DCI Davies gave her one of his forced smiles as he came into the interview room. ‘I just needed to check a few details.’

Rebecca didn’t smile back. She doubted she’d ever smile again. ‘Has he been in contact yet?’ she asked shakily. She couldn’t bring herself to say, Have you found him yet? Couldn’t make herself believe he didn’t want to be found. His reasons why were too horrific to contemplate.

Taking a seat, DCI Davies shook his head. ‘It appears he’s running, Rebecca,’ he said gravely. ‘It doesn’t look good.’

Rebecca pulled her jacket tight around her. ‘What do you need?’ she asked, notching her chin up, striving desperately to stay strong, when all she wanted to do was to go home and crawl into bed.

‘You know what the girl’s accused him of?’ DCI Davies was blunt.

Rebecca tugged in a terse breath. ‘Yes,’ she said, fury welling up inside her. ‘She’s lying, John. You know she—’

John held up a silencing hand. ‘I have to establish the facts, Becky. I can’t know anything until I’ve done that.’

‘Followed protocol, you mean?’ Rebecca retorted angrily. ‘The same protocol that robbed us of our daughter? The same protocol that drove Matthew half out of his mind? That caused his family to be kidnapped?’

John glanced awkwardly down.

‘That was me John.’ Thumping a fist hard against her chest, Rebecca brought his attention sharply back to her face. ‘That was my daughter!’

John searched her eyes. ‘I know, Becky,’ he said quietly, agony in his own. ‘I live with it every day.’

‘As do we,’ Rebecca reminded him. ‘Matthew most of all. It almost destroyed him. He needs you now, John. Whatever bureaucracy you have to abide by, this time he needs you to believe in him.’

Nodding, John picked a pen up from the table and twirled it thoughtfully. ‘Matthew’s not making this easy for me, Becky. I want to believe in him. Of course I do. Do you honestly think I don’t?’ Tossing the pen back to the table, he leaned wearily back in his chair.

‘No,’ Rebecca conceded, her rage waning impotently inside her.

Sighing, John straightened up. ‘In order to do that, I have to establish the facts, Becky,’ he said, his eyes holding hers. ‘I know this is hard, but I need you to confirm what the girl told you in the Skype call. I need you to answer one or two other questions honestly. Can you do that?’

‘I’ve no reason not to,’ Rebecca replied staunchly. ‘Whatever she claims Matthew did, he didn’t. That’s a fact.’

John sighed. He looked exhausted. This was hard for him too, but how could Rebecca make it any easier? She couldn’t just sit by and watch them convict her husband of these horrendous things he was being accused of. One of their colleagues, who would put his life on the line for any one of them. That knowledge had constantly terrified her, but that was also a fact. It was who Matthew was. He wasn’t the monster the media were portraying him to be.

John drew a breath. ‘You say she said she didn’t have sex with him?’ he asked, glancing down at his paperwork.

‘That’s right.’ Rebecca took a breath, bracing herself for what would inevitably come next.

‘But she insisted he wanted to.’

‘For old time’s sake, yes.’ Rebecca held eye contact with him, though inside another little piece of her died. ‘Also bullshit, John. Pure fabrication. The girl’s a pathological liar. Surely you know that?’

‘I can’t know anything, Becky,’ John insisted forcefully. ‘Not without the facts.’ Wiping a hand over his forehead he sighed heavily, clearly trying to curtail his own frustration. ‘Confirm something for me, Becky, will you?’

His look was hesitant, Rebecca noted. ‘If I can.’ She nodded.

‘The holiday you and Matthew took after Lily . . . Can you remember when it was?’

‘I can remember exactly when it was,’ Rebecca assured him. ‘It was almost three months after she died. Two months, three weeks and six days, to be precise. Do you need the minutes?’

John now looked extremely contrite. ‘No. That’s fine, Becky. I’m sorry I had to—’

‘It was her birthday,’ Becky continued, glancing down. ‘But . . .’ Confused, she looked narrowly back at him. ‘. . . surely you have all this on record? Matthew went on a training course, directly afterwards.’ For another two weeks. Rebecca recalled how she’d had to convince him she’d be fine, though she’d ached for him every single night and day, and Matthew had rung her at least three times a day. It was a period of their lives she wasn’t likely to forget.

John gave her another one of his elusive smiles. ‘We do,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to make sure I’d got it right. I have one or two other questions. Sorry,’ he repeated, obviously noting her despair. It was a heartfelt apology Rebecca knew, but it didn’t help.

‘You say she’d seen the internet video?’ John went on, checking his notes, as he did.

‘Yes. She pretended sympathy.’

John glanced back at her. ‘But she couldn’t say what time he left?’

‘John, I’ve been through all this,’ Rebecca reminded him exasperatedly.

‘I’m just trying to piece things together, Becky. Humour me, will you?’

Humour him? Rebecca sighed inwardly. ‘She was vague. When I pressurised her, she said he’d stayed “about an hour and a half”.’

‘Ah,’ John said, and made a note. ‘And they just talked?’

‘According to her, yes.’ Rebecca refrained from using her name.

‘And Matthew drank a lot?’

Seeing where this was going, that Matthew perhaps hadn’t been in control of his actions, Rebecca gritted her teeth. ‘Again, according to her, yes.’

John nodded slowly, his eyes still downcast. Clearly, as Matthew had used alcohol as a crutch once, that was his line of thinking. He’d lost his father to suicide, and then his daughter to a hit-and-run driver, paid for by Sullivan. Wasn’t he entitled to slide off the bloody rails? Rebecca wanted to scream. It had been a blip. And John damn well knew it.

‘What did they talk about,’ John looked back to her, ‘exactly?’

‘I don’t know exactly, John. How could I?’

‘He talked about Lily though?’ John’s gaze was sympathetic again.

Rebecca simply nodded.

‘And he mentioned Sullivan?’

‘Yes.’ Rebecca felt her heart bleed afresh at the mention of her baby’s name so close to that animal’s. ‘So she said.’

‘Clarify another couple of points for me, Becky, will you?’

Rebecca massaged her temples, now feeling very close to tears. Did they really think Matthew was a rapist? A murderer?

‘You say you asked Jasmine outright whether she’d slept with Matthew?’

‘Yes,’ Rebecca supplied tiredly.

‘Was that because you thought there was a possibility he might have, Becky?’ John asked his question gently, but still it hit Rebecca like a slap across the face.

‘No!’ she refuted angrily. ‘I do not bloody well think there was a possibility he might have!’

‘I’m sorry, Becky,’ John said, uncomfortably. ‘I have to ask.’

Rebecca eyed him disappointedly. ‘Do you? Has Matthew ever given you any indication his marriage was in trouble? Have we given you that impression?’ She was referring to the many police social functions they’d been to, where she’d danced with her husband, talked with him, laughed with him, left with him and made love with him. This was so ludicrous it was laughable.

John reached for his pen again, rolling it thoughtfully between his thumbs and forefingers. ‘Honestly?’ He smiled a more genuine smile. ‘No.’ He gave her that much, before moving swiftly on. ‘She definitely said he’d left, though, and stayed approximately an hour and a half?’

‘Yes.’ Composing herself, Rebecca answered that one too. ‘Definitely. She made a big issue of how she’d advised him against driving.’

John tapped his pen on the table. ‘Well, he definitely didn’t do that.’

‘He didn’t do what he’s being accused of either, John,’ Rebecca assured him.

John’s answer to which was to look troubled.

‘What about forensics?’ Rebecca asked as he pondered, knowing he’d know exactly what she meant.

Grazing a hand over his chin, John nodded eventually, reluctantly. ‘The, er, timings may be questionable,’ he offered, his eyes flicking to hers and then down to the table. ‘I can’t say any more.’

Rebecca understood. He shouldn’t have said that much, she knew, and was grateful for at least a tiny sliver of hope.

‘And she definitely claimed she’d met Matthew once before when you spoke at the reception, but Matthew appeared not to remember?’

‘That’s correct,’ Rebecca answered, wishing he would hurry up and get to the point. ‘That was a load of codswallop too. She was obviously weaving her web as she went along.’

John pondered, grazing a hand over his unshaven chin as he did. ‘Did she make any overt advances? In your opinion, that is?’

Rebecca shook her head. ‘Not overt, no. It was just obvious she had designs on him. You’d have to be a woman to understand.’

John smiled wryly at that. ‘Did Matthew?’ he asked. ‘Encourage her in any way, I mean.’

‘Absolutely not.’ Rebecca was adamant.

‘But they did swap telephone numbers?’

‘Swap?’

Clearly, John recognised her uneasiness at his odd choice of word. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I’m quoting your friend, the bride’s mother. She said she witnessed Matthew and the girl exchanging telephone numbers.’

‘You spoke to her?’ Rebecca eyed him with a mixture of surprise and suspicion.

‘We have to collect information, Rebecca. It’s like a jigsaw, you know that. All the pieces have to fit. Confirming people were where they say they were at the time they claim they were is all part of the information gathering process,’ John reminded her patiently.

Conceding the point, Rebecca nodded.

‘We also spoke to your friend, Melanie, at the hospital,’ he went on. ‘Can you just confirm for me what Ashley meant when she said Matthew was visiting a trollop?’

Realising the innuendo, Rebecca stared at him, astonished. ‘She meant Jasmine. I’ve already explained. She made it obvious she . . . Oh, for . . . John, this is ridiculous. I told him to take the girl home. She was distressed, in tears, in trouble, or so I thought.’

Nodding, John searched his papers again, and then looked back to her. ‘One last question, Rebecca. It’s a delicate one, I’m afraid.’ He held her gaze, and from the look in his eyes, Rebecca guessed it was an unpalatable one. ‘Can you confirm what kind of contraception you use?’

‘Contraception?’ Rebecca balked. Why on earth would he . . . ? Noting John’s worried expression, she answered, her heart plummeting. ‘The pill.’ She searched his face. ‘Why?’

Again, John nodded, contemplatively. ‘So Matthew would have no reason to be carrying condoms in the glove compartment of his car?’

Chapter Twelve

‘Not exactly the Ritz, is it?’ Kristen said, snapping Matthew’s attention away from the canal.

Christ. Parking the bottle he’d been nursing on the towpath, Matthew scrambled to his feet and glanced past her for any indication she might have been followed. ‘You almost gave me a heart attack.’

‘Drink any more of that stuff and you’ll probably have one.’ Kristen nodded at the third-empty whisky bottle.

Guessing his sister — who Matthew had hounded relentlessly, eventually threatening to wash his hands of her unless she went into rehab and stayed there — wouldn’t be overly impressed, he bent to retrieve it. ‘I thought it might make me look less obvious.’

Nodding at two alcoholics, who were busy topping themselves up on a bench further up the towpath, he offered her an explanation. A pretty feeble one. He could always smell the booze a mile away when Kristen reeled off her inevitable lies. He guessed that now she was sober she could too.

‘Yeah, that’s what I used to think, but you always managed to find me,’ Kristen replied smartly.

‘Where there’s a will.’ Reminded that he would also be found, sooner or later, Matthew smiled half-heartedly. Somehow he had to find out why this was happening before he was. It was obviously a vendetta of some sort. Someone wanted him locked up. He couldn’t believe it was Jasmine acting on her own. For his family’s sake, Matthew needed to know who else was involved and why. Bitter experience told him he wouldn’t be believed. His banging on about coincidences, implying Sullivan was reaching out from the grave, would get him nowhere other than labelled certifiable. It certainly wouldn’t get his family around the clock protection, and Matthew’s gut instinct told him they needed it.

‘Not medicinal then?’ Obviously not buying his excuses, Kristen gave him an arch look and then leaned against the wall of the canal bridge and slid to her haunches.

Matthew noted how out of place she now looked as she seated herself in almost the same spot he’d consistently found her in, mostly unconscious. She still wore her staple wardrobe, jeans and denim jacket and her hair in that boyish elfin cut, but she didn’t look gaunt anymore. Her once sallow complexion was clear, ditto her eyes. She looked clean and healthy. Matthew was glad that, though he’d had to do something that went against his principles and resort to psychological bullying to get her to seek help, he seemed to have done something right in his life.

‘Maybe,’ he admitted. ‘It’s not working though.’ Joining her, he picked up the bottle, screwed the top tight and parked it between his knees. ‘You’ve heard the news I take it?’

‘Couldn’t miss it really, could I?’ Kristen glanced quizzically at him and Matthew had to look away. Never had he felt so humiliated in all his life.

‘The photos in the papers don’t do you much justice.’ Kristen picked up a nearby stone, contemplating it as she turned it over in her hands.

Matthew guessed she was waiting for him to offer some kind of explanation. He couldn’t. Crushing hopelessness sweeping through him, he focussed back on the whisky, which looked way too tempting. He felt Kristen’s eyes on him again. Realising the deep scratches on his cheek were visible, Matthew had no doubt she was wondering where they came from. Was she likely to believe him, he wondered, his heart sinking further. Would he?

‘So . . .’ She faced front after a pregnant pause and idly skimmed the stone across the water. ‘. . . is this just a social catch up or are you going to tell me who’s behind all this shit?’

Matthew’s gaze shot back to her. ‘You mean you don’t think . . .’ He stopped, a sliver of hope rising in his chest.

‘That you’re a murderer?’ Kristen held his gaze. ‘Come on, Matt. You’re my brother. Putting aside the fact that you’re a complete nag and a total pain in the arse, I know you. I’m not sure why you were in that bloody hotel, but I know you didn’t kill anyone.’

Matthew leaned his head against the wall, relief sweeping through him. ‘Would you believe me if I said it wasn’t how it looked?’ He closed his eyes, aware of how ludicrous that sounded. ‘Not very convincing really, is it?’

Kristen didn’t speak immediately, then, ‘I’m thinking it’s some kind of set-up,’ she said, contemplatively. ‘Am I right?’

Feeling an immense weight lift from his shoulders, Matthew nodded slowly. ‘I was drugged,’ he said the words quickly, before they stuck in his craw.

Kristen emitted a slow, astonished whistle. ‘Blimey. And you a policeman.’

Matthew swallowed back his embarrassment. ‘Do you believe me?’

‘Yep, I believe you,’ Kristen said, straight off. ‘You forget how long I spent on the streets, Matthew. Shit happens, I should know that above anyone. Just because you’re a great strapping bloke doesn’t mean it can’t happen to you.’

‘No.’ Matthew emitted a short laugh and tugged in a breath.

Obviously noting he was actually dangerously close to crying, Kristen reached out, taking hold of one of his hands, both of which, Matthew hadn’t realised, he’d now wrapped around the neck of the bottle. ‘You’re all right, Matthew,’ she assured him. ‘Not perfect by a long chalk. I mean, talk about overprotective. I’m only surprised you haven’t been putting my dates under surveillance.’

Matthew smiled quietly at that. Given the past dubious lowlife she’d associated with, he’d been tempted.

‘Without wishing to overinflate your ego, you’re one of the nicest, most caring people I know.’ Kristen squeezed his hand. ‘You’ll get through this.’

Matthew’s laugh was dubious this time. ‘Yeah, not sure how.’ He sighed heavily, and caught a distinct wheeze in his chest.

Kristen looked at him worriedly. ‘Do you have your inhaler?’

Matthew nodded, immediately reminded of Becky, who constantly nagged him about it, and of Ashley, who’d also taken to mothering him of late. Kristen’s daughter. Ashley was so like Kristen, the sober, optimistic, thoughtful Kristen; it was painful knowing she’d never seen this side of her. Matthew had aimed to do something about it, talk to Ashley again about a meeting. She’d been reluctant, understandably, having only ever known Kristen the alcoholic and not having seen her mother for thirteen years. He’d been going to suggest going with Ashley, thinking it might help. Now, Matthew doubted he’d be around to do any of that.

‘Matthew, your inhaler.’ Kristen tugged on his arm. ‘Have you got it with you?’

‘Somewhere,’ he said, his throat tight, more with emotion than anything else, but he supposed he should take the damn meds anyway.

Kristen gave him a minute. Matthew was grateful.

‘So what do you need me to do?’ she asked him, once he’d sucked back the prescribed dose.

Matthew was reluctant to drag her into any of this, but what choice did he have? ‘I hate to ask, Kristen, but I need cash. I daren’t go near a cashpoint or bank.’

‘No problem,’ Kristen said immediately.

‘You’ll get it back. I’m not sure when, but—’

‘Hello?’ Kristen cut him short, giving him a withering look as she got to her feet. ‘This from the man who kept me alive when I might have starved to death, who got me sober? I don’t need it back. Buy me something when you get out of this mess. But not a bottle.’ Extending a hand to help him up, she nodded at the one now parked on the ground.

‘Yeah, not such a good idea, is it?’ Matthew picked up the bottle, eyed it longingly, and then, turning away from any onlookers who would definitely not benefit from the contents, he unscrewed the top and ditched it.

‘Anything else you need?’ Kristen asked as they turned to walk along the towpath.

‘No, just the cash,’ Matthew assured her, tugging his cap down low as they went. ‘And to get my head straight,’ he added wistfully.

If only, he thought. He still had gaps in his memory he could drive an articulated lorry through, so no hope whatsoever of defending himself against a murder charge. What the hell must be going through Becky’s mind, right now? Matthew’s heart twisted at that thought.

‘There is one thing,’ he ventured, realising it might be difficult for Kristen, given her relationship with Ashley, or lack of. ‘Could you get word to Becky? Personally, I mean. It’s probably not a good idea to ring.’

Kristen eyed him sideways. ‘Because they’ll be monitoring all calls?’ She nodded, at length. ‘Not a problem. If Ashley’s there and she blanks me . . . Well, who could blame her?’

‘Thanks.’ Matthew smiled gratefully. ‘I owe you.’

‘I think you paid any debts up front, big bro,’ Kristen assured him. ‘So, what do you want me to tell her?’

Good question. Matthew sighed. There was so much he needed to say: that he was sorry; that he would never, ever hurt her in the worst possible way a man could hurt a woman; that he would rather die than put her through the pain she must be going through. ‘Just tell her I love her, will you?’ he opted for. ‘That I always will, no matter what.’

‘Consider it done.’ Kristen nodded. ‘Though I’m thinking she probably already knows it. Can I ask you something, Matthew?’ She glanced hesitantly at him.

‘Anything,’ he said. As long as it’s not, do you think you might have done it?

‘The girl who’s claiming you raped her, do you reckon she’s the one who gave you the drugs? I’m assuming she . . . Matt?’

Kristen stopped, turning to Matthew, who’d ground to a halt behind her.

‘What?’ Matthew felt as if the articulated lorry had just rolled over him.

‘The girl who . . .’ Searching his face, Kristen trailed off. ‘Oh God. You didn’t know?’

‘Raped?’ He stared at her, stunned. ‘You have to be joking. What girl?’

‘Jasmine Francis,’ Kristen supplied worriedly. ‘It was all over the papers this morning.’

Leaked to the papers. White-hot fury rose in Matthew’s chest. There was no way something like this would have been released officially. Naming the supposed victim? No way. Jasmine had obviously tipped off the media. But why?

* * *

‘I’ll be as quick as I can,’ Becky assured Ashley, leaning back into the car to ease Mia’s thumb from her mouth as she slept, finally. She’d been fractious and full on since she woke this morning, not that any of them had had much sleep, Becky in particular. Ashley was worried about her. She looked as if she was walking around in a dream. She’d said they needed to try to carry on as normal. She hadn’t gone into work, though. Because there would be reporters everywhere, she’d told Ashley, which no doubt there would be. They’d taken up residence outside the house, mobbing them whenever they came or went, barraging Becky with stupid questions, as if she had any answers.

‘Do you want me to go in?’ Ashley asked, nodding towards the supermarket.

‘No. I’ll be quicker. I know where everything is. Drop the locks after me, Ashley, won’t you?’ Becky glanced at her anxiously.

‘I will, don’t worry,’ Ashley assured her.

‘Five minutes.’ Becky attempted a reassuring smile as she closed the door and headed off to get the food they had no appetite for.

Watching her go, looking pale and exhausted, Ashley chewed on her lip. It was obvious Becky was worried sick. Matthew had blatantly been in that video, there was no escaping that. The things they were saying he’d done though? No way. Even if he had finally flipped, as was being suggested by his so-called colleagues, who’d obviously had a sensitivity bypass, speculating loudly while guzzling the tea Becky had made them, there was just no way. Ashley might not be his birth daughter, and actually she considered that gave her a more objective view, but she’d been with him most of the time he’d been searching for Becky. She’d been with him at the hospital on the day he’d visited that girl Natalie. His anger at what that freak Sullivan had done to her had been palpable. He’d cared about her, as in cared what happened to her. He cared about all the girls at the mercy of pimps and drug pushers. And now he was supposed to have killed her? Yeah, right. It was bollocks. End of. Ashley had felt like suggesting to his so-called friends that they might like to shift their arses from in front of Matthew’s telly and go out and prove it was.

I’d soon shift them, the voice in her head cut through her thoughts.

‘What, using your poltergeist powers?’ Ashley answered distractedly. It would take more than a few stalled engines, which was Emily’s way of getting Matthew to pay attention. The way things were piling up against him, Matthew needed nothing short of a miracle. Becky was scared and lonely and Ashley really hurt for her. She felt her heart physically constrict, though, as she imagined how scared and lonely Matthew must be feeling. Where was he, she wondered?

He’s been speaking to Kristen.

‘What?’

Your mum, he’s been speaking to . . .

‘Oh, bog off, Emily.’ Ashley rolled her eyes. ‘You can’t possibly know—’

Yes, I can. I haven’t got polter ... polter . . . whatever you said . . . powers. Emily does that, not me. But I can see and I saw him.

‘What?’ Ashley shook her head, now confused as well as distracted. ‘You mean you’re not . . . Shush.’ Noting Mia stirring, she turned to lean over the front seat in search of the baby bag — and then dropped down again fast.

Shit! Not able to believe who she’d just glimpsed driving into the car park, she stayed low for a second and then peered tentatively back up. It was her! Jasmine. Driving herself for a change, instead of using Connor as a taxi service. Hardly daring to breathe, Ashley watched as Jasmine pulled into a parking space diagonally behind them. Crap. So what did she do? Facing front, Ashley debated. She felt like tearing Jasmine’s perfect blonde hair out, but she doubted that would do Matthew much good. Thinking about it, approaching her in any way probably wouldn’t. Tugging the rear-view mirror towards the passenger seat, Ashley watched as Jasmine climbed out of her car and sauntered towards the supermarket, flicking her hair back as she went, and talking carefree into her phone. Wasn’t she supposed to be traumatised by the alleged attack on her? So traumatised, she’s leaving weak-sounding ‘I can’t come to the phone right now’ messages on her voicemail? Bullshitting bitch! It was no good, Ashley had to talk to her. It wasn’t true, the stuff she’d accused Matthew of. It couldn’t be.

Scrambling out, Ashley reached into the back to unbuckle Mia, who was definitely awake now, kneading her eyes in surprise as she lifted her out, and hurried after Jasmine. A fair way behind her, she was relieved when she saw her disappear into the loos in the supermarket foyer. At least now she’d have a chance to grab her when she came out.

‘Ithe cream,’ Mia articulated around the thumb wedged in her mouth, her other hand outstretched in anticipation of goodies.

‘You betchya. As soon as my friend comes out of the loo, we’ll go get some,’ Ashley promised, planting a kiss on her cheek.

Standing aside to let an old lady enter the toilets, Ashley moved back to where she had a good view of the door and waited. A mother and child emerged first, followed by an Indian lady. Jiggling Mia in her arms, Ashley watched on as a dark-haired girl came out, followed closely by the old lady, twanging various elastics. Still no Jasmine. Yet the old lady had been in and out, so where the heck was she? Confused, Ashley glanced in the direction of the dark-haired girl, who was heading for the exit, and the penny dropped with a deafening clang. The nail art! She’d noticed it as the girl shoved the door open with the flat of her hand. The exact same nail art Jasmine had had. Ashley had been with her when she’d had it done.

Her heart thumping in her chest, Ashley headed after her, colliding with the still twanging old lady on the way out. Jasmine was nowhere to be seen when she exited. Where the hell . . . ? Ashley stopped and glanced around. There!

Not liking the direction they were heading in, the opposite direction to the promised ice cream, Mia wriggled in her arms. ‘Sthweeties, Mia want!’ she cried.

‘Innaminit, munchkin. Forgot my purse,’ Ashley tried to placate her, while keeping after Jasmine. It was her. It absolutely was. The hair was black, cropped short. She’d gone in wearing smart jeggings and emerged wearing ripped skinny jeans and a different tee, but it was her. Ashley knew it.

‘Shit!’ Cursing, she fumbled in her jeans pocket for her phone. A now very fractious toddler in arms, she managed a few distant photos, but couldn’t make the flipping zoom work. ‘Damn! Damn . . . bloody thing!’ she seethed, causing Mia’s cries to shudder to a surprised halt.

‘Rubbish word,’ Mia scolded her, her little forehead knitted into a scowl.

‘You’re right, munchkin. It’s total pants,’ Ashley assured her, heading swiftly for Becky’s car.

Jasmine was already climbing into hers, starting the engine; waiting for a car to pass behind her. Thanking God for small mercies, Ashley zapped her car doors open, yanked open the back, plonked a now extremely surprised Mia in her seat and buckled her up in record time. ‘Hold onto your hair, Mia. We’re going to drive fast!’ Ashley warned her, throwing herself into the driver’s seat, only to see Jasmine now pulling out through the rear view.

Determined, Ashley yanked the gearstick into reverse, stepped on the accelerator and — ‘Crap!’ — reversed sharply into an incoming car.

Oh no. Mia! Her heart in her mouth, Ashley twisted frantically around.

‘Crap,’ Mia repeated, her eyes like saucers and her chubby little fingers clutching two strands of her hair.

Utter relief overriding all other emotion, Ashley pushed open her door and climbed shakily out, to be greeted by a ruddy-faced man, who was definitely not happy.

‘What were you doing?’ he yelled. ‘You reversed straight into me!’

‘Sorry,’ Ashley said, feeling her own cheeks flush under his accusing gaze. ‘I didn’t see you.’

‘Obviously!’ The man eyeballed her furiously. ‘Are you blind, or what?’

‘You were going rather fast, young man,’ someone interjected. The twangy old lady, Ashley realised, glad to have someone on side.

‘Fast?’ The guy gawped at her. ‘It’s a supermarket car park. I was doing ten miles an hour.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ the old lady countered. ‘I saw the whole thing. You were definitely driving too fast.’

‘I don’t bloody believe this.’ The man gawped at her, incredulous. ‘She pulled out without looking! There’s no bloody argument.’

‘And there’s no need to shout!’ the old lady shouted. ‘Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I’m deaf.’

‘Silly old bat,’ the guy muttered. ‘See that,’ he said, turning to point up at the supermarket.

Ashley and the old lady followed his gaze upwards, to the camera mounted on the apex of the building. ‘CCTV,’ he said. ‘We’ll soon know who was doing what. Meanwhile, insurance details, please.’

‘There’s not much damage,’ the old lady observed, her gaze now back on his bonnet.

‘Not much damage?’ the man blustered. ‘Look! Look at that! A dent!’ He jabbed a finger at the invisible dent. ‘It’ll probably need a new wing and a new paintjob. Silly cow.’

At which point, Becky appeared, looking more shaken than Ashley. ‘What’s going on?’ She dropped her bags and pulled up her shoulders nevertheless.

The man eyed her disdainfully. ‘What the bloody hell’s it got to do with you?’

‘It’s my car,’ Becky pointed out. ‘And I’d thank you not to use bad language in front of my daughters.’

‘Daughters?’ The man’s eyes boggled. ‘Right.’ Looking between Becky and Ashley, he folded his arms, ready to do battle. ‘And I’d thank you to keep your daughters under control. She reversed into me.’

‘Ashley?’ Becky looked questioningly at her.

Glancing back at her, Ashley felt hugely guilty that she had caused her yet more worry, but nothing could override her rising euphoria. ‘That’s right,’ she said, smiling in the man’s direction.

At which, he raised his eyebrows warily, then, ‘Women,’ he muttered, with a shake of his head. ‘All bloody loopy, if you ask me.’

Becky gave him an unimpressed look. ‘We’ll need to exchange insurance details,’ she said, heading for the car, while Ashley glanced back at the CCTV and whooped silently.

Chapter Thirteen

Parking in the reserved spot for Tony Hayes’ posh Kensington apartment, Jasmine smiled to herself, pleased that everything was going to plan. Don’t go anywhere without telling us, that dozy DS Collins had told her. We might need to have another chat with you.

Honestly, they were so dense. The lot of them. They’d have a hard time chatting to a ghost, wouldn’t they? Jasmine was now officially gone. She’d have to keep up appearances to keep Connor onside, but as far as the police were concerned, Jasmine Francis had disappeared without a trace. And when they caught up with Adams, his policemen friends would undoubtedly be keen to question him about where she’d disappeared to. The finger would be pointed squarely at Adams. The police would be running around in circles, looking for her, assumptions being made that it would be her poor battered body they might find next. He’d killed once, after all, and desperate men do desperate things. Meanwhile, they wouldn’t be able to disprove the accusations Jasmine had made, which, along with the video, quite clearly pointed to him having warped sexual predilections. Adams would be sick to his gut by now, knowing the evidence was mounting against him, knowing his career was over, that his family was suffering; his precious baby. Swallowing back a bitter lump in her throat, Jasmine’s hand travelled down to her tummy. She’d sworn Adams would pay for all she’d suffered one day, and now he was, dearly. He was probably wondering whether he should do the only decent thing and leave his perfect wife with some life insurance now he’d stolen everything else away from her.

Not quite everything. Yet. Jasmine cautioned herself not to jump ahead. There was still a lot to be done, providing Connor played ball, which Jasmine was sure he now would. She’d have to avoid making any stupid mistakes though, she thought, worrying whether Connor was really reliable. One moment’s carelessness might just give Adams some hope. And that was something she definitely didn’t want him to have.

Maybe at the end. A fleeting second’s hope? She pulled down her visor and checked her reflection in the mirror. That might be a nice touch. Would she feel any compassion, she wondered, raking her fingers through her short crop of hair. Had Adams had any? No, was the answer to that. When push came to shove he hadn’t even paused for thought. It was all in a day’s work for him, destroying people. And then, his report filed and his conscience clear, he’d climb into his car, go home and eat his dinner with his nice little family. Well, no more. It would be interesting, though, to see if the copper was too proud to beg once he was down on his knees. ’Course, it did all depend whose life he was begging for, she supposed. Reaching into her shoulder bag, Jasmine extracted her lipstick. Then, selecting Connor’s number on her hands-free, she made a neat ‘o’ with her mouth.

‘Why did you hang up on me?’ Connor asked as soon as he picked up, his voice wobbly and high-pitched. Lord give her strength. Pausing in her lipstick application, Jasmine sighed wearily. Trust her to choose a mummy’s boy. But then, that would have its uses, she reminded herself, gliding lustrous blood red across her bottom lip.

‘Jasmine?’ Connor sounded almost hysterical when she didn’t answer.

Jasmine rolled her eyes. ‘Because I was desperate for the loo,’ she said, and outlined her top lip.

‘She’s dead,’ Connor said, his voice fading away to a frightened whisper.

Natalie, Jasmine assumed he meant. ‘I know. Isn’t it awful? I can’t believe it.’ She paused, and sniffled tearfully. ‘I told you that copper was loco, didn’t I? A woman hater, obviously. Definitely got a screw loose. He’ll probably try to blame you.’

‘Me?’ Connor croaked.

‘Well, obviously.’ Jasmine stopped, sniffling again, and then pressing her lips together to distribute her lippy. ‘He’s not likely to hold his hands up to it, is he?’

Connor didn’t answer straightaway. Struck dumb with shock, obviously. ‘But he can’t! I didn’t touch her,’ he eventually spluttered.

‘Um, I think you did actually, Connor. And he can. Or he’ll try, I bet. Your DNA will be everywhere.’

More stunned silence from Connor. Jasmine used the time while he pondered to smooth her eyebrows.

‘But I . . .’ Connor faltered, obviously replaying details of his sordid little sexual shenanigans with the tart. ‘I didn’t . . . you know . . .’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, think about it, Connor,’ Jasmine snapped. ‘Fingerprints? Clothes fibres? Skin particles? Saliva?’

‘Oh, shit,’ Connor’s tone was terrified.

‘There will be her DNA on your clothes too,’ Jasmine went on worriedly. ‘There might even be one of her hairs. Crap, what a mess.’

‘Bloody hell,’ Connor’s voice cracked. ‘What am I going to do?’

‘Get rid of them,’ Jasmine said decisively. ‘The clothes.’

‘Can’t I just wash them?’ Connor asked timidly.

‘No! Good Lord, Connor, you don’t want your poor mum wondering what you’re up to, do you?’ Jasmine waited a second for that conundrum to hit home. ‘I mean, it’s bound to arouse her suspicion, isn’t it? Imagine what it would do to her if she thought you were involved in any of this.’

Connor was clearly imagining. She heard his tight intake of breath. ‘It would kill her,’ he said hoarsely.

Guessing he’d finally realised he was deep in the proverbial, Jasmine softened her tone. ‘Look, Connor, don’t worry, I’ll help you,’ she said kindly. ‘We’ll think of something. I’m not sure what yet, the police are bound to believe his word against yours, aren’t they, but—’

‘He was here,’ Connor said suddenly. ‘The copper, he was here, outside the house. Do you think he’s already told them I was there?’

Shit! ‘What did you tell him?’ Jasmine felt a surge of panic. She hadn’t considered that.

‘Nothing,’ Connor assured her. ‘Me mates jumped him. They thought he was mugging me.’

‘Did they?’ Jasmine couldn’t quite hide her delight. ‘Good,’ she said, hoping they’d put the boot in hard. ‘Don’t worry. That will just add weight to the theory he’s gone loco. As long as you’re sure you didn’t tell him anything?’

‘I didn’t. Do you think he’s said anything though? About me being at the hotel and . . . you know?’

‘No. I told you, he won’t remember.’ Jasmine was adamant. ‘Not yet,’ she added and waited for the implication to sink in. ‘You just need to stay calm. Keep your head and we’ll get through this. Okay?’

It was too soon to tell Connor they had to make sure Adams never remembered, Jasmine fancied. She had to spoon-feed him the details of her planned fate for the not-so-good detective. Meanwhile, she needed to reel him in nice and tight. Connor would soon come to the conclusion silencing the copper was his only hope. If he ever managed to come to any conclusion unassisted that was. ‘Connor?’ Noting he’d gone quiet again. Jasmine’s tone was firm.

‘Okay,’ he said shakily.

‘Good.’ Jasmine nodded, satisfied. ‘You didn’t do anything wrong, Connor. Not really. Just try not to panic, especially around your mum. I’ll ring you back as soon as I’ve . . . visited my gran.’ Jasmine hurriedly invented one. ‘We’ll meet up, yes?’

‘Yes. All right. I’ll try.’ Connor blew out a sigh of relief. ‘Thanks, Jasmine.’

‘Not a problem. I care about you, Connor,’ she said, with feeling. ‘Call you back soon.’

Got him, the gullible great wuss.

* * *

‘I’d give them a brush each and make them finish painting the hall walls, if I were you,’ Melanie said into the phone, huffily informing Rebecca what she would do with the two policemen who were currently ensconced in her lounge.

Glancing at the officers through the lounge door, both of whom were seated comfortably and trying very hard not to chuckle along to the animated film Mia was watching, Rebecca smiled, despite her bone weary exhaustion.

‘Better not,’ she said, moving from the hall to the kitchen to take her call in private. ‘So far, one of them has spilt tea on the carpet and put his foot in the paint tray and the other one has dropped the only photograph I have of us all together.’

‘Oh, Becky . . .’ Melanie sighed sympathetically.

‘Do you think it’s an omen?’ Rebecca asked, only half-joking.

‘I’m so sorry, Becky,’ Melanie said, her voice catching. ‘I can’t believe any of this. I would never have repeated what Ashley said at the hospital if I’d thought for a second . . .’

That Matthew might actually be with a trollop, Rebecca finished mentally, swallowing back her heart, the fractured pieces of which were raw in her chest.

‘It’s not your fault, Mel,’ she assured her, attempting to pull herself up, though, in truth, she desperately wanted to cave in, to curl up under her duvet and stay there. As if the essence of Matthew, the man she’d loved with all of herself, the man she’d thought she knew intimately, wouldn’t permeate her very soul. As if the images on that video wouldn’t pervade her every thought, the newspaper reports, Matthew’s photograph, alongside that of a pretty, smiling young girl. Natalie. Whatever she’d been, she didn’t deserve that. She would never smile again. Never laugh or love again. It wasn’t Matthew. Trying to dispel the image her mind conjured up, the girl’s body bloodied and beaten, to not feel the terrible fear she must have felt, Rebecca repeated it silently. He couldn’t have. And yet . . . And yet . . .

‘He didn’t do it, Becky,’ Melanie interrupted her thoughts. ‘He’s just not capable. This is all wrong. They’ll get to the truth. Just give it time.’

‘What truth?’ Rebecca asked tearfully. ‘How much time, Melanie? Whatever he’s done, why doesn’t he just damn well . . . ?’

Glancing at the ceiling, Rebecca stopped, willing herself not to give in, not to crumple and weep like a child. Where was he? If he hadn’t done this terrible thing, then why was he running? Rebecca had gone over and over it, and still she arrived at the same answer. Only guilty men run. Matthew would have concurred with her. Would have? Was she already using past tense?

It was all gone. Rebecca could almost feel the ground shifting beneath her. All of it, stolen away: just like their beautiful daughter, the quiet country house they’d built together in hopes of providing Lily a better life, the house they’d laughed together in, loved in, cried together in. Their dream home. Unable to let go of the memories, they’d tried to hold on to it, to keep Lily alive in their minds. And then the animal in the guise of a man had destroyed it, taken everything and sullied it. Still, they’d stayed, refusing to give in. The break-in had been the final straw. Finding their memories had been desecrated, personal things arbitrarily, heartlessly, strewn about or stolen — even photographs and videos which could mean nothing to anyone but meant everything to them — had opened their eyes to the fact that their dream house had become a nightmare. And now it was happening again, but this time the very foundations were crumbling, slipping through her fingers like sand through a timer; she couldn’t hold onto it.

‘Do you want me to come over?’ Melanie asked, concerned. ‘I can get off early.’

‘No. No, I’ll be fine,’ Rebecca lied, probably not very convincingly, but what use could anyone be in reality, unless to offer a shoulder?

‘You’re sure? I don’t think A&E will fall any further apart without me.’

‘Actually, it might. You’re already short staffed,’ Rebecca reminded her. ‘You could pop into Radiology for me, though. Tell them I’ll let them know as soon as I can when I’ll be back at work.’

‘Will do, but don’t rush. Everybody understands, Becky. They’re on your side.’

Are they? Becky smiled wryly. The hate mail she’d received told her otherwise. According to a few who’d felt compelled to share their thoughts, she couldn’t have not known she was married to a monster, therefore she was equally culpable and ought to be locked up. Or worse. A fate akin to those the poor victims had suffered at her husband’s hands would be too good for her, one righteous soul had suggested.

‘Thanks, Melanie,’ she said, glad she had at least one friend who did believe Matthew was innocent, possibly more than she herself did right then. ‘I’d better go.’ She glanced through the opaque glass of the back door as a figure approached. Another reporter, Rebecca supposed, climbing the fence as the previous one had, eager to pick mercilessly at the wide-open wounds.

Expecting whoever it was to knock on the glass, as had the previous hot news reporter, Rebecca waited, and then hesitated as the person, short and slim in stature and obviously female, didn’t knock, but waved. Who on earth? Glancing over her shoulder for signs of the officers, who had strict instructions to vet everyone at the door, but who were clearly still engrossed in their viewing, Rebecca reached for the handle, and then stepped back, surprised to find a young girl with short, cropped hair standing there. No microphone, she noted, which would have been thrust in her face by now anyway. No camera. She cocked her head curiously to one side.

The girl smiled tentatively. ‘Rebecca,’ she said. ‘It’s me, Kristen. Matt’s sister.’

Rebecca blinked in astonishment. ‘Kristen?’

The girl glanced over her shoulder and then quickly back to her. ‘Do you mind if I come in?’

‘No, of course not. Sorry.’ Rebecca moved back from the door. ‘I didn’t recognise you.’ She managed a smile. ‘You look different. Great, in fact.’ Taking in her healthy complexion, Rebecca could hardly believe it. She hadn’t seen Kristen since . . . forever, and then she’d been drinking, a fair bit judging by the abuse she’d hurled at Matthew when he wouldn’t put his hand in his pocket to fuel her addiction. She’d looked a complete mess then, undernourished, sallow to the point of yellow, which had really scared Matthew.

‘Thanks.’ Kristen checked behind her again, clearly keen to avoid reporters too, and then stepped in. ‘Matt doesn’t look so great,’ she said as she did. ‘He looks like shit, to be honest.’

‘Matthew?’ Rebecca searched her face, incredulous. ‘You’ve seen him?’

Kristen nodded. ‘I wouldn’t have come otherwise. Not out of the blue. I know it’s awkward, especially now.’

Rebecca glanced towards the door to the hall, and then led Kristen across the kitchen. Ashley was upstairs plugged into her laptop, so she wasn’t likely to overhear, but the two officers might.

‘I won’t stay long.’ Kristen obviously sensed her nervousness.

‘But why . . . How did you . . . ?’ Rebecca was struggling with this. Why would Matthew contact Kristen and not her? And he must have been the one making contact, because he’d abandoned using his own mobile, meaning Kristen wouldn’t have had a number for him.

‘He needed cash,’ Kristen supplied. ‘I think he also needed someone to believe in him, to be honest.’

Dragging her hair back, Rebecca pressed a hand to her forehead, and looked at Kristen, bewildered. ‘I . . .’ do, she wanted to say, but couldn’t. Her heart was in turmoil. Her head was too. She had no idea how she felt, other than terrified. Terrified and so very, very lonely.

Kristen scanned her eyes, appraising her. Hers were so like Matthew’s, soft velvet brown, always perceptive. ‘He said to give you a message,’ she offered, after a second.

Rebecca closed her own eyes briefly, not sure she wanted to hear it, yet desperate to.

‘He said to tell you he loves you. That he always will, no matter what.’ Kristen paused. There was no let-up in her penetrating gaze.

Rebecca dropped hers. Every instinct inside her screamed, No! He couldn’t have done the awful things he was being accused of. The man who made such passionate, sweet love to her, cradled her children in his arms, laughed with them, cried for them, kissed away their bruises and wiped away their tears. A man who cared, cared so much he physically hurt for those young girls on the streets, he wouldn’t, couldn’t have. The evidence, though.

‘If you want to know whether he mentioned his involvement in any of this shit, I didn’t ask him,’ Kristen went on, still eyeing her carefully. ‘I didn’t need to. Just so you know, he wasn’t even aware about the rape allegation. He was shocked, Rebecca, to the core. He didn’t do it. Any of it.’

Rebecca nodded uncertainly. She felt faint, disorientated. She needed to sit down. Needed to eat, if only she didn’t feel nauseous every time she thought about food. ‘The video?’ she started falteringly. ‘He . . .’

‘He was drugged, Rebecca!’ Kristen said forcefully. ‘You’re his wife. Obviously you’re going to know more about his preferences in the bedroom than I do, but do you honestly think he’d get involved in that stuff?’

‘Drugged?’ Her heart lurching in her chest, Rebecca stared at Kristen horrified. ‘But . . .’ A turmoil of emotions hit her all at once, horror, fear and fury, vying with utter confusion. ‘Then why doesn’t he tell someone? Surely there are tests? He needs to go to the station. He has to tell them.’

‘Tell them what? He won’t remember most of it. Trust me, Rebecca, I know. I’ve been there. As for the tests, maybe if he’d gone in straightaway. I doubt there’ll be any trace in his system now. Possibly they could run tests on the hair, but I honestly don’t know, Rebecca.’

‘So why didn’t he go in straightaway? He would have known he should, surely?’ Rebecca was trying hard, desperately trying to stay in control, to understand.

‘Because he’s scared. Think about it, he has nothing but disjointed memories of what happened, no proof of his innocence, and I’m assuming they have a truckload of evidence against him, including DNA.’ Kristen stopped, allowing Rebecca to digest. ‘He’s being set-up. Systematically set-up. And if you know him half as well as I think you do, you’ll know it’s not himself he’s scared for.’

Rebecca’s stomach tightened at the implication of that statement.

‘He’s not sure who the target is,’ Kristen drove her point home. ‘He is sure he won’t be believed. He’s worried he’ll get remanded and . . .’ She trailed off, her gaze travelling towards the hall as the volume on the TV dropped. ‘I’d better go. You have my number, but be careful what you say on the phone, Rebecca.’

Heading for the door, she stopped and turned back. ‘Tell Ashley I’m sorry, will you?’ she asked, shrugging sadly.

Rebecca nodded and watched Kristen leave, too stunned to speak. Her mouth was dry, her heart weighed down by guilt. Even as Ashley came into the kitchen, she couldn’t coordinate any thought other than she’d doubted him. He’d walked into a madman’s clutches ready to die for her, and when he’d needed her . . .

‘I heard,’ Ashley said quietly. ‘Becky? Are you okay?’

‘Yes,’ Rebecca assured her shakily, trying to rein in her spiralling emotions.

Ashley glanced over her shoulder, to where one of the officers was finally emerging from the lounge. ‘I won’t be long,’ she said, giving Rebecca a meaningful glance and then heading swiftly through the back door.

* * *

Kristen was disappearing over the back gate when Ashley came out. Typical Kristen, she thought, scrambling up after her. Matthew had been obsessed with security since the burglary at the last place, meaning the traditional exit wasn’t an option. Her mother had always been good at this crap though, sneaking out to top up her booze levels. Miraculously, she’d stayed at the last rehab centre, probably because Matthew had threatened to have nothing more to do with her if she didn’t. More miraculously, she seemed to have stayed off the booze.

Seeing her mum heading off through a throng of reporters, her head low, hands stuffed in her jacket pockets, Ashley followed, rather than call out and alert their attention to who Kristen was, which would have them all over her in an instant. That worked, she thought, her heart sinking as some intrepid reporter shouted, ‘That’s Adams’ sister!’ and the whole throng descended on Kristen as one.

‘Can you tell us about your brother?’ one of them shouted. ‘Do you think he’s capable of the atrocities he’s accused of?’

‘Have you been in contact with him?’ shouted another.

Another stuffed a microphone practically up Kristen’s nose. ‘Would you like to make a statement?’ he asked her.

Looking him over, Kristen narrowed her eyes and cocked her head to one side. ‘Yes,’ she said, smiling flatly. ‘I’d like to make a statement. Matthew saved my life. Now why don’t you piss off and get one.’ With which she gave him an ‘up yours’ sign and turned on her heel.

YessSS! Ashley whooped silently and set off after her. She wasn’t ready to do the mother-daughter bonding thing, but she had to admire her cool. ‘Kristen,’ she called, not yet ready to address her as ‘Mum’ either.

Kristen didn’t turn around. Probably assumed she was one of the newspaper hounds. Wolves, more like. Dragging her hair from her face, Ashley curled a lip contemptuously as the pack followed her. ‘Kristen!’ she called again, but Kristen just quickened her pace.

Sod it. ‘Mum!’ Ashley yelled, causing all eyes to swivel in her direction. And, actually good, she thought. Let them add ‘saving her, a schizophrenic basket case’ to Matthew’s list of ‘atrocities’.

Kristen turned then, her eyes growing wide as they travelled over her. ‘Ashley? My God, you’ve grown.’

Ashley stopped in front of her. ‘Yeah. It’s what kids do,’ she imparted facetiously.

Kristen nodded, looking embarrassed and obviously getting the point.

‘Are you driving?’ Ashley asked, raising her voice as an overzealous reporter bobbed in between them.

Kristen nodded in the direction of her car. ‘Over there.’

‘Go!’ Ashley shouted, skirting around the jabbering reporter, as Kristen turned to set off at a run.

Throwing herself into the driver’s seat, Kristen leaned across to push the passenger door open, and then started the engine and pulled off almost before Ashley was inside.

‘Idiots.’ Ashley twisted in her seat, glancing through the back window, as Kristen drove away at breakneck speed.

‘They can’t help it,’ Kristen offered, swerving spectacularly to avoid yet another too keen reporter.

Fending off the dashboard, Ashley glanced at her askance.

‘It’s what Tosser Training School does,’ Kristen elucidated. ‘Seatbelt,’ she instructed, nodding in Ashley’s direction.

Her mouth twitching into a small smile, Ashley grappled for it. ‘You sound like Matthew,’ she grumbled.

‘I’m his sister.’ Kristen shrugged. ‘Maybe I share a few of his good points.’

Ashley buckled up. She didn’t answer. Possibly realising there wasn’t a fat lot she could have said to that. Kristen didn’t speak either, driving on in silence.

‘I heard you,’ Ashley said, after a pause. ‘Talking to Becky. I was in the hall. I heard what you said.’

Kristen nodded. ‘Do you believe he’s innocent?’

‘I never doubted it,’ Ashley stated categorically. ‘I don’t know why or how, but I know for a fact that Jasmine’s got something to do with the death of that girl.’

‘Jasmine as in the girl who made the rape allegation?’ Kristen sounded only marginally surprised.

‘That’s the one. Take a left here, will you? I’m supposed to be seeing someone.’

Kristen glanced curiously at her. ‘Relevant?’ she asked. ‘Or none of my business?’

Ashley was amused, she had to admit, but wasn’t about to let on. ‘Relevant,’ she told her. ‘Steve, Matthew’s ex-DS. I need to run something by him.’

‘You say you know for a fact?’ Kristen asked, taking the road as instructed.

‘Yup.’ Ashley didn’t offer any more, pondering instead whether Steve would believe her. She’d debated whether to go to DCI Davies direct, whether to tell Becky, but she hadn’t wanted to get Becky’s hopes up and the photos she’d got were crap.

‘Do you want to share?’ Kristen suggested hopefully. ‘I know you’ve no reason to trust me and I don’t blame you. I’m the one to blame.’ She paused, glancing again in Ashley’s direction. ‘And I’m guessing you don’t want to hear this right now, am I right?’

Ashley nodded. She wasn’t sure the time would ever be right, but this certainly wasn’t it.

‘This is my business, though, Ashley,’ Kristen reminded her gently. ‘He’s my brother.’

‘Take a right here.’ Ashley glanced tentatively back at her and decided it couldn’t hurt to tell her. Matthew was her brother and Kristen was trying to help him. ‘She’s not who she claims to be.’

‘Who?’ Kristen asked, puzzled.

‘Jasmine, I saw her. It’s a long story but basically she went into the loos to get changed and when she came out she was definitely changed: different clothes, different hair. Different. I’m not sure where it all fits in, but . . . Straight on at the roundabout,’ Ashley nodded ahead, ‘and then first on the right.’

‘Crap,’ Kristen said, her jaw set tight.

‘Exactly,’ Ashley concurred. ‘I tried to follow, but I lost her. I did get some photos, but they’re no good. Too far away. There was a security camera though, so . . . We’re here. The drive on the left.’

Kristen pulled up, glancing up the drive towards the dog kennels. ‘And you’re hoping this Steve bloke will help you get access to the tapes?’

‘That’s right. It might not be much. Might not be anything, but . . .’

‘Clever girl,’ Kristen said, looking impressed. ‘But then, you always were.’

‘Yeah.’ Ashley reached for her door. ‘Not a derbrain or a weirdo then?’ She turned to look accusingly at her.

Kristen looked shocked. ‘Did I say that?’ she asked, obviously not able to remember half of the hurtful things she’d said and done.

Ashley should have wanted to hurt her back. There was a time when she would have, but Matthew and Becky fostering her, making sure that she knew she was all right, that shit did just happen sometimes and that she wasn’t to blame . . . She didn’t feel like raking over old coals anymore, analysing, self-analysing. It just wasn’t worth it.

‘You kept asking why I couldn’t be normal,’ she reminded Kristen, not bitterly, just because she thought that maybe she should know the damage she did.

Kristen glanced down. ‘I am so sorry, Ashley. Truly, I am. Getting sober doesn’t undo the hurts, I know that. It was me who was weird, not you. I should have helped you. I couldn’t even help my bloody self.’

Ashley took a breath. ‘You’ve made a start,’ she said, climbing out.

‘Becky has my number.’ Kristen leaned across, before she closed the door. ‘I’m not expecting to do the happy family thing, Ashley. I gave up the right to do that twelve years ago, but ring me if you need anything and you think I might be able to help. Anything at all. I might not have been there in the past, but I will be in future. If you want me to be.’

Ashley studied her and then nodded slowly. ‘I’ll keep you posted,’ she promised.

Chapter Fourteen

Matthew pulled up his collar and tugged his cap down. The rain was falling softly against the grey light of dawn. The kind of rain that makes you damp, Becky would have said, nonsensically. Trying not to think of her, of his need to just hold her before he did this, he walked purposefully on, a cold shiver of foreboding snaking its way down his spine as he made his way through the part of the cemetery where once proud Victorian headstones submitted to the elements. Walking on, past weathered stones and wingless cherubs, he avoided reading the inscriptions. God knew, he didn’t need reminding how short life was.

Finally, he reached his destination, a simple pearl granite headstone, a floppy carved teddy bear hanging over the back of it. It had broken his bloody heart when he’d first viewed it. He’d tried to like it, for Becky’s sake, for Lily’s sake, whose bedraggled Pooh Bear had gone everywhere with her. It had broken his heart each and every time he’d seen it since.

He had no idea why he’d come, other than he’d needed some thinking space. Here was where he came when he needed that; even Becky didn’t know how often he sought the tranquillity this place offered him. Was he here now to say goodbye, maybe? If he did what he now thought he needed to do, he had no idea when he’d come again. He had no faith in the system. How could he have, when attempting to ‘go through proper channels’ had already cost his family so much? Crouching down, he dusted debris and damp leaves from the stone, then lowered himself to sit next to it. He didn’t have a choice though. His one-man crusade to get to the truth was hopeless. He couldn’t do that as a wanted man, trying to keep under the radar. It would be impossible now Jasmine seemed to have disappeared. According to Steve, she hadn’t shown up at college or at her flat. She hadn’t drawn money from cashpoints or banks. She’d vanished. Concern for her welfare was mounting. And the finger was pointed directly at him.

If there was a hell on earth, this was it. Matthew had been living it. He’d keep living it, if that’s what he had to do to keep Becky and the kids safe, though he couldn’t imagine how he’d survive prison. If there was someone on the inside with grievance enough, and there were plenty, he might not, but he had to go in. Assuming whoever was behind all of this wanted him, then he had to deliver and pray it ended there. Matthew’s gut told him it wouldn’t though. Somehow, he had to convince Davies and whoever it was passed up to at major homicide that his family was in danger, because he simply couldn’t keep them safe on his own.

Déjà vu. The Sullivan nightmare all over again. He’d exposed his family to that maniac too. Matthew pressed a thumb hard against his forehead as he remembered the absolute terror in his wife’s eyes, the noose around her neck, which would have broken her spine in an instant if he’d made one wrong move. Sullivan’s snarling taunts: On your knees, copper. Or wifey might just fall off her shoes. Click, clack, crack. Comprendre?

Matthew clamped his eyes shut, willing the tears back, wishing he’d got off the force back then. It’s your life. It’s who you are, Becky had told him. She’d tried to hide her concerns, to stay optimistic, because that was who she was. They’d never have had Mia but for her determination to have another child. Even after all she’d already lost, Lily, the miscarriage afterwards, she’d never given up hope. Never given up on him. And now this. How could she ever see him in the same light again? Even accepting he, a ‘great strapping bloke’, had been drugged, he was worried Becky might never be able to. She’d certainly never come to terms with his being convicted of the inevitable charges against him. He’d ruined her life. Steve was right, he really was a useless prat, wasn’t he?

No, you’re not, Daddy. Hearing Lily’s voice, childlike and melodic, above the rustle of leaves on the wind, Matthew’s head snapped up. Christ, he was losing it. Was it possible he really was going out of his mind? That he might be more involved in all of this than he’d considered possible?

Glancing around for any likely origin of the voice he could have sworn he’d heard, Matthew’s breath hitched in his chest. You’re not useless. He heard it again, Lily’s voice, as if she were standing right next to him. He could feel her. He could swear he could feel her arms slipping around his shoulders, her kiss on his cheek, feather-light, like the soft brush of a butterfly’s wings. Don’t cry, Daddy, she whispered. It’s only a game.

Matthew reeled inwardly. He remembered her saying it. Just that, the time they’d all trooped to the park stuffed full of Christmas turkey to play football. He’d missed a penalty, he recalled it vividly. Seriously man crushing ego stuff. Becky, who’d been videoing his humiliating defeat, had leapt about like a lunatic when Lily had saved the goal. ‘YeesSS!’ she’d whooped, punching the air. ‘You’re useless, Adams!’ she’d shouted.

‘Daddy’s useless.’ Giggling, Lily had repeated it, and then been mortified when Matthew had dropped to his knees, groaning in absolute mortification at being thrashed by the girls.

Concerned that he really was upset, Lily had come over to him. ‘You’re not useless,’ she’d assured him, peeling his hands from his face and peering worriedly into his eyes. ‘Don’t cry, Daddy. It’s only a game.’

Unable to resist her, he’d pulled her to him. Breathing in the scent of his child, he’d wanted to hug her so hard. His sense of wonderment at having produced her, this perfect little replica of Becky with her wide, innocent blue eyes, was so overwhelming, he’d wanted to hold her and never let go. He’d tickled her, he recalled, until she’d squirmed and squealed with delight. They’d both ganged up on him then, sitting on him and dishing out the same treatment until he’d begged for mercy. Jesus. Shocked by the clarity of the recollection, Matthew looked to the skies. Please let this be the right decision. He prayed silently. Please God, keep my family safe.

Attempting to compose himself, he dragged an arm across his eyes, got to his feet and reached into his jacket pocket for his wallet. Retrieving the plastic package containing a lock of Lily’s hair he kept there, he fingered it, taking some comfort from the lustrous soft feel of it, and then steeled himself to part with it. They’d take all his belongings. He didn’t want them to take that, to analyse it, looking for whatever DNA it might offer up, which they would. They’d only have his word it was his daughter’s hair, after all.

‘For safekeeping,’ he said, gulping back his heartbreak as he eased the marble flower urn to one side to place the package underneath it. ‘I’ll be back for it, sweetheart,’ he promised, swearing that one day he would.

Time to do this. Straightening up, Matthew pulled out his mobile. He couldn’t do it without talking to Becky though, hearing her voice. Bracing himself, he selected her number and waited.

‘Becky?’ He checked it was her, when the call picked up.

‘Oh God, Ma—’ she started, and stopped. There were still uniforms at the house in case he showed up, Matthew deduced, which was actually of some comfort. They’d be safe, for now. ‘Where are you?’ Becky asked.

Matthew couldn’t bear the pain he heard in her voice. ‘I’m going in, Becky,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m going to the station now.’ Swallowing back his own emotion, he prayed again that she’d understand why he wouldn’t try to see her first. Arrested in public, in front of her . . . Matthew would do what he had to do, but he couldn’t do that.

Becky didn’t speak, but the shaky intake of breath told Matthew she was quietly crying.

‘I have to go,’ he said, knowing he was too close to tears himself. ‘Whatever happens, please know that I love you. Will. Always.’

‘Wait,’ Becky implored him. ‘Please . . .’

Feeling as if someone was physically tearing his heart from him, Matthew forced himself to end the call. He had no idea what she might have been about to say, what her feelings now were for him. He would have known though. Talking to her any longer, he would have known whether her trust in him had been broken, and that was something he definitely couldn’t bear.

* * *

Steve massaged his forehead, frustrated. ‘There’s not much to go on here, Ash,’ he said, flicking through the photos on her mobile. ‘No close-ups. It could be anybody.’ He looked across to where she sat in his passenger seat, her huge cognac-coloured eyes wide and beseeching.

‘But you have to admit it’s a possibility,’ Ashley insisted, desperate for him to go into the supermarket and somehow get access to the security tapes. The only way Steve could achieve that, he’d already pointed out, was to impersonate a police officer, which was actually breaking the law. ‘Any possible sighting has to be followed up, doesn’t it?’ she went on, clearly not about to give up.

‘Yes, but legally, through the proper channels, Ash,’ Steve said. Blimey, he was beginning to sound like Davies, he realised, erring on the safe side, doing everything by the book. Glancing again at her, he debated. Clearly, Ashley thought this girl was Jasmine and she was pretty astute. Matthew hadn’t given him all the grisly details around the kidnapping. The guy had found it difficult to talk about. Steve got why. He had told him it was Ashley who’d found Sullivan’s Achilles heel, though, creating a diversion long enough for Matthew to turn the situation around. She might be wrong, grasping at straws, but she just might not be. In which case, this could possibly turn things around for Matthew now.

Making up his mind, Steve blew out a sigh. ‘Okay,’ he said, reaching for his car door. ‘But the only way I’m going to achieve this is with a huge dollop of bullshit. I’m not a copper anymore, Ashley. If they don’t play ball, we’re going to have to put this through the proper channels, like it or not.’

‘Yeah, I seem to recall Matthew tried that once,’ Ashley reminded him. ‘Didn’t work out so well for him, did it?’

That it hadn’t. Matthew had come close to losing his family and his sanity, Steve was well aware of that. He’d been out on a limb on his own then too, thanks to insufficient evidence and endless red tape. His instincts had been right though. One hundred per cent spot on. No one had been listening. Without exception, everyone had him down as a loose cannon, unfit to do his job. They’d been wrong. They were wrong this time, Steve’s instincts were telling him that. ‘Come on,’ he said, climbing out. ‘I’ll try using my powers of persuasion.’

‘And if that doesn’t work?’ Ashley asked, scrambling out to join him.

‘I’ll flash my police ID.’

‘You still have it?’ Ashley looked at him, impressed.

‘Yep, and if I’m caught using it, we’ll both probably end up nicked, which won’t really help anyone, will it?’ To say little of the fact that his wife would have his balls on a plate if she knew what he was up to. He couldn’t blame her. Him getting shot five minutes before they were due to walk down the aisle would be enough to put any would-have-been a copper’s wife off for life.

* * *

He had no choice but to walk the gauntlet, Matthew supposed. If he was going to do this, he might as well do it obviously. At least then whoever wanted him brought to his knees would know he had handed himself in. Losing the cap, attempting to quell the sick feeling in his gut, he reached for his door handle and climbed out. Then, warily surveying the reporters camped outside the station, he raked a hand through his hair, steeled himself, and headed towards them.

It didn’t take them long to pick up the scent. ‘Bloody hell, it’s Adams!’ someone yelled as he approached. Seconds later, there were several reporters in front of him, thrusting microphones and cameras in his face, many more closing in on him from behind. Matthew tugged in a sharp breath, panic rising inside him as his chest tightened. Without his preventative meds an asthma attack was always more likely. Now really wasn’t the time.

‘Detective Adams,’ a woman in front of him shouted. ‘Do you have anything to say regarding the crimes you’re accused of?’

‘No comment,’ Matthew answered the only way he could.

‘Had you met either of the girls before the attacks, Detective Adams?’ someone else asked, incitingly.

Matthew clamped his jaw tight.

‘The girl you raped—’

Matthew saw red then. ‘Piss off out of my face,’ he grated.

‘Are you handing yourself in?’ another reporter yelled, all but climbing over the reporter in front.

Finding himself now being jostled fiercely from all directions, Matthew was actually relieved to see three uniforms emerging from the station steps.

‘Enough, guys. Back off, or you’re nicked!’ the officer closing in on Matthew’s right side warned them.

‘Move it!’ the PC to his left growled, while the third officer cleared the way in front.

Minutes later, flanked by the officers, Matthew arrived in reception, and his chest constricted in a whole new way. Christ, no. His stomach plummeting, he glanced down and then back, as Becky got shakily to her feet. She was pale, drawn, exhausted; beautiful. He watched as she dragged her glorious wild hair from her face, her expression uncomprehending.

‘Becky . . .’ he started hesitantly, wanting to tell her to go, to beg her to be anywhere but here right now to witness this, but his attempts to speak were cut short as Ashley cannonballed into him from across the room, throwing her arms around him and almost crushing his ribcage.

‘That bitch!’ she spat, her tears wetting his cheek as Matthew pulled her close, trying to reassure her in some way. ‘She set you up.’

‘Hey, hey, innocent until proven,’ he said, his voice catching in his throat. The girl’s involvement was a given. Matthew had no doubt Jasmine was involved in every sordid aspect, but he was convinced she wasn’t working alone.

Leaning closer, Ashley whispered something Matthew didn’t quite catch. Something about Steve and DS Collins, he heard that much, before a WPC stepped in to ease Ashley away from him.

Guardedly, Matthew looked past them, to where Becky waited. She looked so vulnerable, so petrified, Matthew felt something break inside him. He had no idea what to say. What reassurance he could offer her. Whatever his own involvement in what happened afterwards — and Matthew still didn’t know, his memories coming and going like wisps of smoke on the air — he had been in that video. How could he hope to convince her he hadn’t been complicit in it?

He tried again to speak, to offer her anything to hold onto, but before he could formulate anything coherent, Davies appeared, crashing through the back-office door, his expression a mixture of fury and despair. Matthew looked back to Becky, his heart dropping to the pit of his stomach as Davies started to caution him himself, rather than pass it down to a subordinate. ‘Matthew Adams, we are legally obliged to inform you that I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder . . .’

Matthew kept looking at Becky. Don’t doubt me. Please don’t doubt me, he willed her. He wanted to say it. Desperately wanted to reach out and hold her, try to explain.

‘You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court,’ Davies went on, doing it by the book, every sentence humiliating him further. ‘Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand, Matthew?’

‘Yes,’ Matthew answered quietly, knowing Davies would need his affirmation.

Dropping his gaze, as an officer took hold of his arm, Matthew gulped back the cold fear in the pit of his stomach. They weren’t going to handcuff him then, in front of his wife. That was something, he supposed. How had this happened, he wondered dazedly? How had he let it? Feeling sick to his soul, Matthew couldn’t meet Becky’s gaze as he was led away. Couldn’t look into the eyes of the woman whose trust in him had never wavered, whose love for him had never faltered, even when he hadn’t been there for her. If he looked and he saw what he was bound to see, he’d be lost, utterly.

‘Matthew!’ Becky called wretchedly as they reached the door. ‘Matthew?’ she said his name tearfully again. A question almost. Therein a million questions Matthew couldn’t hope to answer.

He glanced questioningly at Davies, who nodded his acquiescence, and then turned to face her. ‘I didn’t do it, Becky. It’s a set-up. All of it,’ he said simply. ‘Do you believe me?’

Becky didn’t answer, just continued to study him, her expression now a myriad of emotion: bewilderment, hurt. Most of all uncertainty. She didn’t. How could she? ‘Becky!’ Panic twisting violently inside him, Matthew shouted it. ‘Do you believe me?’

Still she didn’t answer. Feeling as if the prison door had just slammed irreversibly shut on him, Matthew resisted for a heartbeat as the officer to his side urged him onwards, and then turned away.

‘Matthew!’ Becky shouted behind him. Then she was beside him, right next to him, her arms around him, as she moved in front of him, her face buried in his shoulder.

A sob catching her throat, she didn’t speak, but it was enough. His emotion threatening to spill over, Matthew swallowed back hard. He didn’t deserve her support. She had every right to walk away, but he simply wouldn’t know how to be without her. Wouldn’t want to be. Hoping against hope it wouldn’t be their last, he pulled her into a fierce embrace and prayed hard she knew how much he loved her.

Chapter Fifteen

Having obviously also decided to be hands on during his interview, Matthew guessed Davies would follow protocol to the letter, making sure the custody officer informed him of his rights, and then explaining again how long they could hold him before applying for permission to hold him longer without charge. Davies offered him the chance to privately consult with a solicitor, which Matthew had declined. He’d cautioned him again, even told him how often he could take breaks, as if Matthew didn’t know all of it by heart.

Currently he was informing him that the interview would be recorded, ‘to protect the police and yourself from any claims you’ve been made to say, things you did not wish to, or things that were untrue’; DCI Davies finished with that short smile of his, which was meant to be inscrutable, but which was actually anything but. Reserved for those ‘as guilty as sin’ in the DCI’s own words, that short smile relayed volumes.

‘So, Matthew.’ Davies laced his fingers together and placed his hands on the desk in front of him. ‘Finally, just a reminder that anything you say is voluntary. If you do not wish to say anything at all then you may exercise this right. If you do decide to talk to us, anything you say will be played to the court if you choose to plead not guilty to the charge and it goes to a trial. Do you understand?’

He really was doing it by the book, wasn’t he? ‘Yes, I understand.’ Sighing inwardly, Matthew told the man what he needed to hear.

‘Right. Good.’ Davies shuffled his various papers, a delaying tactic Matthew knew well. One Davies employed to make the detainee sweat before going in for the kill. Running a hand wearily over his neck, he looked at his DCI, the man who’d labelled him obsessed when he’d insisted Sullivan had engineered the accident that had killed his daughter, and his hope dwindled further. Davies hadn’t believed him then. Looked like he was suspending belief now, too.

Matthew couldn’t blame him, based on his psych report, and the fact that he’d walked out of his counselling session. The psychiatrist had suggested he might be feeling guilty, responsible because his ‘actions/obsession’ with bringing Sullivan to justice had instigated the kidnapping of his wife, Matthew recalled. As if he wouldn’t? The guilt never left him. Christ, he even felt guilty about Sullivan’s lingering death.

‘So how are you feeling, Matthew?’ DCI Davies started, with another one of those not-so-elusive smiles.

Matthew almost laughed at that. ‘Not great,’ he said.

‘Tired, I bet?’ DCI Davies furrowed his brow, looking concerned.

‘Some,’ Matthew answered, with a shrug. He wasn’t aiming to be disrespectful, but he really needed this to get where it was going.

‘Angry? Bewildered?’

‘Both of the above,’ Matthew concurred. ‘Plus . . .’ He paused, eyeing Davies levelly. ‘. . . ashamed.’

DCI Davies arched his eyebrows. Obviously he hadn’t been expecting him to admit to that. ‘Why’s that then, Matthew?’ he asked carefully. ‘Because of what you’ve done?’

Matthew did laugh then, a short sardonic laugh. Glancing down, he squeezed the bridge of his nose hard between his thumb and forefinger. He didn’t want to do this. How he was feeling, like the weakest specimen of manhood that ever walked the earth, truth be known, it didn’t matter. What mattered, what he needed, desperately, was some kind of reaction from whoever it was that wanted him here, humiliated, arrested, obviously. But that wasn’t all. Matthew was sure of it. Why would someone go to such lengths to get him banged up? Might it be someone already on the inside? Strings could be pulled, favours called in, minions instructed. Isn’t that exactly what that drug-dealing piece of scum Sullivan had done, engineering from behind bars to have his family targeted? Was him in prison exactly what whoever it was wanted, all he wanted, in order to exact some kind of vengeance? Possibly. It was one explanation, but still Matthew had no clue who or what might have precipitated this madness.

Taking a breath, he dispensed with whatever pride he had left and looked directly at Davies. ‘Isn’t that how victims of sexual crimes usually feel?’

Davies’ eyes shot wide. Obviously he hadn’t expected that either. Matthew waited while Davies and his sidekick, DS Anderson, otherwise known as Relentless because he didn’t give up on a case, swapped uncomfortable glances.

‘Take another look at the tape,’ he suggested. ‘You might find some indication I wasn’t in full possession of my faculties.’

‘Evidently,’ Anderson muttered facetiously.

Matthew ignored that. There was no love lost between Anderson and him. A thickset intimidating bastard, Anderson used his bulk to his advantage, preferring an aggressive policing approach, which Matthew found frankly unpalatable and meant they were never going to be best of friends.

‘I was drugged,’ Matthew said, taking a deep breath and fully expecting Anderson to guffaw out loud.

Davies stared at him, incredulous. ‘Drugged?’

‘Drugged. GHB, Rohypnol, something else, obviously,’ Matthew confirmed, an avalanche of conflicting emotion hitting him all at once. He felt defiled, dirty, responsible and utterly stupid. There should have been another female present when he went into that apartment. He should have called someone immediately when he woke at the hotel. Anyone. Steve, he could have . . . Matthew attempted to block it, to curtail his rage and his shame. He couldn’t. He was feeling it. All of it. Every confidence crushing emotion a victim would live through, some finding it impossible to live with. He wasn’t sure he could. What frightened him most though, was that he wasn’t sure Becky could.

Looking back to his ‘colleagues’, he caught a definite smirk on Anderson’s face and suppressed another almost overwhelming emotion: the urge to lean across and wipe it off.

‘Right,’ the man said, folding his arms and eyeballing Matthew amusedly. ‘But you didn’t come straight in and get tested?’

Matthew answered calmly. ‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Why, Matthew?’ Davies picked up his pen, eyeing him curiously as he tapped it on the table.

Matthew met his gaze. ‘Because I was scared,’ he told him truthfully.

‘I bet you were,’ Anderson retorted. ‘Panic struck, I should think.’

Matthew turned to him, now trying very hard to temper his rising fury. ‘Definitely,’ he assured him. ‘Wouldn’t you be if you woke up stark bollock naked in a hotel room to find blood all over the fucking place, a video of you in your own porn flick all over the internet and no memory of what the hell had happened?’

‘Ahem.’ Davies coughed awkwardly. ‘Would you like to take a break, Matthew?’

‘No, I would not like to take a break.’ Matthew turned angrily back to Davies. ‘I wasn’t scared for me, John. I had no idea what was going on, what had gone on in that room. Obviously violence of some sort. For Christ’s sake, John, I was scared for my family, not me. Why else would I run?’

Anderson emitted a derisory snort. ‘So why did you? Talk us through it, Matthew. Why did you leave the scene of an “obvious” crime? How was it you ended up with the victim of that crime in another location? We’re all ears.’

Matthew tugged in another terse breath. ‘Because I needed time.’

Anderson leaned back in his chair, his look openly sceptical. ‘So you bought time at the cost of proof of your innocence?’

‘Yes!’ Matthew grated angrily. ‘I figured the drugs would probably be out of my system anyway. Knew I’d have a hell of a lot of explaining to do and I had no explanations. I needed to find out why I’d been set-up. I needed to find out who the blood belonged to.’ Jesus Christ. Matthew sat heavily back in his chair, realising he’d almost said comprendre?

Shaking his head, Anderson doodled on his pad, while Davies continued to tap his pen on the table.

‘Do you know who administered these drugs?’ Davies asked him, appraising him carefully.

Matthew ran his hands wearily over his face. ‘Jasmine Francis,’ he supplied, guessing what was coming next.

‘The girl you took home?’ Davies didn’t sound convinced.

‘Escorted for her own safety,’ Matthew corrected him.

Anderson shook his head again, exasperatedly. ‘The girl who claims you raped her,’ he said flatly.

Matthew held his gaze as the man looked back to him. ‘I didn’t,’ he stated emphatically.

Anderson looked away first, which was small satisfaction to Matthew.

Davies ran through his notes, still tapping his pen repeatedly as he did. ‘I’d like to put another scenario forward, Matthew, if I may?’

Guessing what that scenario might be, Matthew curbed his frustration and waited.

‘The girl, Natalie.’ Davies paused.

Matthew closed his eyes, inwardly wincing as images of the girl’s lifeless body immediately emblazoned themselves graphically on his mind.

‘She’d obviously decided to video, shall we say, events, with a view to blackmail.’

Matthew emitted a despairing sigh. The man was barking completely up the wrong tree. Natalie hadn’t videoed ‘events’ with a view to anything. She hadn’t videoed events full stop. Nor had she posted them online. Natalie’s intention had been no more than to pick up her cash and lay low for a while. Matthew was positive of that.

‘You’d have a hell of a lot to lose as a policeman,’ Davies went on, and then paused again, for effect, Matthew guessed. ‘Isn’t it more likely that you found out what she was up to, Matthew? That you realised you were being filmed and that you got angry?’

‘Furious, I imagine. I would have been,’ Anderson chipped in.

Matthew kept his gaze on Davies. ‘No.’ Again, he was emphatic.

‘The girl denies it. Possibly even admits it. Taunts you, maybe? You lose your temper, lash out and—’

‘No!’ Matthew slammed his hand on the table. ‘That’s not what happened!’

‘There’s DNA all over the body, Matthew!’ Davies banged his pen down. ‘Fibres, your skin under her nails, scratches all over you. For God’s sake, man, she was strangled with your tie!’ Leaning forward, he eyeballed Matthew furiously.

‘That is not what happened,’ Matthew repeated, holding his gaze.

‘The body was moved. Can you explain that, Matthew?’ Anderson asked him.

‘I gathered,’ Matthew said, more quietly. ‘And no, I can’t.’

Davies contemplated for a second. ‘You do realise this is going to have to be passed up, Matthew?’

‘Yes.’ Matthew nodded. That was a given.

‘Meanwhile, we’ll need to take photos and samples: saliva, photos, blood, urine. We’ll need your consent for the latter.’

‘Yes, whatever,’ Matthew agreed, growing more frustrated by the second. While he was in here, anything could be happening out there. ‘What about the MO?’ he asked, wondering whether they’d even bothered to try to establish one.

‘MO?’ Davies’ expression was back to curious.

Apparently they hadn’t. ‘Her shoe was missing. One shoe. Remind you of anyone?’

Davies looked blank for a second, and then utterly despairing. ‘Oh, come on, Matthew. Not that?’ he said, with an elongated sigh. ‘Again!’

‘She was face down, John. Her head twisted to one side. I’m guessing the arm was fractured, am I right?’

‘Sullivan’s dead!’ Davies reminded him forcefully, and then eyed the ceiling. ‘Are you saying we’ve got a copycat?’ He looked back at him, obviously attempting to control his agitation.

‘That’s exactly what I’m saying,’ Matthew stated evenly. ‘Thus, my concern for my family.’

Davies drew in a breath and blew it out slowly. ‘Right.’ He nodded and looked directly back at Matthew. ‘Small problem with this theory, Matthew. In regard to Sullivan’s MO, the missing shoe was never made public.’

‘Fuck.’ Matthew squeezed his eyes closed. ‘You’re joking.’

‘Doesn’t look very amused to me,’ Anderson observed as Davies tapped his pen hard, once, pointedly, scraped his chair back and then got to his feet.

‘Davies!’ Matthew did likewise. ‘What about my family?’ He came around the table, as Davies headed for the door.

Davies faltered, but didn’t turn back.

‘John, there’s more to this!’ Matthew tried, feeling desperate. He’d go down for it. He’d do it, if he had to, but he had to know they’d at least try to get to the truth, that they’d take his claims seriously enough to protect his family. ‘Much more! I know how it looks, but—’

‘Looks cut and dried to me,’ Anderson imparted dryly.

‘Oh, for fu—’ Matthew dragged his hands through his hair. ‘John, please, I’m begging you. I’m not imagining this. Dear God, I wish I was. My family needs protection.’

John turned, finally. ‘Based on what, Matthew?’ he asked, his expression back to inscrutable. ‘Have they been threatened?’

‘I . . . don’t know.’ Matthew searched frantically for a way to make him see. ‘I don’t have anything to back up my claims. I just know, John. They’re in danger. Please don’t walk away. Not this time.’

Matthew’s gut twisted, as Davies turned back to the door. ‘For Christ’s sake, John! You owe me!’ he shouted, going after him.

Anderson blocked him. ‘Not a good idea, mate,’ he suggested, ‘unless you want to be physically restrained?’

‘John, don’t do this,’ Matthew pleaded, his throat tight. Useless. He swallowed hard, as Davies reached for the door. He’d been working on the assumption it was him they wanted: behind bars, if not eventually convicted, some kind of vengeance meted out thereafter. What if he’d got it wrong? What if that vengeance was to be gratified on the outside, while he was locked up, powerless to do anything about it?

Jesus. ‘I need to make a call,’ he said as Anderson walked to the door, gesturing the duty officer to come in. ‘Do you hear me?’ he shouted. ‘I want my phone call! Now!’

* * *

Five minutes later, Matthew got his call. He’d deliberated, and fast come to the conclusion that he might have a battle on his hands if he asked Becky to go away for a while. Becky would be reluctant and Ashley . . . The girl had dogged his every move when Becky had been missing, stuck like a limpet to his side, until he’d tried to make her see sense and go temporarily back to the care home. Then she’d done a runner, straight into Sullivan’s arms. Could he take the risk she might do that again? Debating for a second longer, Matthew punched in Kristen’s telephone number and hoped Ashley would understand why he’d needed to involve her.

‘Kristen, it’s Matthew,’ he said quickly, when she picked up. ‘I don’t have much time.’

‘Shoot,’ Kristen said. ‘What do you need?’

Matthew heaved out a sigh of relief. As an alcoholic Kristen was unpredictable, incoherent, abusive; the only thing she could be relied upon to do was to get as drunk as possible. Sober, she was dependable, his sister, cut from the same cloth he was. He could rely on her now to get this done.

‘I need you to pick up Becky,’ he said. ‘Don’t ring her. Don’t make any destination plans. Just grab a few things, get her and the kids in the car and drive. Do you think you can do that?’

Kristen drew in a breath. ‘Consider it done,’ she said. ‘Anything you want me to tell her?’

Matthew hesitated. If he was wrong about this he was risking terrifying Becky for no reason. Ashley too, but . . . ‘Tell her there’s a possible link to Sullivan,’ he said and prayed that he was wrong. ‘That I’m struggling to get anyone to see it. She’ll understand.’

‘Will do.’

‘Dump your phones, Kristen,’ he said, knowing they could be tracked by pretty much anyone. ‘All of them. Get new pay as you go and ring the station once you know you’re safe.’

‘That bad then?’ Kristen asked him worriedly.

Matthew ran a hand over his neck. ‘Honestly, I don’t know. Hopefully not, but . . .’

‘You’re playing it safe,’ Kristen finished. ‘Fair enough. I’m on my way.’

Matthew closed his eyes and nodded, relieved she was intuitive enough not to ask too many questions. ‘Take the B roads, Kristen. Make sure you’re not followed.’

‘I will,’ she assured him. ‘I’ll do a car switch somewhere. Don’t worry.’

‘Smart thinking,’ Matthew said, grateful for her astuteness.

‘Yeah, well, Dad’s influence rubbed off on me too, you know. Unfortunately, not all of it good,’ Kristen joked self-deprecatingly. Meaning the booze, Matthew knew. ‘One question, though, Matthew,’ she asked, moving swiftly on from that subject. ‘Have you called a solicitor?’

Matthew realised he hadn’t, and knew now that he had to. ‘No, not yet.’ He scrambled through his brain for a name. ‘Call Steve for me, would you? Becky has the number,’ he asked her, and then recalled Ashley saying something about Steve being here. Matthew hadn’t seen him, but then, they were playing it by the book, weren’t they? He wasn’t likely to be allowed to see anyone other than his solicitor.

‘Got it.’

‘Oh, and one more thing,’ Matthew paused and glanced towards where Anderson was conversing with the duty officer, glancing pointedly in his direction occasionally as he did. One more snide comment from him and Matthew might well be up on another charge. ‘Tell her I’m sorry, will you?’

‘I’ll make sure to, but I’m not sure you have anything to be sorry for, Matthew.’

‘Yeah, maybe.’ So many times he’d tried to convince victims of abuse that it wasn’t their fault, that nothing they’d done was the cause of it. He was going to have to try a lot harder to convince himself. ‘Got to go,’ he said tightly, his attention on the door as Davies returned. ‘Take care, Kristen.’

‘I will, I promise. You too, Matthew.’

Giving himself a second to compose himself, Matthew turned to his erstwhile colleague, his expression probably as contemptuous as he felt, but Matthew really didn’t give a stuff.

‘Matthew.’ Davies smiled that short smile of his. ‘How are you doing?’

‘Fabulously,’ Matthew replied, his tone definitely contemptuous. ‘I’m about to be charged with two serious crimes I didn’t commit, no doubt remanded in custody. My family are possibly in mortal danger and I’m powerless to do anything about it. Couldn’t be better really, could I, sir?’

DCI Davies glanced down. He wasn’t quick to look back at him, Matthew noticed. ‘The doctor’s arrived.’ He glanced through the papers he placed on the table instead, as he imparted that delightful piece of news. ‘I hadn’t realised you were on steroids for your asthma, Matthew.’ He did look at him then, questioningly.

Matthew ran his hand over his neck. They weren’t about to do him for withholding that information, he supposed.

‘You might want to have a word about replenishing stocks,’ Davies suggested, pretty much indicating he was being detained. ‘In regard to the drugging incident you mentioned, would you like to chat with a Sexual Assault Response Coordinator? We could get that organised for you, if you’d like.’

His tone was sympathetic but, given the allegations against him, Matthew couldn’t help but smile at the irony of that. ‘No. Thanks,’ he said. Something else he tried to do was to convince people to get the help they needed, starting with talking through what had happened. Matthew seriously doubted he would ever be able to talk about this. ‘Maybe. Sometime.’

Davies looked him over, his expression troubled. ‘Well, if you change your mind . . .’

‘I won’t.’

Drawing in a long breath, Davies nodded despairingly. ‘We’ll be requesting a full toxicology report obviously, hair strand test, etcetera,’ he assured him, ‘but that will take time. You are aware of that, Matthew?’

‘Fully,’ Matthew assured him. ‘I factored that in when I was trying to decide where I could best help my family.’

‘Right.’ Davies nodded again, awkwardly this time, and collected up his papers. ‘Well, if you’re ready?’

‘Would it make any difference if I wasn’t?’ Matthew asked him disappointedly. Davies was either playing his cards close to his chest or he didn’t believe a word he’d said. The latter, Matthew assumed, acquiescing with a tired nod.

Definite sympathy in the man’s eyes now, probably because he was about to be swabbed, prodded and poked, Davies turned for the door, only to find DS Collins barrelling through it, which didn’t please him. ‘Isn’t it usual to knock, DS Collins?’ he barked agitatedly.

‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,’ Jamie replied quickly, looking flustered. ‘It’s just there’s been some developments and . . .’ Trailing off, she glanced pointedly in Matthew’s direction.

‘Outside,’ Davies instructed, striding forward to usher her out.

Chapter Sixteen

Lugging her rucksack to lend authenticity to her student persona, Jasmine went in through the front entrance of Tony’s club. Décor based on Tony’s idea of opulence: deep pile red carpet, gold upholstered chairs, gold columns, gilt edged mirrors and show girl posters all over the walls, it looked exactly like what it was, a seedy London strip club. Jasmine would cheerfully have set fire to the place had it not been serving her purpose.

‘Yo, Jasmine. How you doing?’ one of the bouncers greeted her. ‘How’s life at London uni then?’

‘Yeah, not bad, thanks.’ Jasmine gave him a smile. ‘And it’s the University of London,’ she corrected him, supplying the name of the university she’d convinced Tony she was attending. She’d pocketed the upfront fees he’d generously parted with, obviously, along with everything else she could take the wanker for. A few thou here, a few wraps of heroin surreptitiously lifted and sold there, add that to the inheritance monies she’d collected and she was nicely set up.

‘Not out painting the town red every night then?’ the bouncer called behind her as she headed for the doors to the main lounge, inspiringly called the ‘Gold’ lounge, where overstuffed businessmen led by their penises would spend their lunchtimes and plenty of cash. Hearing the music thumping out, she guessed Tony would be ‘interviewing’ prospective dancers, i.e. salivating whilst he fantasised about what he was going to do with the buttocks and botoxed breasts thrust in his face. That was okay. Jasmine tolerated his obvious indiscretions. She was well aware that she was just another of his fantasies. Shagging a university student rather than a paid prostitute was what did it for him. He was using her. She was using him. Jasmine was biding her time. Hayes would get what was coming to him too, and soon. Jasmine’s only regret being that she wouldn’t see the look on his ugly smug face when he realised he’d been well and truly shafted too.

‘Nah.’ She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Not sure Tony would like it, Eddie,’ she said, playing the dutiful girlfriend. Her aim to keep things sweet until she was ready.

‘Shame you’re missing out, though.’ Eddie frowned, in that troubled way he did. He was a nice bloke. He wasn’t bad looking, either, sandy-haired, thickset and heavy-muscled, as paid heavies tended to be. It was obvious he fancied her, always trying to look out for her in his own clumsy way. He was struggling to understand what she was doing with a man twice her age, Jasmine knew, whose heavy-jowled face looked like it had been sat on by a sumo wrestler.

‘I’m not really that bothered, to be honest,’ Jasmine assured him. ‘I find all that clubbing and pill popping a bit juvenile.’

‘Yeah, well, just be careful, that’s all,’ Eddie warned her, referring to her association with Tony, rather than her social life, as he often did. As if she wasn’t aware Tony was a vicious bastard if anyone crossed him, the bigshot drugs kingpin who didn’t mess about when it came to collecting his debts.

‘I always am.’ Smiling, Jasmine gave Eddie a wave behind her, and then went on through to the lounge. Predictably, Hayes was busy leering at one of the pole dancers as she writhed and gyrated on a table in front of him, finally squatting to give him a right eyeful. She’d obviously got the job then.

Biting back her contempt, Jasmine left him to his wank-fest and weaved through the tables behind him, heading for the bar to stash her goods. She needed a drink too, a strong one. If she didn’t get in and out again fast, Hayes might decide to satiate his disgusting appetite with her. His preference would probably be for a blowjob while he sat in his plush office chair. Jasmine would swear one of these times she’d bite it off.

‘All right, gorgeous?’ the barman called from the other end of the bar. He was stacking a tray for one of the scantily clad dancers, and appreciating the view while he was at it.

‘Yeah, good.’ Jasmine gave him a smile, as she usually did, though in truth she always felt like clutching his testicles and squeezing until he went puce. Another tosser who couldn’t keep his hands to himself, feeling her up whenever he thought he could get away with it. The idiot would live to regret it though. Jasmine had no qualms about him losing bits of his anatomy when Tony found out he was on the take, which he would soon enough.

‘Give me a sec and I’ll be with you,’ the guy shouted, dragging his attention away from the dancer’s breasts long enough to give Jasmine a lewd wink.

‘No sweat,’ she called. ‘I’ve got it.’ With which, Jasmine skirted around the bar to help herself to a drink, something she’d made sure to do often, thus familiarising herself with where everything was. Dropping her rucksack where she could best access the cupboard she’d previously checked out, she served herself a vodka straight — just the one mind, she needed to keep her wits about her — and then awaited her opportunity.

Soon enough the barman’s attention was back on the tart, who was obviously impressed with the size of his ego. Trollops. The lot of them. Sighing contemptuously, Jasmine glanced across the room to check Tony was still also otherwise engaged and then crouched down to ferret in the rucksack. Pulling out a book, by way of cover for what she was doing down there, she checked on the barman again, and then retrieved the wraps of heroin from her bag, several of. Enough to get Hayes hauled in and remanded, with luck. Either way, his business would suffer. And without his fingers, the barman’s career prospects would be somewhat hindered too. Two birds, one stone. Easy peasy.

Humming to herself, Jasmine opened the cupboard and popped the wraps at the back, behind the stack of bar towels — the barman didn’t often look for a clean one, so chances of him getting down to the last before she’d made her call were nil — and then picked up her rucksack and book and strolled around front.

Hayes, who was now also addressing a sizeable pair of tits, finally noticed her as she approached. ‘Jasmine,’ he said delightedly, his fleshy face curving into something resembling a smile. ‘How’s my girl doing, hey?’ Extending an arm, he wrapped it around her midriff and pulled her proprietorially to him.

‘Not bad,’ Jasmine said, dutifully offering her mouth to his slobbering wet kiss.

Finally extracting his tongue, which felt like a slimy wet slug, from her throat, Tony dismissed the lap dancer with an inclination of his head and turned his full attention to Jasmine. ‘So, to what do I owe the considerable pleasure, my angel?’ he asked, his hands sliding downwards to grab two handfuls of her bum and hitch her towards him, which was a good indication of what he was fancying. ‘Not half-term, is it?’

What Jasmine would give to bring her knee up sharp now. ‘Unfortunately not. I can’t stay long. I have a lecture.’ Arranging her expression to suitably disappointed, she eased back a little and crept a hand under his jacket to graze a fingernail suggestively down his torso. ‘I forgot one of my books though.’

‘And you came all the way back?’ Tony’s look of disappointment turned to surprise. ‘Why didn’t you just buy another?’

‘Because it’s, like, thirty pounds worth,’ Jasmine informed him. ‘Didn’t want to be asking you for money again, did I? And anyway, I wanted to see you. You were a bit busy, though, so . . .’ Pouting petulantly, she dropped her gaze.

Hayes nudged her chin up with his forefinger, falling for the little girl act hook, line and sinker. He always did, gullible git. ‘Never too busy for my little Miss Independent,’ he assured her, smiling almost paternally. ‘You should know by now I only have eyes for you.’

Yeah, shame his dick didn’t share the same sentiment, Jasmine thought, repulsed.

‘Here, take this,’ he said, reaching for his wallet and producing four fifties. ‘Buy two books and treat yourself to something nice, as well.’

‘Oh, Tony.’ Jasmine looked from the dosh to him, pretending reluctance. ‘That’s really lovely of you, but I can’t just keep taking your money.’

‘’Course you can. I can afford it,’ Hayes said magnanimously. ‘Go on, treat yourself. And don’t work too hard on all that studying. Don’t want you exhausted when you come back for the weekend, do we?’

Waggling his eyebrows insinuatingly, which looked like two fat caterpillars mating, he hooked a finger over the front of her tee and stuffed the notes between her breasts.

So much for the paternal concern. The bloke was paying for services in advance, that was all. Shame he was going to be disappointed. Jasmine beamed him a smile and stretched to plant a quick kiss on his cheek. ‘Thanks, Tony. You’re the best,’ she said, and then reached for his watch arm to check the time. ‘Cripes, I have to go. I’ll be late,’ she said, looking panicked.

‘Remember, don’t work too hard.’ Tony patted her backside as she turned to head for the exit.

‘I won’t.’ Jasmine waved behind her. ‘Oh,’ she stopped and turned back, ‘I meant to ask, how’s the renovation work going on Seventh Heaven?’ Thinking she had an interest in his ‘work’, Tony was always happy to keep her up to speed. He probably got off on that too, proving what a big man he was, buying the place for cash.

‘Still stalled.’ Hayes sighed despairingly and eyed the ceiling. ‘Some hitch with the planning permission to extend down, apparently. Tosspot councillor,’ he muttered despairingly, ‘might’ve mentioned he couldn’t swing it before the work started. Which reminds me, the bloke owes me.’

Poor sod, Jasmine thought. The guy had better book a one-way flight to a faraway place then or cough up the bribe Tony had given him to push the planning permission through smartish.

‘Aw, sorry, Tone,’ she said sympathetically. ‘He’ll get it sorted soon, I bet. Give him another couple of weeks, I would. I mean, it’s going to look so cool when it’s finished. Worth waiting for.’

Hayes furrowed his brow thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, I suppose.’

‘See you at the weekend.’ Jasmine blew him a kiss and turned to head onwards.

It would actually look totally naff. Giant marshmallows for seats and pink décor? Like, ugh. The Candy Shop, he was going to call it. Still, it didn’t matter what plans Hayes had for it in reality. She walked jauntily on, tucking the keys she’d lifted from him into her pocket and pulling out her pay as you go phone to call the local nick as she went. The self-appointed bigshot’s business activities would be curtailed for a while once she’d made her call, along with the renovation work on Seventh Heaven. It would probably be better renamed House of Horrors when it did open up, given the nightmare for a certain person that was going to unfold there.

‘Yes, hi,’ she said worriedly, when the station picked up. ‘I’m not sure whether I should be reporting this, but I’ve been working at Tony Hayes’ club and I found this . . . stuff. Powder. White powder, a lot of it, in a cupboard behind the bar.’

Job done, Jasmine thought, pleased, as she climbed in her car and headed off to implement the next stage of her plan.

* * *

Hearing the squeal of brakes, Rebecca’s blood froze in her veins. Her mind instantly playing over that fateful second when Lily’s hand had slipped from her own, hearing again the sickening impact, she bent to swoop Mia into her arms and flew the rest of the way across the road to the pavement.

‘Mia no like, Mummy! No like!’ Holding her hands up in distress, one of which Rebecca had been in danger of stopping the circulation flowing through when she’d squeezed it before plucking her up, Mia immediately burst into tears.

Rebecca caught hold of the offended hand and pressed it to her lips. ‘Sorry, sweetie,’ she said, kissing it better, her eyes on the car that had careered to a stop outside the doctor’s surgery opposite.

Noting the window sliding down, she was about to give the driver a voluble piece of her mind when she recognised Matthew’s sister.

‘Becky!’ Kristen called urgently. ‘Get in.’

Annoyed at being given a near coronary, Rebecca glanced at her confused, and then angrily. Driving like someone possessed and clearly hyper, the woman had obviously been drinking, which was the last thing Rebecca wanted to deal with. Suppressing a sigh of irritation, she took a step forwards, and then stopped, perplexed and concerned as Ashley emerged from the passenger side.

‘Becky, you have to come with us.’ Ashley gesticulated wildly for her to come over.

Rebecca furrowed her brow. What on earth? Oh God, no. Fear slicing through her, Rebecca froze. ‘Is it Matthew?’ she shouted.

‘No. Yes, sort of,’ Ashley’s reply only confused her further. ‘We need to go, Becky, now,’ she insisted, heading towards her.

‘But why?’ Becky struggled to hold onto a now recalcitrant Mia, who she’d promised faithfully a new CBeebies DVD by way of compensation for her little world being turned so violently upside down. She’d missed nursery, throwing her routine into chaos. She missed Matthew so badly. To top that, Rebecca had had to take her to the asthma clinic, which she absolutely hated. It was no wonder she was tired and fractious.

‘Because Matthew said so,’ Ashley answered urgently. ‘We’ll explain on the way. We need to go.’

‘But what about my car?’ Rebecca looked towards the car park.

‘Leave it,’ Ashley instructed, reaching for Mia who was now working her way up to a tantrum. ‘He said to just go, Becky. Kristen will fill you in, but we need to go now. There’s no way he would have told us to if he didn’t have a bloody good reason.’

‘Rubbish word,’ Mia reprimanded her through her tears.

‘You’re right, it’s totally uncool.’ Ashley plopped a kiss on her nose. ‘Come on, munchkin. We’re going on a drive with Auntie Kristen.’

‘No want to! Want CBeebies!’ Mia, having other ideas, writhed and attempted a downward descent to escape.

Wise to her antics, though, Ashley heaved her higher in her arms. ‘Oh, no,’ she gasped, blinking at her aghast. ‘That means I’ll have to eat all the sweeties on my own.’

Mia stopped mid-sob. ‘Sthweeties?’ she repeated, her little face lighting up hopefully.

‘And Animal Crackers,’ Ashley enticed her further.

Sniffling, Mia wound a ringlet around a finger and contemplated. ‘Mia like animul cwackers,’ she decided.

‘Well, that’s a relief.’ Ashley grinned. ‘I’d end up a big fat piglet if I scoffed them all.’

‘Pliglet.’ Mia giggled and wrapped her arms contentedly around her big sister’s neck, the DVD and her mother momentarily forgotten.

Rebecca couldn’t help but smile. Nor could she help wondering quietly again how Kristen could ever have walked away from her child. Quashing that thought, she walked with Ashley to the car, opened the back door to allow Ashley to climb in with Mia, and then slipped into the passenger side.

‘It’s something to do with Sullivan,’ Kristen explained quickly as Rebecca glanced at her, hoping she could trust a woman who, up until now, she had only ever known as untrustworthy.

Rebecca felt every hair on her body rise at the mention of his name. ‘Sullivan?’

Kristen obviously noticed her look of sheer horror. ‘I have no idea what,’ she went on hurriedly. ‘Matthew was ringing from the station. He didn’t have time to say much, but he was worried. Very worried, Becky. He needs to know you’re all safe.’

Rebecca took a second to assimilate. Evidently Matthew did trust Kristen. Rebecca now fervently hoped she could trust herself. Kristen had said he’d been drugged. Given the nature of his job, it was possible. But then, hadn’t Matthew gone into that hotel room of his own volition? And the other accusations against him . . . Rebecca’s every instinct wanted to trust him, her heart physically ached at the thought of all Matthew might be going through. He would be crushed, traumatised, hurting so much inside, but what if her instincts were wrong?

‘Becky, he is innocent, you know?’ Ashley said as if reading her mind. ‘I know it looks damning, with the video and all, but you have to believe him.’

Rebecca heard the desperation in her voice and despaired of herself. Her own emotions were all over the place, obviously Mia’s were, who couldn’t possibly understand what was going on, but Ashley would need reassurance too. ‘I do believe him.’ She reached over and squeezed her shoulder. ‘Of course I do. I just don’t understand how—’

‘I saw her,’ Ashley blurted. ‘Jasmine,’ she clarified quickly. ‘She’s changed her appearance. I don’t know why. I haven’t spoken to her. All that stuff she said though, it’s bullshit.’

Rebecca shook her head, now utterly confused. ‘Saw her where? When?’

‘At the supermarket.’ Ashley glanced guiltily down. ‘That’s why I was trying to reverse the car.’

She’d said the handbrake had slipped. Rebecca had been too tired and distracted at the time to question it. She looked at Ashley bewildered. ‘But you never said anything.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to get your hopes up before I checked it out with Steve first. He has the supermarket security tape. He thinks it is her. He says she might just be trying to avoid people. You know, with the press coverage and everything, but he suspects it might be something.’

Rebecca nodded slowly. ‘And have you spoken to Steve since?’ she asked. It was clear that Jasmine had been spinning a whole web of lies, clear to Rebecca, at least. How that tied up with Sullivan though . . .

Ashley sighed and reached for the animal crackers from the side pocket of the door Mia was already straining for. ‘No, but he was there, at the station when we were there, so they must be checking it out. Matthew’s obviously still having trouble convincing his “colleagues”’ — she made air quotes with her fingers — ‘of his innocence. If he says we have to lay low, though, then he’s saying so for a reason. We have to trust him, Becky. Without Matthew before . . .’

They would have died, Rebecca finished silently. No one had believed him then either. He’d had no backup whatsoever. Matthew had been on his own. Apart from Steve, she reminded herself. He’d been there for him. God bless the man, he’d never doubted him. It was time she stopped doubting him too.

She nodded again, more determinedly. ‘So what do we do?’ she asked, scrambling through her mind now for how there could be a connection between that bloody girl, the murder of another defenceless young girl, and the sadistic animal who’d very nearly succeeded in destroying them. But then, would there really need to be much of a connection? If Matthew had been set-up, then someone was out to get him. That much was clear. Someone with old scores to settle, someone with links to Sullivan, who’d perhaps coerced Jasmine, promised her money? And if Matthew was being paranoid, if he was more involved than Rebecca could ever imagine, then she would still rather be safe than sorry.

Kristen looked at her full on, assessing her, Rebecca felt.

‘We need to disappear for a while,’ she said. ‘As in of now.’

Rebecca searched her face. There was no hint she’d been drinking, no smell of alcohol. Matthew had always said that sober Kristen was a very different person, caring and dependable. Rebecca prayed hard he was right.

‘Okay.’ She made up her mind and reached for her seatbelt, an icy chill of trepidation running down her spine nevertheless. ‘We’ll need some stuff from the house,’ she said, thinking of essentials for Mia.

‘Got it,’ Ashley supplied as Kristen pulled off.

‘We grabbed everything we could think of before coming to pick you up,’ Kristen added.

‘What about Mia’s medication?’ Rebecca asked. ‘Did you pick up the spare aerochamber, Ashley?’

‘Shoot, no. I thought you always carried one.’

‘I do, but the air flow’s slow. That’s why we were at the clinic.’ Rebecca knitted her brow worriedly.

‘We’ll have to go back, Kristen,’ Ashley prompted her. ‘Mia can’t use her inhaler without it.’

‘No, no don’t,’ Rebecca said as Kristen looked at her for confirmation. ‘I’ve got the prescription. If we can find a chemist . . . ?’

Kristen nodded, and glanced through her rear-view mirror. Driving deftly, rather than erratically, she was keeping a wary eye on the road behind, Rebecca noted. ‘We’ll stop at a shopping centre. We need to get new SIM cards anyway.’

Rebecca eyed her curiously. ‘New SIM cards?’

‘GPS signals,’ Kristen explained. ‘Trackable. We’ve already dumped ours. Do you want to let Ashley have your phone?’

Rebecca hesitated for only a second before ferreting in her bag and handing it over, glancing worriedly again at Kristen as she did.

Kristen gave her a reassuring smile. ‘I suspect Matthew’s playing safe, but you never know. Have a think and we’ll grab anything else we might need while we’re there.’

Chapter Seventeen

Matthew circumnavigated the interview room yet again. What the hell was Davies doing? He’d been gone for well over an hour. Matthew needed to know what these ‘developments’ were. Now.

‘Can’t you go and find out what’s going on?’ He turned to Anderson, frustrated beyond endurance.

‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ Anderson imparted, his attention still on the thumbnail he was picking at, which was bloody annoying.

Matthew eyed him despairingly, then, ‘Stuff this,’ he muttered and headed for the door.

Anderson got fast to his feet. ‘Uh-uh, not a good idea.’

He was enjoying this, the prat. Cursing, Matthew turned away and then swiftly back as the door opened behind him.

‘We have some news of the girl, Jasmine,’ Davies said as soon as he entered, his expression marginally hopeful as he looked at Matthew. ‘A security tape has come to light, though I’m not overly pleased at how it did.’

‘And?’ Almost ready to implode, Matthew urged him on.

‘It could be something. I’m breaking with protocol here, Matthew, but I’m going to let your former DS explain.’

Matthew looked at Davies, confused, and then to the door as someone knocked on it.

‘Enter,’ Davies called, but Steve was already halfway in.

‘All right, boss?’ he asked, nodding in Matthew’s direction.

Matthew eyed him quizzically. ‘Never better.’

‘We have her on CCTV, Jasmine Francis, alive and well,’ Steve announced, taking Matthew completely by surprise. ‘At least we’re pretty sure it’s her. No facial recognition yet, but we’re checking with the college database.’

Overwhelming relief flooding through him, Matthew allowed himself to breathe out. ‘So are you going to bring her in?’ He turned to Davies, sure now that they’d take his statement seriously enough to question her.

‘Doesn’t look like that’s going to be possible, I’m afraid.’ Sighing, Davies perched himself on the edge of the table.

What? Matthew stared at him, astounded. ‘You have to be kidding? You can’t seriously believe her “disappearance” wasn’t as contrived as the rest of her story? Bloody hell, John, do you honestly think I’m capable of rape? Of murder?’

‘Mine is not to judge, Matthew,’ Davies reminded him. ‘Mine is to establish the—’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ Matthew ran his hand furiously through his hair. ‘Save me the protocol crap.’

Davies eyed him disapprovingly. ‘In order to bring her in, Matthew, we have to be able to locate her,’ he countered impassively. ‘As yet, we can’t.’

‘Looks like she doesn’t want to be found,’ Steve picked up.

‘Because she’s lying through her teeth!’ Matthew seethed. ‘She’s involved in all of this. Which bit don’t you get, Davies?’ He turned furiously on him. ‘The part where she drugged me? The false allegations? The fact that she obviously hired Natalie in the first place, which means that she had a hand in her murder? What?’

‘Watch the temper, Adams,’ Davies warned him. ‘It won’t really help your case, will it?’

‘Unbelievable.’ Shaking his head, Matthew laughed bitterly and turned away.

‘It seems she’s changed her appearance,’ Steve went on behind him. ‘Cut and dyed her hair, or else she either is, or was, wearing a wig. My bet’s on the latter, as Ashley saw her go into the—’

‘Ashley?’ Matthew turned back fast. ‘Okay, slow down. Ashley saw her?’ He narrowed his eyes in Steve’s direction.

‘Going into a supermarket. The supermarket toilet, to be precise,’ Steve supplied. ‘She went in long blonde and came out cropped brunette. She’d also changed her clothes.’

Feeling utterly confused, Matthew looked back at Davies. ‘And you can’t find her?’

Davies shook his head regretfully. ‘She still hasn’t been to her apartment. No cash withdrawals. We have everyone available on it, but nothing yet.’

Matthew kneaded his forehead, now totally frustrated. ‘Great!’

‘Being a detective, however . . .’ Steve started.

‘Ex,’ Davies reminded him pointedly.

‘Ex,’ Steve amended sheepishly. ‘I ran the car registration . . .’

Matthew’s gaze snapped back to his. ‘You got an address?’ he asked, disbelieving.

Steve nodded. ‘Tony Hayes,’ he supplied, scanning Matthew’s face warily.

‘Tony Hayes? The Tony Hayes?’ Matthew asked, thunderstruck. Christ, he’d been standing right in front of the bastard. He’d known there had to be some sort of a link, that Hayes was the obvious one. Why the hell hadn’t he pursued it further?

‘One and the same,’ Steve clarified. ‘The car she was driving is registered in his name.’

‘Meaning what, exactly?’ Anderson asked, sounding not very impressed.

‘Meaning she has associations with the man Sullivan had been running scared of,’ Steve reminded him, glancing at Anderson with as much contempt as Matthew felt for the man. ‘Hayes had been about to collect Sullivan’s balls as part payment of a substantial drugs debt, if you recall. Money Sullivan owed because a consignment went astray while Matthew had customs under surveillance, thus Sullivan’s warped belief that Matthew was to blame and his attempt to extract money from him, using his family as leverage.’

‘Oh, yeah, right.’ Anderson nodded, looking only mildly interested.

‘We can’t see any reason why your family might be in danger, Matthew, but, as a precaution, we’re going to get someone posted outside your house, asap,’ Davies offered.

Matthew hardly heard him above the alarm bells screaming loud in his head. ‘Too little too late,’ he said tightly, his heart dropping like a stone as he realised the monumental mistake he’d made.

* * *

If Matthew was being paranoid, Kristen clearly didn’t think he was. ‘You go ahead,’ she said, nodding Ashley and Becky on towards the shopping centre. ‘I’ll wait around for a second and meet you outside Boots.’

She was hanging back in case they’d been followed, Ashley guessed, obviously trying to look out for them. She still wasn’t sure she trusted her though. She got it, kind of, that Kristen’s alcoholism was a disease, that she would have been mentally unstable when she’d walked out on her. The counsellor had explained all that. She’d accepted that Kristen might have believed she was protecting her from herself when she’d abandoned her. That she’d actually cared in there somewhere. Ashley wasn’t sure she could ever trust her to really care though. The long night and day she’d spent in that cold, dank flat had been the loneliest in her life. She squeezed Mia a touch closer as they walked on towards the shopping centre.

You could give her a chance. At least try, said a voice in her head. Not Emily. Someone she’d heard once before who seemed to be more optimistic than Emily. But how did you ‘try’ to trust someone, Ashley wondered? Either you did or you didn’t. Trust had to be complete, didn’t it?

‘You and Kristen seem to be getting on,’ Becky commented as Ashley pondered.

Scraping her hair from her face, Ashley glanced back towards Kristen’s car. Whatever Kristen had done in the past, she was here now, she supposed, sober and seemingly reliable. Ashley had to admit she was grateful for that. She doubted they’d be bonding or going clothes shopping anytime soon, but . . .

‘Yeah, she’s okay,’ she said, with a non-committal shrug.

‘Mia walk,’ Mia insisted, stretching a hand towards the revolving doors into the centre.

Meaning she wanted to ‘ride’ in them, Ashley guessed, rather than be carried through. ‘In a minute, munchkin,’ she promised, glancing again over her shoulder. Kristen was looking around vigilantly, clearly determined to do what Matthew had entrusted her to. She obviously cared for him, that much was apparent. And he cared for her, Ashley knew. He’d never given up on her, had he?

‘Will you see her, do you think?’ Becky asked. ‘In future, I mean.’

‘Not sure. Depends.’ Ashley shrugged again, uncertainly. ‘Matthew seems to have faith in her.’

‘Yes, but you need to make up your own mind, Ashley. Don’t do something because you feel obliged to, but because you want to.’ Becky reminded her of one of the things she’d worked through in counselling, to have faith in herself and her decisions.

Ashley nodded thoughtfully. ‘Would you mind if I did see her?’ She glanced questioningly at her. Becky had been more of a mother than Kristen ever had, that was for sure. She’d advise her, but Ashley didn’t think she’d try to influence her without good reason.

Becky thought about it. ‘Honestly? I thought I would,’ she admitted. ‘My over-protective gene coming out, I think. But if she genuinely cares — and she does seem to.’

‘Yeah, maybe.’ Ashley sighed. She wanted to give Kristen a chance, but could she allow herself to care about Kristen was the question. ‘Like I said, though, depends,’ she said, lowering a now jiggling Mia to the ground and catching hold of her hand, as Becky pushed through the doors ahead of them.

‘Mummy buy CBeebies,’ Mia said, toddling happily alongside her. For now, at least. It wouldn’t be long before she wanted ‘upsies’, Ashley guessed. ‘And choclit,’ Mia added, with a determined little nod.

‘Anything else madam requires?’ Ashley asked plummily as she stepped into the revolving section directly behind Becky. She smiled down at Mia, and then scowled as she found herself lurching forwards, thanks to some idiot pushing in behind her.

Pissed, seriously, Ashley half-turned, ready to tell whoever it was to learn some manners, and found herself shoved again, ferociously this time. ‘Mia!’ she shouted, feeling her tiny hand slip from her own, as she stumbled to land heavily on her knees.

‘Mia!’ she shouted desperately again, scrambling to her feet. Oh shit, no. ‘Mia!’ Seeing Mia snatched backwards, the doors revolving onwards blocking her following, Ashley’s stomach turned over. Spewing through the doors shopping centre side, she turned frantically back, watching horrified as the person who’d grasped Mia’s hand, a female in a dark hoodie, hastily gathered her up in her arms. She was turning away! She was turning away from the centre. ‘Mia!’ Panic sliced through Ashley like a knife as the girl glanced briefly across the car park ahead of her, and then fled.

‘Mia!’ Becky screamed hysterically behind Ashley. ‘Stop her! My baby!’

‘Are you all right, dear?’ someone asked, seeing Becky’s distress.

Someone else bobbed in front of Ashley, quickly followed by other people, crowding them and making it almost impossible to see. ‘Move!’ Desperately Ashley shoved her way past them, shooting towards the side doors, colliding with shoppers coming in. ‘For God’s sake, get out of my way!’

‘Kristen!’ Ashley yelled once on the outside, stopping Kristen, who was heading towards them, in her tracks. ‘She has Mia!’ She pointed to a car the girl disappeared into, its engine revving. It wasn’t in a car parking space. It was waiting. Oh God, no. Ashley flew towards it. Blinded by hot tears, she swiped at her face and willed herself on. Please, someone stop them.

Closer than she was, Kristen sprinted towards the car as if chased by the devil. She was almost on it when the car pulled off. Grinding to a halt, Ashley saw it as if in slow motion. Felt it, like a low blow to the stomach. Her heart twisting violently inside her, she heard the impact, dull, metallic, gut-wrenching.

* * *

No clue where his family was, Matthew agitatedly paced the room, fighting and failing to stay calm. Taking short breaths, he tried to ward off the infuriating cough indicating an imminent asthma attack, which would render him utterly useless.

Steve walked across to him, as he stopped and studied the ceiling. ‘We’ll find them. They can’t have gone too far yet,’ he attempted to reassure him, placing a hand clumsily on Matthew’s shoulder. ‘Have you got your meds?’

Matthew nodded and then shook his head. Still in a state of shock on hearing mention of a feasible link to Sullivan, he didn’t seem capable of any coherent thought, bar one: that he might well have put his family in more danger than they’d have been in if they’d stayed.

‘Matthew?’ Steve tried again, clearly hearing the distinct wheeze in his chest. ‘Where’s your inhaler, mate?’

Matthew almost laughed. It wasn’t likely to be in his pocket, was it, since he was wearing ‘suitable alternative clothing’ to his own. Every possession he had taken from his person. He simply could not get his head around it, how he came to be sitting here, questioned, cross questioned, poked and prodded, accused. Plainly not believed. Even with doubt cast on the validity of Jasmine’s claims, even with the link to Sullivan, he was still the prime suspect. Not happening. He couldn’t do this, just sit here, doing nothing.

Dragging his hands up over his face, Matthew moved suddenly, causing Steve to step back. ‘I need to get out,’ he said, heading past him towards the door.

Davies, on the other side of the room, making yet another completely bloody useless call, pulled his phone away from his ear. ‘Not possible, Matthew,’ he said, stepping in front of him. ‘Sorry.’

‘Sorry?’ Shaking his head disbelievingly, Matthew looked him over, noting the man’s expression, concerned yet uncompromising, one he’d seen so many times before, each and every time he’d begged him to acknowledge that Sullivan was a threat to his family and do something about the bastard. He’d killed his daughter, for Christ’s sake. Sucking in a ragged breath, Matthew tried hard to still the immediate flashback, his baby, the pleading in her eyes, her blood seeping into his clothes as he’d cradled her, tried desperately to hold onto her. Davies had known. He’d known Sullivan was the murdering piece of scum who’d engineered the accident, and he’d done nothing, because he’d had no evidence.

And now, it seemed Davies was determined to do it all over again, to wait until he had irrefutable proof that his wife and kids might be at the mercy of some sick animal. No way! ‘I. Need. To. Go,’ Matthew reiterated furiously.

Exhaling impatiently, Davies stood his ground. ‘A girl has been murdered, Matthew,’ he pointed out as if Matthew didn’t know this. ‘There’s still overwhelming evidence that places you at the scene. I can’t just let you—’

‘Charge me, or get out of my way,’ Matthew grated, his jaw tightening.

Searching his eyes, a degree of compassion in his own, Davies shook his head sadly. ‘Sit down, Matthew,’ he said, turning away, ostensibly to pick up his papers. ‘We’ve got every available body on it. There’s nothing you can do. Certainly nothing I can condone. Just sit down and try to stay calm.’

Calm? Matthew stared incredulously after him, as Davies headed for the door. ‘I do not want to bloody well sit down!’ he shouted, his anger mounting dangerously inside him.

Steve was in front of him then, obviously also thinking it was perfectly reasonable to be requested to stay calm while who knew what might be happening to his family. ‘Better do as he says, Matt,’ he advised him sympathetically. Then turned to Anderson, who seemed oblivious or couldn’t-care-less as he sat, still picking at his thumbnail. ‘Can’t you get his bloody asthma meds?’ Steve asked him. ‘Instead of sitting there like a spare dick at a wedding?’

Matthew watched, utterly disbelieving, as Anderson got to his feet with absolutely no sense of urgency, as Davies left the room, now wittering into his phone about motorway surveillance, as if that could do any good. Had he even despatched anyone to bring Hayes in yet? Was he doing anything?

Clearly, he wasn’t. Matthew’s heart sank to a whole new level. Which meant that his staying here was not an option. He needed to get to Hayes. Find out what he knew. He needed to do it now. A distinct wheeze rattling his chest, Matthew turned to Steve. ‘Move, Steve,’ he asked him, eyeing him levelly.

‘Look, Matt, we’ll find them,’ Steve tried. ‘We’ve got eyes on the motorways. We—’

‘She’s not on the fucking motorways!’ Matthew yelled, his rage spilling over. ‘For Christ’s sake, Steve, we can’t even contact them by phone!’ Oh, for . . . This was useless. ‘I need to go,’ he said, pushing past him.

‘Uh, uh.’ Anderson, who’d paused at the door to watch proceedings, no doubt for kicks, stepped back into the room. ‘You need to stay rational, mate,’ he said, approaching Matthew. ‘You know the score. You can sit and wait here, or you can have a nice comfy cell. Either way, you’re going nowhere.’

With which, he took hold of Matthew’s arm and attempted to manhandle him towards the seat. That did it. Blind anger and impotent frustration driving him, Matthew shoved the man back hard.

Caught off guard, Anderson stumbled, crashing heavily backwards into the wall behind him. ‘You prat,’ he growled, shaking his head and heaving himself upright.

Matthew clenched his fist at his side, itching to punch the bastard’s lights out as Anderson advanced on him. ‘Don’t,’ he warned him.

‘And who’s going to stop me? You?’ Obviously hearing the now almost debilitating rattle in Matthew’s chest, Anderson mocked contemptuously. ‘Finally lost it, haven’t we, Adams, hey? Only a matter of time, wasn’t it?’

‘Oi, pack it in!’ Steve stepped between them. ‘Grow up, mate, will you?’ he said, eyeballing Anderson angrily, and then turning to assist Matthew, whose laboured breaths were fast turning to audible gasps.

‘He’s a bloody liability,’ Anderson muttered, leaning past Steve to shove Matthew hard in the shoulder.

‘Leave it out!’ Steve yelled, locking his arms about Matthew, forcing him bodily away from Anderson, as he attempted to retaliate.

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. You almost got killed because of him, Ingram!’ Anderson blustered behind him. ‘Have you forgot, or what? The man thinks he’s a law unto himself. He’s a complete nutter, trying to convince everyone there’s a freaking ghost fitting him up. He’s off the bloody wall! Ought to have been kicked off the force ages—’

‘Just back off!’ Steve shouted, now physically trying to support Matthew, who was groping for the wall behind him. ‘Can’t you see the man’s in trouble?’

‘Oh, he’s definitely that,’ Anderson sneered, wiping an arm across his mouth, as Matthew slithered to his haunches. ‘In it up to his neck. And he thinks he can just stroll out of here? What’s he going to do then? Some bleeding Bruce Willis he is, ain’t he? Ask me, the bloke’s a complete waste of—’

‘Have we finished?’ DCI Davies asked behind him.

Paling, Anderson shot around to face him. ‘He was trying to leave, sir,’ he imparted quickly. ‘I had to use force to try to restrain—’

‘Out!’ Davies ordered him.

Anderson hesitated for a second, then, noting the livid look in Davies’ eye, stepped past him and walked apprehensively towards the door.

‘Bloody idiot,’ Davies threw after him. ‘Here,’ he said, removing the cap and handing Steve the inhaler.

‘About time,’ Steve muttered, crouching to offer it to Matthew. ‘Here you go. Two sharp puffs and all that crap, and then do us a favour, mate, and breathe, will you?’

Feeling the Ventolin hit the back of his throat, Matthew sucked the life-giving medication into his lungs.

‘Better?’ Steve asked him worriedly, after a second.

Waiting for the rasp in his chest to abate, Matthew nodded, then, taking another shot, he waited again while his breathing slowed, becoming deeper, slower, normal. ‘Thanks,’ he managed hoarsely, glancing gratefully at Steve.

‘No problem, mate. Need you fit and well to help me with that barn conversion I’m doing, don’t I?’

Matthew smiled weakly and allowed Steve to help him to his feet. He couldn’t quite meet his DCI’s gaze when he stood, more out of disillusionment than embarrassment at not having admitted how bad his asthma could be.

‘Might be an idea to use your preventer more regularly, Adams,’ DCI Davies suggested, with a short smile. ‘I thought you’d like to know, we’ve ordered you a repeat prescription of both inhalers. Oh, and we have Hayes in custody. Drugs bust,’ he added matter-of-factly as he turned on his heel. ‘I’ll get you some tea. Meanwhile, I’d give yourself a break and sit down if I were you.’

Chapter Eighteen

‘Anything?’ Matthew asked DS Collins as she came into the DCI’s office. He’d been given a decent change of clothing and allowed the luxury of waiting in there at least, though Davies had shown no indication he was going to let him go beyond the station door. Matthew understood why, but would never come to terms with the irony. Sullivan had been as guilty as sin, Davies had known it, and they’d let him walk. Matthew was innocent, yet it seemed he was already condemned. The system was flawed, fundamentally. He should have damn well got out.

Glancing at him sympathetically, Jamie shook her head. ‘Nothing on your family yet. Sorry, Matt. We’ll let you know as soon as anyone calls. There is a bit of good news, though.’

‘Just a bit?’ Kneading his aching neck, Matthew looked up guardedly.

‘We haven’t been able to establish the authenticity of the sex tape,’ Jamie said, not looking at him as she walked across to drop some papers on the desk. ‘I mean you’re obviously in it. Not a bad physique either, if you don’t mind me saying.’ She did look at him then, her eyes gliding amusedly over him. ‘That secretary who’s got the hots for you is well disappointed we don’t have any full frontals.’

‘Yeah, yeah, okay, Jamie, hilarious I am sure. The good news?’ Matthew asked, not daring to hope it would be good enough to get him out of here and where he should be, doing something other than climbing the walls.

‘The shots are not all of you,’ Jamie finally informed him. ‘Looks like you might have used a body double, one who doesn’t have a scar from a knife wound on the back of his right hand.’

Stunned, Matthew simply stared at her.

‘You’ve got Steve to thank for that, incidentally. He’s like a dog with a bone, I swear. You know he’s been on to Crime Prevention, as well?’

‘No.’ Matthew shook his head.

‘Yup. They’ve confirmed you called when you said you did. Tracked down the locksmith you rang. His wife confirms she heard some kind of crash while you were talking to her.’ Jamie furrowed her brow. ‘Not sure that bit helps much, but . . .’

Matthew ran his hands up over his face. ‘It helps, believe me,’ he said shakily.

‘Shame Steve’s not still on the force,’ Jamie went on conversationally. ‘He’s wasted out . . .’ Trailing off, she coughed embarrassedly, obviously having remembered why Steve was off the force. ‘Anyway, I just thought you should know. It’s not much, but it’s something.’

‘Definitely.’ Matthew sighed, immensely relieved. ‘Thanks, Jamie,’ he said appreciatively.

‘My pleasure.’ Jamie turned back to the door. ‘Word of advice, if I may? I wouldn’t venture into the stationery cupboard alone with the in-lust secretary now she’s caught a glimpse of you in all your naked gorgeousness, if I were you.’ Giving him a saucy wink over her shoulder, she headed swiftly onwards. ‘Oh, and the drinks are on you when you get out.’

‘You’re on,’ Matthew called after her. If he got out, of course. Mulling it over, he walked again around the office. It actually might not be much. The information regarding the authenticity of the tape might even point to him having more reason to go after Natalie. It was something though. Enough to convince Davies and those at major homicide to work on the assumption he was innocent until proven, rather than the other way around? Matthew bloody hoped so.

His contemplation was cut short as Davies came into the office. ‘Matthew,’ he began, smiling that short smile of his, ‘I have news, of sorts.’

Matthew’s gaze shot warily to his. ‘Becky?’

Davies shook his head. ‘Not Becky, no. We’re doing all we can on that front, though. I’m sure she’ll be in touch soon. Sit down, Matthew, would you?’

Matthew looked at him bemusedly. Why the hell did he keep telling him to sit down? What? Was he thinking that if he did do a runner, he had a head start standing? Reluctantly, he did as bid, taking the guest chair as Davies walked around to seat himself at his desk.

‘We’ve spoken to Tony Hayes,’ Davies informed him. ‘He claims not to know Jasmine, says he’s never heard of her.’

Matthew looked at him, incredulous. ‘And you believe him?’

‘I have no idea what to believe at the moment, to be honest.’ Davies leaned tiredly back in his chair and loosened his tie. ‘The thing is, he’s not being very forthcoming.’

‘Claiming his right to silence.’ Matthew closed his eyes, the small hope he did have dwindling.

Davies nodded despondently. ‘Calling for his brief as we speak.’

Cursing, Matthew dragged a hand over his neck and got to his feet.

‘I would have tried to stall,’ Davies assured him as Matthew walked towards the door, wondering whether he should just bloody well keep walking. ‘Unfortunately, it seems Hayes’ situation is more complicated than was first indicated.’

Matthew laughed sarcastically. ‘His situation’s complicated?’

‘The drugs bust was as a result of a tip off,’ Davies went on. ‘Hayes, it seems, had discovered the hidden stash just prior to our arrival.’

Matthew turned back, not sure how relevant this was, or whether he was actually interested. ‘And?’

‘Hayes wasn’t happy. The bartender whose bar the stash was hidden behind less so.’ Davies eyed him jadedly. ‘It’s doubtful he’ll be pulling many pints in future, let’s put it that way.’

Getting the drift, Matthew nodded, feeling for the man, but . . . ‘Meanwhile, I’m still detained?’ He looked Davies over questioningly. ‘And my family is still out there without protection.’

Davies nodded. Reluctantly, Matthew noted. It didn’t help. ‘We are working on all leads, but I can’t make this go any quicker, Matthew,’ he said, with a world-weary sigh. ‘As much as I’d like to throw the book out of the window, I—’

Davies was cut short as Collins dashed back into the room, knocking cursorily on the door as she did. ‘Sorry, sir,’ she said quickly, before Davies vented his wrath. ‘Urgent phone call for Matthew.’

Exchanging brief glances with Davies, who immediately nodded his permission, Matthew shot out of the room, heading fast for the outer office, where various co-workers guardedly met his gaze.

‘Here!’ Anderson called, waving a phone in his direction.

And looking less hostile, Matthew noticed, as he reached him. Almost apologetic, in fact. That was a first. Eyeing him curiously, Matthew grabbed the receiver and nodded his thanks.

He didn’t register who it was, at first. Not Kristen. ‘Ashley?’ he said, then, ‘Whoa, slow down,’ as she continued to talk, frantically. Hysterically almost. Matthew felt a cold chill travel the length of his spine.

‘She’s gone!’ Ashley blurted tearfully.

What? Matthew’s blood froze in his veins as the last two words he’d wanted to hear, ever, permeated his brain. ‘Who’s gone, Ashley?’ he asked tautly, desperately needing her to make sense. ‘Just slow down and—’

Ashley obviously wasn’t hearing him. ‘The police are here and they’ve taken Kristen to the hospital,’ she gabbled on without pausing for breath. ‘She tried to stop them and the car ran into her. I don’t know how bad it is. They’re taking Becky too. I have to go with her. Matthew, you need to make them do something. She’s been gone ages and they’re—’

‘Ashley! Stop!’ Gripping the phone hard, Matthew shouted. ‘Who’s gone?’

‘Mia!’ Ashley cried, confirming his worst fear. ‘Someone’s taken her. She’s . . .’ She trailed off on a sob.

‘Mia?’ Matthew felt the walls close in on him, sucking the breath from his body. ‘Jesus Christ, no.’

Ashley continued to cry, as Matthew physically reeled from the impact. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and then said it over.

Unable to articulate past the hard knot in his throat, Matthew simply nodded. ‘Where are you?’ he managed hoarsely, after a second, trying desperately to see through the suffocating red fog in his head.

Ashley didn’t answer, sobbing wretchedly instead. ‘It’s my fault! I had her hand. Someone pushed me and . . . I let go! I let go of her hand!’

Taking deep breaths, attempting to stay upright when he now badly needed to sit down, Matthew tried to focus. ‘Where are you, Ashley?’ he asked her tightly again.

‘Shopping centre,’ Ashley supplied, in between heart-wrenching sobs.

‘Okay.’ Matthew cautioned himself to temper his tone. She needed him to be rational, functional, to absolutely not appear to be laying blame at her feet. He needed to stay in control, to suppress the urge to drop where he stood, and somehow establish the facts. ‘And Becky’s there with you?’ he asked, needing that clarification first and foremost. ‘Just answer yes or no, Ashley,’ he urged her gently, when she didn’t speak. ‘Can you do that for me?’

‘Yes. Yes, she is,’ Ashley replied haltingly.

‘And they’re taking her to the hospital?’

‘Yes.’

‘But she’s not hurt?’ Matthew closed his eyes and prayed hard.

‘No,’ Ashley assured him quickly. ‘Shocked, but not hurt.’

‘Good. Okay.’ Squeezing the bridge of his nose hard between his thumb and forefinger, Matthew swallowed hard and nodded. ‘And Kristen’s already left in an ambulance, you say?’ He hesitated, and then, ‘Was she conscious?’

‘Not at first,’ Ashley faltered, and sniffed, ‘but she was when they left.’

‘Right. Okay.’ Matthew breathed out, relieved on some level. ‘That’s good. You’re doing fine, Ashley. The police are with you, yes?’

‘Yes,’ Ashley confirmed.

So why the fuck was he only hearing this now? ‘Okay. Ashley, I know this is hard for you, but I need you to try to hold it together for me,’ Matthew continued to speak gently but firmly. ‘Can you do that?’

Ashley paused before answering, then, ‘I’ll try,’ she answered, still sounding so anguished it cut Matthew to the core.

‘That’s my girl,’ Matthew said, his voice cracking. ‘Go with Becky, okay? She’ll need you there with her. I’ll find out which hospital and get there soon.’

‘Promise?’ Ashley asked, now sounding like a frightened five-year-old.

Matthew glanced at the ceiling, trying very hard to hold back his tears. ‘I promise,’ he said, gruffly. Gulping back the constriction in his throat, he replaced the receiver and stared at it. He took a second, trying to curtail the rage burning inside him, the terror slicing through him, the pain: too much to bear. Dragging a hand across his eyes, he glanced again at the ceiling and took several long breaths.

‘She has asthma,’ he said quietly, eventually. ‘Mia, she has asthma,’ he repeated it, turning around to meet the stunned gazes of his colleagues, his DCI’s gaze most stunned of all.

Anderson stepped forwards. ‘Sit down, mate,’ he said, his tone sympathetic as he moved towards him.

‘Don’t!’ Struggling to keep a rein on his emotions, Matthew raised his hands, cautioning the man to back off. ‘Just . . . don’t, okay?’

Hovering uncertainly, Anderson looked him over worriedly and then nodded and stayed put. No one else moved, not a hair. It was as if they were all suspended in time. Time that his baby girl might not have.

Panic twisting his gut like a vice, Matthew turned unsteadily towards Davies. ‘I’m leaving,’ he stated firmly.

Looking as if he’d been hit by a thunderbolt, Davies didn’t speak for a second, then, ‘Collins, get a car out front, now! Anderson, get hold of the officers at the scene, find out the state of play and ask them why the bloody hell we weren’t informed!’

Matthew headed to the security door into reception. And then slammed his hand against it, cursing volubly, when it refused to open immediately.

Five minutes later, he was out front. They were still there, bloodsucking photographers everywhere, waiting for the next headline. One journalist way too in his face, Matthew was sorely tempted to give them one. Davies, though, wasn’t about to let him. ‘Keep calm,’ he cautioned him, taking hold of his arm and escorting him to the car. ‘You need to this time, Matthew,’ he added, glancing sideways at him. ‘Trust me, your wife is going to need you to be.’

Cameras clicking, journalists firing loaded questions crowding the car, Matthew finally managed to squeeze himself into the back seat. ‘I’ll keep you posted on any developments,’ Davies said, leaning in, as an officer climbed in the other side. ‘Don’t do anything rash, Matthew. You need to hold it together. Stay on the radar, understand?’

Matthew glanced bewilderedly up at him. Do ‘anything rash’ like what exactly, he wondered hopelessly? There was nothing he could do. Not a damn thing, until the call came, which it undoubtedly would. Christ, Matthew hoped it would. Prayed that this was a planned kidnapping and not a random child abduction. Matthew hadn’t dared allow his mind to go down that dark road yet. Fighting back the nausea now sweeping through him, he closed his eyes and nodded.

‘We’ll get her back, Matthew,’ Davies promised, a hollow promise. Davies knew as well as Matthew did that if this turned out to be the latter scenario, then the chances of getting her back were nil. The former? Even then, if he did everything that was asked of him, delivered whatever was wanted, there was still a high probability he would never see his daughter again. Clamping hard down on that thought, the image of Lily lying broken and helpless, which was always on the periphery of his mind, Matthew swallowed back the ice-cold fear that was now threatening to choke him.

‘Go!’ Davies instructed the driver, closing the door and banging on the roof. His expression had been bleak, Matthew had noted, compassionate but bleak, which had pretty much summed up the man’s thinking.

Chapter Nineteen

‘Don’t worry, I refused the morphine,’ Kristen said, attempting a smile as Matthew walked into the side ward.

Noting the livid bruising to her face, her deathly white complexion, Matthew pulled in a breath and exhaled long and hard. Ashley didn’t look much better, he noted as he approached the bed, the officer accompanying him at least having the good grace to allow him some space. Sitting in the visitor’s chair, hardly acknowledging him, Ashley was as pale as Kristen was, and still quite clearly in shock.

‘You look like shit,’ he addressed his sister, working to keep the emotion from his voice.

‘Cheers, bro. You don’t look too hot yourself. Don’t they provide razors in that place?’ Kristen joked, trying to make light of her injuries, for his sake, Matthew knew.

‘Yeah, minus the blades,’ he said, dragging a hand over his unshaven chin.

‘Have you seen Rebecca yet?’ Kristen asked him seriously.

Matthew shook his head. ‘Not yet, no. I’m on my way now.’

‘But you just needed to check I hadn’t hijacked the drugs trolley first?’

‘Something like that.’ Matthew couldn’t quite manage a smile. In actual fact, he wanted to be with Becky, no distractions. By her side, where he should have damn well been. She might not want him there, of course. He certainly wouldn’t blame her. Matthew could hardly bear to contemplate what she must be feeling. He doubted the full impact would have even hit her yet. When it did . . . the thought of what this would do to Becky terrified him.

‘How’s the pain?’ Needing to know Kristen was okay before he left her, he concentrated his attention on her for now, nodding towards her fractured leg.

‘Bad, but bearable.’ Kristen smiled back, unconvincingly.

Even without the obvious agony etched into her features, Matthew guessed it wouldn’t be anywhere near bearable without sufficient pain medication. Fractured in several places, the bones were going to need realigning, meaning surgery, plates, screws, rods. A hell of a lot of healing time. In the past he’d cursed her, openly berated his sister, calling her selfish and uncaring. He wouldn’t do that again in a hurry.

Catching his eye, obvious anguish in her own, Kristen indicated Ashley, who was still silent and subdued. Quite clearly she was in shock, and stuffed full of guilt. Matthew noted the body language, the curtain of hair she was hiding behind. She looked so much like the lost, lonely child he’d first encountered, it tore a fresh wound in his heart. Whatever happened here, he couldn’t allow her to retreat back into herself, communicating with no one on any meaningful level, other than the voices in her head. She’d worked too hard to be what she perceived as ‘normal’ to allow her to do that.

‘Ashley,’ turning towards her, he spoke softly, ‘how’re you doing?’

She didn’t answer. Matthew hadn’t expected her to. Half her life she’d been judged, labelled, bullied, because she was different. It was no surprise she’d felt a failure, seeing herself through other people’s eyes. Obviously, she was waiting now to be judged all over again. Sighing inwardly, he crouched down to her level, hesitating briefly before parting her hair so he could actually see her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said immediately. ‘I didn’t mean to—’

‘Hey,’ Matthew stopped her right there, nudging her chin up with his forefinger, ‘there’s nothing to apologise for. Nothing, Ashley,’ he said forcefully. ‘Do you understand?’

Ashley just looked at him, her huge cognac-coloured eyes full of wary trepidation.

‘I know for a fact you would have given your life to stop this happening. So does Becky. After all we’ve been through together, do you honestly think we’d imagine you were to blame for any of this?’

Ashley’s gaze flicked down. ‘She hasn’t spoken to me,’ she said, her voice small and tremulous. ‘She won’t speak to anyone, not even Melanie.’

‘That’s because she’s in shock,’ Matthew tried to reassure her.

Ashley glanced back at him from under her eyelashes, still looking uncertain.

Matthew held her gaze. ‘I’m not bullshitting you, Ashley,’ he said unceremoniously.

That got her attention. ‘She’s retreated to a safe place,’ he went on, trying to relate to Ashley in a way he hoped she would understand. ‘She’s trying to process her emotions, that’s all. Give her a little time, yes?’

Searching his eyes, Ashley considered, and then nodded slowly.

Matthew gave her an encouraging smile. ‘I’m going to see her now,’ he said gently. ‘I’ll come back afterwards, okay?’

Ashley nodded again, a little more confidently.

Knowing she was still trying to assimilate all that had happened and wouldn’t be very communicative for a while either, Matthew squeezed her shoulder and got to his feet. ‘Back soon,’ he said, and then turned to Kristen. ‘Need anything?’

‘Definitely.’ Kristen rolled her eyes and sighed wistfully. ‘Unfortunately, I’ve given it up for health reasons.’

‘Girl done good,’ Matthew assured her, more grateful for her support than she could know. Leaning in, he hugged her tightly, brushed her cheek with a kiss, and then turned to go.

‘Matthew!’ he heard behind him before he’d reached the corridor.

Turning back, he found himself winded as a sobbing teenager flung herself into his arms. That was good. Matthew tugged in a breath and squeezed Ashley close. Tears were good. ‘We’ll find her,’ he promised emotionally, wishing he could find somewhere private to cry long overdue tears of his own.

* * *

Staring out of the window, though there was nothing to see beyond it other than the soulless windows of other hospital wards staring back, Rebecca was vaguely aware of voices in the corridor. There’d been various comings and goings, people trying to communicate with her, offering her medication she didn’t want. She’d hadn’t registered much of what they were saying, hearing instead the sounds in her head, Mia chuntering babyishly on, Mia want CBeebies, Ashley’s screams, Mia’s heart wrenching sobs. Mummy, Mia no like! She’d been looking over the shoulder of the inhuman creature that had taken her, her face bewildered, her little hand outstretched towards her.

She couldn’t do this. Stifling a sob, Rebecca wrapped her arms tighter about herself, nestling the one toy of Mia’s she’d had with her, her tattered Peppa Pig, closer to her breast. Where was she? Was she crying? Sleeping? Breathing? Rebecca’s heart constricted painfully in her chest. They wouldn’t know. She swallowed back the sharp stone in her throat. How could they know? How would they know what to do if she had an asthma attack? Why would they care? Dear God, please . . . I can’t do this.

Squeezing her darling daughter’s toy closer, Rebecca ignored the person who came into the room, though she guessed it was Melanie again, trying to offer some small word of comfort. Rebecca didn’t want to talk. Didn’t want to go over and over what had happened. Talking to policemen about who’d stolen her child. She didn’t want to dissect things. She didn’t want people to try to comfort her when they simply couldn’t. She wanted her baby!

Melanie was speaking to someone, she realised vaguely, talking about her, as if she wasn’t there. She wasn’t, not all of her. A part of her was missing. And it hurt. Oh God, it hurt so much. She couldn’t bear it, this raw bleeding inside her. Couldn’t go on like this. She didn’t want to. No more. Her own voice screamed above the cacophony of noise in her head. Please. No more.

‘She’s refused sedation,’ she heard Melanie whisper worriedly. Her friend obviously had her nurse’s hat on, but they didn’t wear hats anymore, Rebecca thought obliquely.

‘Okay. Thanks, Melanie. I’ll come and find you.’

Matthew. Rebecca felt a small flutter of hope rise inside her, yet she couldn’t turn to him. How could she look into his eyes and see the pain she was bound to see there? She loved him. Would always, but, even knowing how much he’d suffered, how traumatised he would be, part of her felt he had no right to that pain. He’d known much more than he’d told her. He’d known.

‘Becky?’ he said softly, walking across to her. He sounded uncertain, his voice emotional and hoarse. Had he been crying, she wondered, aching for him. But still, her anger burned impotently inside her. Had he cried an ocean for his lost children, as she had, she thought bitterly? Cried until his heart had scarred over and his tears had dried up and he simply couldn’t cry any more? Rebecca physically jolted, as he reached out and touched her. He had cried, she knew he had. He’d bottled up his feelings once, until he’d been driven almost insane. She knew his hurt would run as deep as hers, deeper, but . . . She couldn’t do this, not anymore. She hadn’t got the strength.

‘I’ll find her, Becky,’ he said simply.

She didn’t answer. There was no reassurance in his words. How could there be?

Cautiously, he moved closer, tightened his arm around her, coaxing her to face him, always gentle, always the Matthew she knew him to be. ‘I promise. I will find her.’

Easing her to him, he wove his fingers through her hair. He loved her hair. Rebecca felt her chest constrict all over again. Loved Mia’s hair, as much a mad tangled mess as her own. Exhausted, emotionally depleted and desperate for some brief respite from the nightmare, Rebecca allowed her head to drop to his shoulder. Broad shoulders. She breathed in the familiar smell of him. Even unshaven, dishevelled and as clearly exhausted as she, he was unmistakably Matthew, her Matthew, silent, strong, the musky essence of his aftershave lingering under whatever clinical wash they’d allowed him to shower in. Stubborn. Misguidedly trying to keep her safe. He’d suffered so much. Surely too much for one man to bear and stay standing. She could hear his heartbeat. She was sure she could. It had always been reassuring, the steady thrum of his heart as she’d lain satiated and sleepy in his arms. Those were the times she’d felt safe, as if the world and all the ugly things in it couldn’t touch them. Other times, though. When he wouldn’t tell her what troubled him. Most of the time when he was on duty . . . She couldn’t do this. He couldn’t fix this. He couldn’t find Mia.

‘Why?’ she asked shakily, pulling away to look up at him. ‘Why?’ she repeated it, anger bubbling furiously up inside her. ‘Why did you let this happen? Why did you stay on the damn force? Giving so much of yourself to people who don’t deserve it? Associating with lowlifes, allowing them access to your family?’

Rebecca glared at him, a toxic mix of raw pain and desperation causing the words to spill from her mouth unhindered by thought. ‘Why didn’t you talk to me? Why weren’t you there, where we needed you? Why, Matthew?’

Pale and visibly shaken by her outburst, Matthew struggled to answer. He reached to drag a hand over the back of his neck, looking so weary, so broken, Rebecca physically hurt for him, but still she couldn’t stamp down the fury building inside her.

‘I . . . don’t know,’ was all he could offer. ‘I thought it was—’

‘Best?’ she finished facetiously. ‘In order to protect me? Keep us safe? It didn’t work, Matthew! Did it? She’s not safe! She’s not safe!’

Matthew closed his eyes, flinching at her words. Moving towards her, he reached again to hold her, obviously needing as much to be held, but Rebecca simply couldn’t. ‘I can’t do this, Matthew! Don’t you understand? I can’t! I don’t want to!’

‘Becky, I . . .’ Matthew started, and then stopped, swallowing hard. What could he say? There was nothing. Nothing he could say. Nothing he could do.

But she needed him to. She needed him to undo this. She needed him to work the miracle he couldn’t hope to. ‘I want my baby!’ Backing away from him, Rebecca screamed it.

‘Becky, please . . .’ Desperation in his voice, Matthew stepped towards her. ‘Please don’t . . .’

‘No!’ Craving his touch, not wanting him near her, Rebecca lashed out. ‘I want her back! Do you hear me?’ She hit him again, the flat of her hand curling into a fist, two fists, several blows to his chest, wanting to hurt him, wanting to expunge her own hurt. ‘Where is she?’

Reeling with each blow, Matthew didn’t move away. He didn’t defend himself, attempt to stop her, just stood waiting until her blows became useless, ineffectual flails, and then, gently, he caught hold of her wrists. Still, he didn’t speak. He searched her eyes instead, such immeasurable agony in his, Rebecca felt another little part of her die. Silently, he brought her to him, hesitating, and then lowering his forehead to hers. ‘I’ll find her,’ he repeated gruffly.

Her energy depleted, her anger spent, Rebecca allowed him to wrap his arms around her. Seconds passed, turning to minutes. She remained rigid in his embrace, trying to stifle her tears, attempting, as she had once before, not to give into the grief. To acknowledge it would be to acknowledge their baby had gone.

* * *

Matthew felt his heart twist painfully inside him. Felt the woman he loved with every fibre of his being finally weaken and lean into him. Agonisingly aware of time ticking by, he held her tight to him as the sobs shook her body, silently pleading with God not to do this, wondering again how any kind of God could allow a woman who’d already suffered so much, a woman who even through her own pain had managed to lift his spirits from the pit of despair, to suffer all over again.

They were still in each other’s arms when the uniformed officer came in. Matthew didn’t move. Dragging a hand over his own eyes, he looked across to the man instead, a fresh-faced, young officer not long off probation, whose unimpressed glances Matthew had encountered after his arrest had told him the guy had him down as what the gutter press claimed him to be: good cop turned bad. On the take, lining his pockets with drugs money. Ultimately driven to murder, attempting to cover his actions.

‘Sorry, sir,’ the officer apologised as Matthew studied him questioningly. ‘It’s DCI Davies on the phone.’ Holding eye contact with him as he handed over the mobile, far from contempt, the man’s look now held a warning.

Shit. Matthew felt his heart jolt inside him. This might well be it. ‘Becky,’ he said softly, easing away a fraction to lift her chin. ‘It’s Davies. I have to speak to him.’

Becky’s eyes shot to his, her expression one of alarm, fast changing to absolute terror.

‘It’s okay,’ Matthew immediately tried to reassure her. ‘He would have come in person if . . .’ Unable to finish the sentence, Matthew cupped her face in his hand and grazed her tear-streaked cheek with his thumb before moving away. He wasn’t going far though. Whatever was about to happen, Becky needed to know. ‘Adams,’ he said tightly into the phone and then held his breath and prayed.

‘She’s phoning back. Jasmine Francis. This phone, half an hour,’ Davies answered, his tone taut with anger. ‘She thought I’d have you locked up in the station and was surprised to learn you were at the hospital with your sister — the woman she and her accomplice ran down like cowards.’

She called the station? Incredulous, Matthew shook his head, and then realised, since he’d ditched his mobile, that that had probably been her only sure-fire way of contacting him.

‘We’ll do our best to track it,’ Davies went on. ‘I doubt she’ll say much though. Get back to me immediately, Matthew.’ With which, his DCI ended the call, leaving Matthew’s emotions in freefall.

‘What?’ Becky asked urgently behind him. ‘Matthew?’

Swallowing back the terror clutching at his throat, Matthew turned to her. ‘They’ve made contact,’ he said, watching her carefully.

It took Becky a second to assimilate and then her face flooded with palpable relief. ‘And?’ she urged him, a new kind of horror settling in her eyes.

‘She’s calling this phone,’ Matthew said, still studying her. Becky was strong. He doubted many women could survive what she’d been through and remain sane. Somehow, this woman had. Her grief was there. It was part of what made her the caring person she was, but she hadn’t allowed it to destroy her. If anything happened to Mia though . . .

‘She?’ Becky searched his face in turn, painful realisation dawning. ‘Jasmine?’ she concluded, correctly.

Matthew nodded, hardly daring to imagine what might now be going through her mind.

‘But . . . why?’ Becky asked, utterly bewildered. Uncertainty now in her eyes, she searched Matthew’s face long and hard. ‘Matthew, you need to tell me honestly. This thing she claims you did, you didn’t . . .’ Becky stopped, as if the words were too painful to speak.

She hadn’t needed to finish her question. The fact that she’d needed to ask it was enough. Matthew felt as if someone had reached in and ripped his heart right from inside him.

‘No,’ he answered quietly. Resisting an urge to look away, to hide his shame, his guilt and his anger, he held her gaze, though he had no hope of hiding his soul-crushing disappointment.

Glancing down, Becky nodded, a myriad of emotions playing across her face, abject fear, uncertainty still, confusion. ‘You said there was a connection.’ She looked back at him, her expression guarded, one Matthew had never seen before directed at him. ‘You told Kristen that there was a connection to . . .’ Trailing off, Becky swallowed, as if she might choke on the name.

Matthew did look away then, no idea how to tell her. Keeping the information from her wasn’t an option, but how she’d cope with knowing that there was a real link to Sullivan, the animal that had robbed her of her first child, who’d subsequently kidnapped her, cruelly and mercilessly taunted her, touched her . . . Matthew’s gut knotted.

‘Matthew!’ Rebecca snapped his attention back to her. ‘You need to talk to me! I need to know!’

Focussing on what was important, rather than a future neither of them could contemplate now anyway, Matthew nodded and pulled in a breath. ‘Natalie,’ he started hesitantly, ‘the girl who was murdered. The MO, it was Sullivan’s.’

Stunned, Rebecca didn’t respond for a second and then, ‘Dear God,’ pressing a hand to her mouth, she stared at him, horrified.

‘There’s more,’ Matthew went on, though he dearly didn’t want to. ‘It might be nothing,’ he added quickly, moving towards her.

‘Tell me.’ Wrapping her arms around her body, Becky braced herself.

‘Tony Hayes, the drugs dealer Sullivan owed money to, she’s connected to him in some way. I don’t know how yet. I don’t know how significant this all is, but . . .’ Matthew stopped. He was piling pain on top of pain. Becky did have to know, but in telling her, he was evoking memories too horrific to bear, planting in her mind pictures of what their little girl might be going through. How the hell would she not be imagining that? ‘Becky?’ Again, he moved towards her, but Becky stepped back. A small step, but away from him, nevertheless.

‘When will she ring?’ she asked, her voice strained, her arms still wrapped tightly about herself, protecting herself, from the pain he’d caused her.

Useless bastard. Biting back his anger, his self-loathing, Matthew checked his watch. ‘Twenty minutes,’ he said tightly, gripping the phone hard in lieu of smashing it against the nearest wall, and then going out and scouring the streets until he found the bitch who’d dared hurt his baby.

But he couldn’t, of course. He glanced at the officer, who up until then had been standing around looking as useless as he felt and was now heading towards the door, where Ashley hovered uncertainly, Matthew now realised, his heart sinking further. How long she’d been there, he didn’t know. Long enough to have overheard some of it, he guessed.

‘It’s probably not a good time, luv,’ the officer advised her, attempting to usher her away.

‘Let her in,’ Matthew said, behind him. How Becky might respond towards Ashley, he didn’t know, but there was no way he was going to let Ashley go on blaming herself. If there was anyone to blame it was him.

The officer glanced back at him. ‘Do you think that’s a good idea? Under the circumstances, I mean. Wouldn’t it be better if she—’

‘She’s my daughter!’ Matthew shouted, his frustration spilling over. ‘Let her in!’

Nodding, the officer moved quickly aside, but still Ashley looked hesitant.

‘Come on, Ashley,’ Matthew said more quietly, seeing the apprehension in her eyes. He wanted to say it was okay, but he couldn’t. The sick reality was, nothing was ever likely to be okay ever again. ‘I think we might need each other,’ he said instead.

Ashley glanced from him to Becky, whose reaction Matthew prayed wouldn’t convey she thought Ashley responsible in any way.

Becky faltered for a second, and then drawing in a breath, drawing strength from somewhere deep within, she extended her arm, inviting Ashley to go to her. Matthew felt a mixture of relief and excruciating sadness as his wife hugged their foster daughter to her.

Glad they at least had each other, he turned away, checking his watch again. Then, his own apprehension mounting, he turned back to the officer, who was looking uncomfortable and clearly struggling to know what his role was.

‘Sorry about that,’ Matthew apologised, genuinely sorry for bellowing at a man who, even with years of experience under his belt, would be hard-pushed to know what to do in a situation like this. ‘We’re all a bit fraught.’

The officer nodded, understanding. ‘Not a problem, sir,’ he said, offering him a smile of commiseration.

‘We could use some tea,’ Matthew suggested, indicating Becky and Ashley. ‘Strong and sweet. Would you mind?’

He very much doubted sweet tea would help anybody in reality. If ever the damn call came, however, he needed some space in which to take it, because if his instincts were right and money wasn’t the price he needed to pay for the life of his child, then the rule books were out of the window. Pretty sure what the demand would be, Matthew fully intended to deliver. To which end, he might well need to negotiate in private.

Chapter Twenty

‘Bloody hell, Connor! Hurry up and get the freaking live feed up, can’t you?’ Jasmine hissed, glancing over at Adams’ kid, who’d done nothing but whinge no matter how hard she’d tried to placate her, and was now finally sleeping.

‘I’m trying.’ Connor looked up from the PC he was jabbing at, his brow furrowed in that gormless way it did. Did he have any idea what a complete moron he looked? It was no wonder the kid had bonded with him. His IQ was probably about on a level with hers. ‘Done,’ he announced, leaning back in his chair and wiping the sweat from his face.

Ugh, he was gross, Jasmine thought, curling a lip. Tall and good-looking he might be, but he really needed to do something about his personal habits. He’d sweated bucketfuls since they’d snatched the girl. She would swear he’d almost wet himself when they’d run that stupid woman over, insisting they stop and help her, like everyone was going to just stand around while they enquired after her health and then hopped back in the car. Idiot. She’d be glad to see the back of him, and this totally irritating blonde wig she was forced to keep wearing. Taking it off in front of Connor, she’d realised, would mean she’d have to offer him explanations he wasn’t ready for. The last thing she needed was him freaking out altogether and trying to bail on her.

‘Finally,’ she retorted, turning to go and check out the view on the flat screen TV installed in the other room, the renovation of which had also almost been finished, thankfully, complete with stonewalls and sturdy cellar door. The punishment rooms Tony had decided to call them. Retreats for one of his innovatively planned theme nights: Spank Night, where clients would play master to their servants or vice versa. ‘Insolence won’t be tolerated and bad behaviour will be punished, severely,’ he’d told her, waggling his disgusting caterpillar eyebrows hopefully in her direction. Thus, the punishment rooms, one of each at opposite ends of the arched ceilinged open area, which was meant to be housing the bar plus tables tucked away in cosy niches. Other themed evenings would be based on the naughtiness of the nineteen twenties, he’d informed her grandly, sex, sensations, drugs and debauchery in abundance. The club’s previous clients, most of whom had reputations to consider, would probably hate it. Seventh Heaven had a reputation as a discreet gentlemen’s club, not a bloody whorehouse. Ideas of grandeur, Tony had. They were bound to be his downfall.

Unlike Connor, whose brain cell would probably self-combust if he had a single original idea of his own.

‘I’m doing my best,’ she heard him mutter behind her. ‘I’m not a bloody PC engineer, Jasmine.’

‘Just hurry it up,’ Jasmine muttered. ‘Or you’ll mess everything up.’

At which, Connor sighed audibly, a touch of contempt therein Jasmine detected, for which Connor would suffer if he didn’t watch out. ‘I still don’t know why you’re doing this,’ he mumbled on, now sounding like a sulky six-year-old. ‘I mean what’s she ever done to you?’

She meaning his new fan, Mia. Possibly the only female who would actually like the dickless twit.

‘Because,’ Jasmine whirled back around to face him, ‘her darling daddy is going to make sure you get banged up for murder. Or have you forgotten this trifling little detail, Connor?’

Connor went pale at that, and probably sweated a bit more. Too gross.

‘No,’ he said, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he gulped back his pungent fear.

Deciding she needed to reinforce his fate if the copper wasn’t silenced, Jasmine folded her arms and cocked her head to one side. ‘Of course, if you’d rather go to prison . . . for life?’

‘No!’ Connor squeaked, shaking his head vehemently.

‘Right.’ Jasmine nodded, satisfied. ‘Just remember, I’m doing this for you and your poor sick mother, Connor. If you’re having second thoughts, fine.’ She pulled her mobile from her jeans pocket. ‘We’ll just ring the police now.’

‘No, don’t!’ Connor shot to his feet, as her thumb hovered over the keypad.

Wuss. Sighing inwardly, Jasmine attempted to reel in her immense irritation. ‘As long as you’re sure. Because now we have snatched her . . .’ She let that one hang.

Connor just nodded dumbly, obviously getting her point.

‘It’ll be fine, don’t worry,’ Jasmine said, softening her expression, as Connor looked about ready to throw up. ‘We just get him to sign a confession, and that’s it, job done.’

‘But what about if he retracts it?’ Connor’s wide-eyed panicky look was back, which was about as appealing as the wet patches under his armpits.

‘He won’t. Trust me, he won’t want to put his family in this kind of situation again,’ Jasmine assured him, turning back to the door. The truth as to why Adams wouldn’t be retracting his statement, she fancied Connor might not be ready for yet either, if ever. She was beginning to think he might just be too much of a loose cannon. If he threw a wobbly, this might all go pear-shaped. She might have to dispose of him sooner, rather than later.

‘I’m going to check the live feed out,’ she said. ‘Play the video and make sure the webcam is up and running while I’m gone. Don’t want any last minute hitches, do we? And keep the noise down,’ she added, gritting her teeth as the kid fidgeted on the sleeping bag she’d provided for her. Obviously the drop of Melatonin she’d told Connor to put in the chocolate drink the kid had guzzled and smeared all over her face wasn’t enough. She might have to up the dose, Jasmine considered, experiencing a pang of guilt as she did, but then quickly dismissing it. Precious little Mia might be an innocent in all of this, but she was Adams’ kid. Getting all soft and sentimental where she was concerned wasn’t on, even if she did have huge beguiling brown eyes. She’d reminded Jasmine of a little frightened fawn when she’d first looked at the little girl. Reminded her of all that she’d lost, thanks to that uncaring bastard Adams. He deserved all that was coming. End of. Thankfully, the walls to the rooms father and daughter would be separately occupying were solid stone, so Adams wouldn’t hear her if she kicked off. And if he did, that would be a shame. Heartbreaking really, that he might hear his baby crying and be able to do nothing about it.

It would probably be an added incentive in actual fact, she thought, crossing the half-renovated open space and going into the room reserved for Adams. It would help him come to the right decision that much quicker, she was sure, hearing the daughter he doted on in distress. Watching the video appear on the screen perched high on the wall, the webcam on top of it positioned to give a good view of the room, Jasmine was reminded how much her dad had doted on her. He was doing the typical dad thing, teaching her to ride her bike without the stabilisers. The look on his face, as she’d finally wobbled off under her own steam, was one of sheer pride. Looking at the video, she could actually see the love shining from his eyes.

That selfish bastard, Adams, protector of the innocent — hah! He hadn’t given her a second thought. He’d destroyed her life; sullied everything and left her with nothing, for which he was going to pay, finally. Quid pro quo, copper. Fury simmered impatiently inside her as Jasmine watched the video loop to Adams and his happy little family scene. It looked like a fucking bad Christmas advert. She sneered derisively. Mummy and Daddy and darling little daughter, Lily, she’d learned, all wrapped up in their winter woollies, playing football in the park. And what was the woman wearing? Did she actually think she looked cute in reindeer antlers and flowered wellingtons? She looked like a complete fashion disaster. As for the copper’s Christmas jumper, that was just cruel. A present from the tasteless Rebecca, no doubt, who was now behind the camera amateurishly filming Adams selflessly losing a tackle to his daughter. He would probably have grounds for divorce for being made to wear . . . ‘Oh, for fu—’ Jasmine sighed as the video froze. ‘What now?’ she yelled, stomping back towards the room where the genius was obviously at work, not.

‘Nothing. I hit stop by mistake, that’s all,’ Connor called back, causing an ear-piercing scream to erupt from the kid.

Jasmine rolled her eyes. He really was last in the queue when they handed out brains, wasn’t he, she thought irritably, and then winced as another distressed scream followed.

‘Oooh, shut her up, can’t you?’ Jasmine shrieked over it. That was seriously going to get on her nerves. Spoilt, that was that kid’s problem. Obviously she’d had her every whim pandered to. Time to phone Daddy, she decided, pulling out her mobile. The sooner she could get shot of them both the better.

* * *

Raking a hand through his hair, frustration and fear gnawing away at him, Matthew walked agitatedly to the door and back.

‘She’s playing with us,’ Becky said flatly as he stopped to check the mobile for the umpteenth time.

Noting the hopelessness in her tone, Matthew looked worriedly over to where she was standing facing the window, her arms still wrapped protectively about herself. Staring out at nothing, she’d been quiet, still and subdued since the first call, as if all the anger had drained out of her and her will to fight along with it. Cursing silently, Matthew worked to contain his own rage, which was urging him to do something other than stand around uselessly waiting. What though? He had no clue where to even begin if the call didn’t come. Christ, he couldn’t do this. Couldn’t. Matthew drew in a tight breath and turned back to the door.

‘It’s my fault,’ Ashley said behind him.

She sounded tearful, Matthew noted, and cursed himself again. He’d almost forgotten she was there, obviously feeling every bit as devastated and terrified as they were. Slowing his pointless pacing, he walked over to where she was sitting on the edge of the bed, her face half hidden behind her hair, her shoulders slumped under the weight of the guilt she shouldn’t be carrying.

‘You’ve done nothing wrong, Ashley,’ he attempted again to reassure her. ‘None of this is your fault. She used you just as surely as she used me.’

‘Yes, but I let her!’ Ashley looked up at him, her eyes searching his, frantic and full of self-reproach.

‘You and me both.’ Matthew made sure to hold her gaze. Seeing he’d managed to touch base with her in some small way, he moved to sit by her side, and then stopped, his heart freezing as the mobile finally rang, echoing around the walls, shrill, stark and ominous. Quelling his immediate panic, Matthew hit the call receive button, turning away from Becky and Ashley as he did, as if that could protect them from any of this.

‘Adams?’ Jasmine’s voice, almost before he’d clamped the phone to his ear.

‘What do you want?’ Struggling to quiet his raging emotions, Matthew asked the crucial question. He needed to cut to the chase. Now.

‘Go to Reception,’ she said shortly. ‘Dump the phone. Make sure you’re visible when you do. Then walk outside the main entrance and await further instructions. You’re being watched, Adams. You have two minutes.’

‘Not until I know she’s all right,’ Matthew said adamantly. ‘I need to know my daughter . . .’ He stopped, his heart slamming against his ribcage as he heard her in the background: his baby’s cries, bewildered, raucous sobs, which could bring on an asthma attack in an instant.

Jesus Christ. Matthew’s fury exploded. ‘You need to let her go!’ he shouted, guessing she was holding the phone out, making sure he knew Mia was distressed. ‘You fucking—’

‘Tut, tut, temper, temper, Matthew,’ she cut across him, her tone amused. ‘She’s all right, you’ve gathered. Alive and kicking. If you want her to stay that way, I suggest you shift your arse pronto. Oh, and show a little respect when you talk to me, yes? Or precious little Mia will suffer.’ With which, she ended the call.

Clenching his jaw tight, his chest heaving with impotent anger, Matthew pulled the phone away from his ear.

‘What does she want?’ Becky asked urgently behind him, as he tried to compose himself.

‘Mia’s okay,’ he said quickly, turning towards her. ‘I could hear her, in the background.’ He tugged in a breath and glanced upwards. He wanted to scream.

‘Matthew! Tell me! What does she want?’

Him. She wanted him, Matthew didn’t say. Just as Sullivan had done. Matthew felt a ghost tread chillingly over his grave. Oh, Sullivan had wanted the ransom, or he’d thought he had, but he’d wanted him more. He’d wanted to destroy him so badly it had skewed whatever perspective he’d ever had and tipped his warped mind right over the edge. She hadn’t stated a ransom immediately, which was the usual kidnap case scenario, meaning he was walking that same road again, but this time he wasn’t being asked to deliver anything but himself.

‘I have to meet someone,’ answering truthfully, he wiped a hand over his forehead and looked towards her.

Becky searched his eyes, confusion and palpable terror in her own. ‘Meet someone . . . where?’

‘Outside the main entrance.’ Matthew gave her all the information he could.

‘But who?’ Becky took a step towards him. ‘Why do they want—?’

‘I have to go, Becky,’ Matthew said, backing away. If the officer with him came back in, he’d be stuffed. He needed to go now. Do everything as instructed until he’d set eyes on Mia. After that, he’d do whatever was required of him. For Matthew it was as simple as that. No negotiation. No time wasting. No risk taking, not with his baby’s life. ‘If anyone asks, I’ve gone to the bathroom. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can,’ he promised.

‘Matthew, wait!’ Becky was behind him, as he turned to the door. ‘The question I asked. About the . . . allegation she made. I . . .’ She faltered, clearly struggling with her emotions.

Hearing her voice catching in her throat, Matthew squeezed his eyes closed. She’d asked because she’d had to. She’d needed to. It didn’t matter, he told himself. Nothing mattered now except getting Mia back. That was his focus. Hesitating for a second, Matthew turned to her, and her expression tore his heart wide open. All her vulnerability, it was right there in her beautiful eyes, and he could do nothing to fix it, nothing to make her world safe.

‘I’ll find her,’ he repeated firmly, and then, not sure what else to say that wouldn’t seem to be searching for some kind of affirmation from her, he reached hesitantly out and pulled her into his arms.

Holding her briefly, not daring to read anything into the fact that she’d allowed him to hold her, he glanced past her towards where Ashley stood behind her, her face deathly pale.

‘Stay strong for me,’ he asked her, praying that she could.

Relieved when she nodded assuredly, Matthew nodded gratefully back. Then, breathing in the scent of the only woman he’d ever truly loved, the woman who in reality had made his world safe, he eased away and turned to step quickly out of the room.

Seeing the officer a way off to his left chatting to a nurse, Matthew turned right, heading diagonally across the corridor for the stairs leading down to the ground floor. No risks, he reminded himself, pausing briefly halfway down. He’d forgotten one major risk. The risk that, once he stepped outside, he might be shot down where he stood. It was possible. Not likely, instinct told him they wouldn’t kill him outright, but possible, and then . . . Fear and indecision causing his windpipe to constrict, Matthew glanced around for any sign of cameras and then quickly keyed in a text: Main entrance 2 mins. Alone. No time. Dumping phone.

Knowing he had no choice but to, he sent the text to Davies, prayed hard that if he was taken out of the frame Davies would have something to go on, and then continued down.

Stay calm, he cautioned himself, as he headed into Reception. If he seemed to be deliberately drawing attention, Christ only knew what the consequences for Mia might be. She’d said he was being watched. Matthew had no idea if that was so, but from here on in he had to work on the premise that he was.

Nodding a passing acknowledgement at one of the nursing staff, he pulled out the mobile, and then, hoping it was enough for anyone who did have eyes on him, he headed directly for the vending machine, next to which was a bin. Waiting for a second, making sure no one, who shouldn’t be, was paying him too much attention, he lowered the phone and dropped it in. Staying put for another second, his heartbeat ratcheting up, as someone rose from their seat and wandered in his direction, Matthew made sure the woman was heading past him to the toilets, and then turned swiftly for the exit doors.

Now what? Once outside, he waited again, noting patients in dressing gowns out for a quick smoke, despite the drizzling grey rain, various other people being dropped off on crutches, none of whom were likely to be a point of contact. So, without a phone, how the hell was she intending to . . . Matthew’s thoughts ground to a halt as a kid on a bike, ten, maybe eleven years old, skimmed millimetres past him.

Using his foot as a brake, the kid skidded to a halt and wheeled his bike around. ‘You Matthew Adams?’ he asked, dragging his coat sleeve under his nose as he squinted up at him.

Matthew nodded, eyeing him questioningly. ‘Who sent you?’ he asked him, debating whether to grab hold of his collar and hang on to him until he coughed up.

The kid wasn’t offering any information, though, it seemed. Fumbling in his jacket pocket instead, he pushed a crumpled-up piece of paper at him and then remounted and pedalled off fast. Watching him go, Matthew smoothed out the note. Walk out of the hospital, it instructed. First road left. Halfway along. Red Ford Mondeo. Keys front far side tyre. Do it, Adams, if you value her life.

That last sentence, it might as well have been Sullivan. That’s exactly what the animal had said when he’d ordered him down on his knees. Every hair on his body rising, Matthew reached for his inhaler as he started walking. Taking two sharp puffs, he sucked in the medication and tried to stop thinking. Becky had been perched on the box. The noose around her neck, red stilettos rammed on her feet, she’d been terrified, terrified and pregnant with Mia, and Matthew hadn’t even known she was. ‘Click, clack, crack,’ Sullivan had smirked, intimating what would happen if she fell. His black eyes glinting with pure evil, the sick bastard had loved every minute of it. He’d made him beg, plead, grovel. He’d no intention of allowing her to leave alive. Any of them. He would have killed her in front of him, just for kicks. Would have taken the life of his unborn child.

Mia.

Feeling every painful emotion over again, Matthew attempted to regulate his breathing, to slow his rapid heartbeat. Not coincidence. Planned. All of it, planned. Why? he asked over again. He didn’t bother glancing at the gunmetal grey skies. God wasn’t listening. Even the birds had stopped singing.

Reaching the red Mondeo, parked roughly where she’d said it would be, he skirted around to the driver’s side. The keys were there, right where they were supposed to be. Guessing there would be further instructions inside, Matthew unlocked the car and climbed in. He’d barely closed the door when a phone rang. Glancing around, trying to quash his escalating panic, he scrambled open the glove compartment and grabbed it.

‘Drive,’ she said, as soon as he answered. ‘Take Abbey Lane heading towards London Road. Dump the car at the garage halfway along Abbey Lane and start walking. Got it?’

Matthew hesitated for a second. It was clear now it was him she wanted, nothing else. He would deliver, but what then? If he walked right into her hands, defenceless, no gun, no one to back him up, what incentive would she have to let Mia go? Agonisingly, Matthew debated.

‘That was a question, Adams,’ she said, a warning edge to her voice. ‘I’d appreciate the courtesy of an answer.’

Another sense of déjà vu washing over him, Matthew felt bile rise nauseatingly in his throat. ‘Yes,’ he answered, tightly, Sullivan the cocky playground bully emblazoning himself on his mind. He’d punctuated every taunt, every incomprehensible demand and vicious kick with a question. ‘Comprendre?’ he would ask him, his mocking eyes locked on Matthew’s as the bastard had considered whether he’d learned his lesson or whether he’d needed to reinforce it. Then, ‘That was a question,’ he’d point out, and reinforce it anyway. Later, those threats had been to his family. His wife. Matthew was travelling the exact same road again and he had no idea how he got here.

‘Good,’ she said, forcing him to concentrate on what he had to do. ‘In future, make sure to answer promptly and moderate your tone when you do. Your temper’s showing again, Adams. Might just be little Mia’s downfall that, don’t y’think?’

Question? Uncertain, Matthew closed his eyes. ‘Understood,’ he replied, his jaw clenching.

‘Drive,’ she instructed. ‘Oh, and Adams, make sure to dump the phone before you set off. Out of the window. Do it now.’

‘Wait!’ Matthew said urgently, assuming she was about to end the call.

She didn’t answer, prolonging the agony. Matthew could hear the sick bitch breathing. ‘What?’ she said, at length.

His hand visibly shaking, Matthew reached to wipe away the perspiration from his forehead. ‘My daughter has asthma,’ he said unsteadily. ‘She could die without the right medication.’

Again there was a pause. Matthew waited, praying he’d done the right thing, that Mia was more use to them alive.

‘In which case you’d better make sure you do everything you’re told to, hadn’t you, Adams? I want you. You alone, where you’re supposed to be, pronto. No detours. No driving erratically in hopes of attracting the attention of your uniformed friends. You do, she’s dead anyway. End of. Do I make myself clear?’

Matthew dragged a hand over his neck. ‘Abundantly,’ he said, working to keep any inflection from his voice.

‘Good. The phone, Adams. Get rid of it. And remember, your every move is being watched.’

Was it? Matthew glanced through the rear-view mirror as the call ended. People walking by, he noted. No one out of the ordinary. Cars driving past. None of them unduly slowly. He glanced back to the phone. Should he send a text?

Not knowing which risk was greatest, Matthew made the only decision he could, and then, picturing Mia fighting to draw breath even as he sat here, he steeled himself, opened his window and threw the phone out. God help me. Please keep her safe. Closing his eyes, he prayed hard, despite his cynicism, then yanked the wheel hard right and pulled out.

Chapter Twenty-One

‘Am I free to go now, John?’ Rebecca asked DCI Davies, once he’d finished grilling her about the call Matthew had received. Determinedly, she met his suspicious gaze. Clearly he thought she was withholding information. Did he have any idea how dearly Rebecca wished that she had any information to give him? Would she, though? If she knew where Matthew had gone, would she tell him and risk Mia’s life? Seeing in her mind’s eye her baby’s bewildered face, imagining how terrified she must be, nausea swept through Rebecca yet again, though she’d already retched the dry contents of her stomach until her insides were raw. She would tell him, she realised. She hadn’t thought it through, hadn’t been capable of thinking. Now, though, she knew. Matthew had walked away ready to sacrifice his life for his child. Had he really imagined they would simply let Mia go? If that thing parading as a woman had set out to crush Matthew, inch by inch to destroy everything that was dear to him, what better way to do that than to . . . Another spasm gripping her stomach, Rebecca clamped hard down on that thought.

DCI Davies searched her eyes, then sighed long and hard. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said, running a hand tiredly over his neck. ‘I’m sorry, Becky,’ he said, reaching awkwardly out to squeeze her arm. ‘We have every available man on it. We’ll—’

‘I know,’ Rebecca stopped him, quashing an urge to tell him if he’d had his manpower where it should have been in the first place, investigating Matthew’s claims, protecting his family, then none of this would have happened. ‘I have to be with Kristen and Ashley,’ she said shortly instead.

His expression apologetic, for what good that could do, DCI Davies nodded. ‘You’re sure Ashley doesn’t have any information that might possibly help?’ he asked her, reinforcing the fact that they still had no leads whatsoever.

Rebecca’s heart might have plummeted further, had it not been frozen inside her. ‘She was with Kristen when the call came,’ she lied, determined not to expose Ashley to further questioning. The girl was traumatised enough as it was, and riddled with guilt. Rebecca needed, somehow, to try to reassure her, but doubted she easily could.

John nodded again. ‘Don’t go far, though, Becky,’ he asked her. ‘We need to stay vigilant.’ The last was said with a despairing glance in the young officer’s direction, who Davies had wasted no time in reprimanding for apparently having let Matthew ‘simply stroll out’ unaccompanied.

Assuring him she wouldn’t, Rebecca headed out along the corridor. Kristen would be going to surgery soon. Rebecca needed to stay with Ashley. Make sure she was here to recount any news to Kristen as soon as she awoke. What news might it be though? Dread clutching painfully at her insides, now feeling faint from lack of food, Rebecca paused and extended a hand to the wall for support before going into the ward Kristen was on. She needed to be strong. For Ashley’s sake, she needed to hold on. Matthew would be in touch. Somehow, he . . . stifling a sob, Rebecca prayed desperately. Please keep them safe. Please God, bring them home. Taking several slow breaths, which only made the wooziness worse, she swiped at a tear on her cheek and walked on into the ward, and then froze. Kristen’s bed was empty. And so was the bedside chair.

‘Kristen?’ she shouted it, hurrying towards a nurse attending to a patient at one of the other beds.

‘In theatre, my lovely. We’re expecting her back soon,’ the nurse said, pausing before drawing the cubicle curtains.

Rebecca felt the floor shift beneath her. Ashley?

* * *

Wishing he’d had the opportunity to arm himself, Matthew parked the car, as instructed. Glancing around, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Just people going about their everyday business, unaware that his life was crashing down around him. So now what, he wondered? He walked, he supposed, no doubt delivering himself right into her hands.

Bracing himself, Matthew pushed open the door and climbed out. She wasn’t operating on her own though, that much had been established. She’d had at least one accomplice, the driver, who’d waited while she’d snatched his daughter, and then mown his sister down and just kept right on driving.

Sick twisted . . . Matthew’s jaw tightened, fury bubbling afresh at the thought of what his little girl had gone through, might be going through now. The surgery that Kristen had to undergo, which even if successful, might mean she’d be left with a permanent limp. Was it Connor Preston, he wondered, attempting to focus that fury into something constructive? The guy was obviously besotted with her. A fixation that had possibly turned to fear once he’d found himself complicit in murder? Matthew wasn’t in the clear yet in regard to any of this, but it was looking more likely that he would be exonerated. It wouldn’t take long for forensics to put Preston at the scene once they’d refocussed the investigation. The man had been petrified out of his wits when Matthew had last encountered him. Was Jasmine pulling his strings? Offering him a get out of jail card? In exchange for what though?

Pondering as he walked, Matthew didn’t have to wonder for too long who might be desperate or dense enough to go along with her. He’d gone maybe fifty yards when a car skidded alongside him, mounting the pavement as it screeched to a stop.

Definitely Preston. Matthew didn’t congratulate himself on working that one out. And definitely under coercion. He noted his expression, one of fearful apprehension, as Connor Preston leaned across from the driver’s side to fling the passenger door wide. The man was as white as a sheet and clearly scared shitless.

Jasmine was in the back. The look on her face, far from fearful, was one of ice-cold determination. ‘In!’ she growled through the open back window.

Matthew hesitated for a second. Once he got in that car he’d have no hope of making contact with anyone.

‘Now!’ Jasmine spat, raising her arms long enough for Matthew to see she really did mean business. The gun pointing right at him was a short-barrel shotgun, enough to inflict maximum damage fired at close range. Wielded in public, it could cause complete carnage. Matthew looked from the gun to her face, which was now twisted with pure, malevolent hatred, and his heart sank like a stone. Whatever he’d hoped to achieve, he stood little to no chance, he realised. The woman was armed, dangerous, and clearly completely insane. His blood running cold, his thoughts now on Mia and where she might be, he took a step towards the vehicle.

‘Wait,’ she said as he did.

Confused, Matthew squinted at her.

‘Turn around.’

Matthew’s stomach clenched hard. ‘Why?’ he asked, his throat tight.

‘Don’t question me!’ She eyeballed him furiously. ‘Just do it! Face the way you were coming.’

Perspiration wetting the back of his shirt, his mouth dry, Matthew reluctantly turned.

‘The garage forecourt,’ she said, causing Matthew’s gaze to snap immediately to it. ‘A friend of yours, I believe. Signal him. Make sure he knows we know he’s there, and then get in.’

Steve. Matthew swallowed hard. He didn’t recognise the car, but it could only be him. Matthew silently thanked God for the man. Obviously she was on to him but, persistent bugger that his ex-DS was, if there was any shred of hope here, any way to locate him once he was off the radar, then Steve would find it. Or at least he wouldn’t stop trying.

Raising a hand, Matthew signalled to him, making it clear that he’d seen him, and then, his limbs heavy, he turned to the car, which would be stolen in all likelihood, false plates, he imagined. The company this creature had kept in Tony Hayes told him she knew what she was about. Matthew had no idea what she wanted with him, but somehow, whatever it took, he had to persuade her not to take the life of an innocent child. His child. Matthew’s chest heaved with the weight of the pain welling inside him, the guilt, that because of him, his daughter . . . daughters . . . had had to suffer so much. Closing his eyes briefly, as he moved to climb into the car, he heard her again, her child’s melodic voice in his head, You’re not useless, Daddy. Lily, her concerned eyes, wide and innocent, looking right into his.

I think I am, sweetheart, just a bit. Silently, Matthew answered her, acknowledging as he did why Ashley might have found comfort in conversing with people who couldn’t possibly be there, yet were. Lily had never left him, not in reality.

Did she have any compassion, he wondered, this thing, a woman who’d already killed at least once to his knowledge? Matthew doubted it. He was sure of it when, once Preston had bumped the car back onto the road, he received a vicious jab to the back of his neck. ‘Do you think I’m stupid?’ she snarled behind him.

Matthew would have answered, if not for the searing pain that shot down his spine.

‘Disrespectful bastard, I asked you a question!’ she seethed, giving him another blow with the gun, fiercely enough this time to knock the breath from his body. ‘Well, do you?’ she screamed it louder.

Shit! ‘No!’ Matthew shouted, dropping his head to his hands and willing the pain to subside. ‘I . . . didn’t know he was there.’

‘Liar!’ She jabbed the gun hard into the back of his seat. ‘Drive the bloody car, Connor!’ she yelled as, obviously distracted, Preston lost control and veered all over the road. ‘Do you give a shit about your daughter, Adams? I mean do you want her dead, or what?’ She turned her attention back to Matthew.

Relief surging through him, Matthew felt himself physically wilt. She was alive. His baby was alive. The sick bitch had just confirmed it.

‘Where is she?’ he asked, calling on every ounce of his willpower to stay calm.

‘On her own!’ Jasmine shrieked close to his ear. ‘So you’d better bloody well stop messing about, hadn’t you?’

* * *

‘Ashley, where on earth have you been?’ Rebecca jumped to her feet, almost knocking over Kristen’s drip in the process, as Ashley finally came into the ward, where Rebecca had waited for Kristen to get back from theatre. She hadn’t known what else to do, where else to go, other than slowly out of her mind, while police and security alike scoured the hospital for her foster daughter.

Ashley looked towards her, surprised. ‘Making a phone call,’ she said, plainly unaware that she’d almost given Rebecca a heart attack. ‘I went to Reception, but the phone there wasn’t working so I went to A&E.’

‘I’ve been worried sick, Ashley!’ Rebecca stared at her, torn between hugging her and giving her hell.

Dropping her gaze, Ashley shrugged contritely. ‘Sorry,’ she said, glancing back up from under her eyelashes. ‘I didn’t think.’

‘Clearly.’ Rebecca eyed her despairingly. ‘You could have rung me, Ashley. Let me know where you were.’

‘Rrright.’ Ashley squinted at her bemusedly. ‘Um?’ Glancing down, she splayed her hands, which, unusual though it was, were empty, as in mobile-free.

Hell! They had no mobiles. Obviously. Closing her eyes, Rebecca ran a hand under her nose, emitting a strangulated laugh at her stupidity, which fast turned to a choking sob.

‘Sorry, Becky,’ Ashley said heart wrenchingly again, stepping quickly towards her and wrapping her arms around her. ‘I should have realised.’

‘It’s all right. I’m fine,’ Becky lied through her tears and attempted to pull herself together.

‘Yeah, right.’ Obviously unconvinced, Ashley stepped back a little to look into her eyes, her own huge eyes awash with such uncertainty and worry, Rebecca felt like curling up and crying like a baby. She couldn’t. She couldn’t give in. Dear God, where was her baby? Her husband, where was Matthew?

Breathing deeply, Rebecca reached to brush Ashley’s long ebony hair from her face. She’d come so far from the lost, lonely child who’d come into their lives, only to have to live through a nightmare, seemed so much more sure of herself, and now this. Would there ever be a time when the girl wasn’t perpetually blaming herself for everything? Reaching for her, Rebecca pulled Ashley to her, embracing her hard. ‘It’s not your fault,’ she said firmly, pressing a kiss to her head, and then, noticing DCI Davies loitering uncertainly behind her, she eased away.

‘I see you’re back with us.’ DCI Davies offered Ashley his usual short smile, though his eyes were peppered with discernible relief, Rebecca noted. ‘It might be a good idea if you let someone know if you intend to wander off in the foreseeable future, Ashley,’ he suggested, working to hide his agitation. ‘We’ve wasted an awful lot of manpower searching for you.’

‘Sorry,’ Ashley mumbled again, glancing apologetically in Rebecca’s direction.

Sure Ashley had got the point, Rebecca reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze.

‘However,’ DCI Davies went on, his brow furrowed disquietingly as he glanced between them, ‘you might like to know that, thanks to Ashley’s timely contact with Steve, we’ve managed to establish Matthew’s last known whereabouts and identify the car he’s travelling in.’

‘Car?’ Rebecca searched his face, with a mixture of confusion, fear and overwhelming relief.

‘Don’t get your hopes up too high, Becky,’ DCI Davies added, his expression far from reassuring.

Rebecca waited, every hair seeming to prickle over her skin, as DCI Davies hesitated.

‘It seems we’ve now lost contact with Matthew,’ he finally continued, locking his eyes warily on hers. ‘He’s not answering the phone he had with him, and I’m afraid Steve’s presence was noticed. He was forced to discontinue pursuit in the interests of Matthew’s safety. We’re following every lead, though, searching various premises,’ he pressed on, as Rebecca’s world shifted further off kilter. ‘We’ll do everything within our power to find them, Becky, I promise.’

Rebecca nodded, only vaguely aware of Ashley’s tight grip on her hand. ‘What premises?’ she asked, her voice strained, even to her own ears.

DCI Davies studied her pensively for a second. ‘The unoccupied premises around Jasmine Francis’ apartment,’ he supplied, still studying her hard. ‘Becky, I know I’ve already asked you this, but are you absolutely certain Matthew didn’t say anything about mention of a ransom?’

Rebecca shook her head in the absence of words she was struggling to formulate. ‘It’s Matthew she wants, isn’t it?’ she asked shakily, eventually.

DCI Davies’ gaze faltered. He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. His expression said it all.

‘You should have believed him, John,’ Rebecca said quietly, tears she couldn’t hope to hold back now falling freely down her cheeks. ‘I should have.’ She choked back a sob, as Ashley slid an arm silently around her shoulders. ‘I should have told him. He needed to know. I should have told him.’

* * *

‘Big mistake, copper. Huge!’ Jasmine seethed, once Connor had managed to get the car under control and pull around the back of a derelict business premises. ‘You obviously don’t want to see your darling little sprog again, do you?’

The copper was facing front, dragging his hands through his hair, not looking at her. Insolent bastard. Jasmine resisted giving him another jab in the back of his obstinate head, mainly because of Connor, the great wuss. ‘You keep doing that, you’ll break his bloody neck,’ he’d said, taking his eyes off the road again, and twizzling his own stupid neck to gawk at her. The copper had taken his chance and made a grab for the gun, which had been a very bad move.

‘Get out!’ she ordered Adams. She was so furious, she was practically spitting.

‘Aw, for fu — What you gonna do now?’ Connor whined, like the pathetic little puppy he was. The bloke was a bloody rugby player! Where were his balls? Idiot. The sooner she got rid of him the better.

‘I’m going to shoot him in the kneecap,’ Jasmine informed him, watching satisfied as the copper visibly winced. ‘That should stop his bravado.’

‘Yeah, smart that, Jas.’ Connor shook his head. ‘You’re sure you won’t be witnessed, are you?’ he asked, his gaze travelling upwards, towards a security camera perched high on the wall of the building.

‘Shit!’ Realising it might be working, Jasmine lowered the gun fast. ‘Drive,’ she said, shrinking back in her seat.

‘Drive where?’ Connor asked, sounding not very impressed.

‘You know where.’ Jasmine eyeballed the back of his thick head furiously. ‘Just go, will you? Or would you rather sit here until his mates catch up with us?’

Connor shook his head despairingly again, shoved the gearstick into reverse and released the handbrake. Not over speedily, Jasmine noted. Did he want to be caught, the complete moron?

The gun nestled in the crook of her arm, muzzle resting against the copper’s seat, Jasmine ferreted in her bag next to her on the seat. ‘You,’ she said, passing a glass vial over the copper’s shoulder, ‘draw a line.’

The copper half-turned.

‘Don’t move! Just take the damn powder,’ Jasmine ordered him.

‘I think she means don’t move anything but your hand,’ Connor commented drolly.

Ooh, idiot! She’d jab him in the bloody head in a minute.

Taking breath and blowing it out slowly, the copper took the container.

‘What?’ he said, emitting an incredulous laugh as he examined it. ‘You have to be kidding.’

‘You reckon?’ Jasmine pressed the gun harder into the back of his seat. ‘Do it, Adams. And make sure you do it right.’

Chapter Twenty-Two

That’s better, Jasmine thought, smiling up at the copper, as Connor assisted him down the steps into the basement of the club. Watching him fall and spill his brains on the concrete floor wouldn’t be half as satisfying as what Jasmine had planned for him. As meek as a lamb the man was now. A bit confused and clumsy, but that was to be expected.

In case he wasn’t aware, Jasmine had patiently explained the side effects of Ketamine, then seeing he really was having problems breathing, she’d considerately allowed the pathetic specimen the use of his inhaler. No one could call her heartless. He needed to chill, she’d told him. The dream-like feelings would pass, but he might as well relax and go with the flow.

The copper clearly hadn’t been in a relaxing mood though, hallucinating and shaking, clueless as to where he was. He seemed to think he was in a hearse at one point, which actually spooked Jasmine. She’d thought he was having a more ‘out of mind’ experience than ‘out of body’ when he’d started banging on about his baby being all broken, that he’d needed to fix her but he didn’t know how. ‘She’s cold!’ he’d kept shouting, like she wouldn’t be, since it was obviously the dead one he was obsessing about. Jasmine hadn’t realised he was so reactive, he seemingly so in control of his emotions. That would soon change. She’d been a bit worried when he’d convulsed, but he seemed all right now, apart from the odd bout of trembling, which was a relief. She wanted him compos when she put her proposition to him. She wanted him to know what he was doing and why.

‘Here we are. Careful where you step. Don’t want you doing yourself any damage yet, do we?’ she said brightly, indicating the half-renovated main bar area, which was littered with plastic sheeting and building paraphernalia, as the copper finally managed the descent. He was still looking a bit dodgy, swaying on his feet as he landed, but again, to be expected. ‘You remember this place, don’t you, Detective?’

The copper shook his head and glanced around, clearly disorientated. His eyes were still unfocussed, Jasmine noted. Not to worry. She’d allow him half an hour to sleep it off before movie night commenced. And wouldn’t that be a nice surprise for him when he woke?

‘Come on. Let’s show you your room, shall we?’ she said companionably, resting her gun in the crook of one arm and taking hold of one of his. The copper didn’t move, annoyingly, just glanced up at the ceiling. What was he doing? She watched, as he seemed to study it. Waiting for God to make an appearance? He’d have a long bloody wait. He’s not home, Detective. Or haven’t you worked that one out yet?

Irritated, but allowing him the benefit of the doubt, assuming it was the drugs that had him stargazing, rather than downright insolence, she gave his arm another tug. Still, the stubborn bugger refused to budge. ‘Don’t try my patience,’ she warned him, her hackles now definitely rising.

‘Leave him,’ Connor said, behind him. ‘He’s all over the place.’

‘You what?’ Jasmine stared at Connor, confounded. He was getting a bit lippy considering he was as good as up on a murder charge, wasn’t he? A threatened phone call to his mummy would soon put him back in his place, she decided. Either that or she’d shoot him and be done with it.

‘The drugs,’ Connor elucidated as if she were stupid. ‘He’s still uncoordinated, ain’t he?’

‘Oh, well done, Einstein,’ Jasmine snapped irritably as Connor glanced moodily at her, his brow furrowed like a five-bar gate. ‘In which case, perhaps you should give him a little assistance.’ She nodded at the copper, making meaningful eyes at Connor. Meaning: bloody well make him move, or I will.

The copper was still staring up at the ceiling, as if waiting for divine inspiration. ‘Seventh Heaven,’ he finally said bewilderedly, obviously having found it.

‘Correct.’ Jasmine smiled, delighted. ‘The discerning gentlemen’s lap-dancing club. Up market clientele only, of course. Personally, I would have preferred the décor the way it is upstairs, or was, until the bloody builders moved in: plum coloured walls, rich mahogany woodwork and gilt-edged mirrors. Much classier,’ she continued chattily, and then waited expectantly.

Adams, though, appeared to be having trouble coordinating his brain as well as his limbs. The penny obviously hadn’t dropped. The wheels would be going around though. The light would eventually dawn. It would take him a minute, she assumed, allowing for the drugs in his system.

‘You do remember the proprietor, don’t you, Detective?’ she went on, deciding a little shove in the right direction might be in order. ‘He’s the man you murdered. Shot. At point blank range, as I recall.’

Adams didn’t respond, but Jasmine saw the slow gulp slide down his throat. Yes, she thought, gratified. Be afraid copper. Be very afraid. ‘You know, I think you do remember him. But then, I suppose killing a defenceless man in cold blood isn’t something you’d easily forget, is it? Or is it, Adams, hmm?’ She stopped, watching him carefully. ‘Case closed and move on when you kill someone, is it? No nightmares or regrets? No thoughts for the people whose worlds you blow apart, families you destroy? Is that it?’

Jasmine’s voice went up an octave as she spoke. ‘Well, is it?’

At which, the copper closed his eyes. Still, he didn’t say anything though. Stubborn bastard.

‘Oh, dear, where are my manners?’ Jasmine continued, as if despairing of herself. ‘I haven’t introduced myself properly, have I? Taylor Sullivan, Patrick Sullivan’s daughter. Ring any bells?’ She let it hang, pent up fury now broiling steadily inside her.

Finally, the copper lowered his gaze and looked at her. Now he was focussing, now he was scared. So scared, Jasmine could taste it. Satisfied, but not yet appeased, not appeased by far, she took a step towards him, removing the immensely irritating blonde wig she’d continued to wear to keep up the charade and tossing it at him. The copper watched it flop to the floor and then looked back at her. Jasmine could almost see his mind working as he considered his fate, hope fading in his pretty brown eyes. He flinched, visibly, as she extended a hand towards him, deliberately and provocatively stroking his face, before reaching to slowly peel a contact lens away from her eye.

‘Had you fooled, didn’t I, Matthew, hey? Just like you have everyone else fooled into thinking you’re a hero,’ she said, a slow, malicious smile curving her mouth. ‘Actually, I thought you might remember me, that I might have made some small impression on your life. Clearly, you didn’t. But then, why would you? You don’t care about anyone, do you?’

Jasmine waited, her irritation growing as Adams remained incitingly mute.

‘He was my father!’ she spat. ‘You killed him.’ Stepping closer, her face right up close to his, she peeled the other contact lens away, savouring the tangible terror she saw in his eyes as she did. ‘You ruined my life, too, didn’t you, Mr charming good-looking detective? And then you just walked away. Well, now you’re going to pay. Understand?’

‘Bloody hell,’ Connor gasped, plainly shocked by her revelations. Jasmine ignored him. She’d talk him round later. Her attention right now was all on the copper, whose full-on attention she’d now definitely got.

‘That was a question, Adams,’ she snarled, itching to hit him again out of sheer frustration.

‘Look, Jasmine,’ Connor intervened shakily. ‘I don’t know what’s going on, but I ain’t getting—’

‘Taylor!’ she shouted.

‘Right, Taylor. Whatever.’ Connor stepped cautiously towards her. ‘You really need to pack this in now, Taylor,’ he tried. ‘This is getting way out of—’

‘Shut it, Connor, or you are in deep shit. One call is all it will take. One, do you hear me? Do you think sticking up for him is going to get you off the hook? You think he’s going to walk out of here and say, Oh, Connor’s all right. You can let him go. Stupid bastard!’ Stilling him with a furious gaze, Taylor turned back to Adams. ‘The thing is, I can’t forget, Detective. I don’t get to move on. I have nightmares every single night of my life. Did you consider this? Do you ever consider the consequences of your actions?’

Obviously, he didn’t. The copper declined from answering that too. ‘Do you ever feel guilty?’ she asked him, walking back and forth in front of him, looking him over, wanting to get a good view of him, this man given hero status for destroying other people. ‘When you’re out there, murdering people, lining your own pockets with drugs money, using those girls on the streets?’

Still nothing from Adams. He was trying her patience now. Severely. They’d drugged him, not cut his tongue out. Although the way Taylor was feeling . . . ‘Answer me, you ignorant pig!’ Stopping, Taylor drew a hand back and slapped his face hard, her fury and frustration lending force to the blow.

Reeling briefly, the copper looked down, dragged the back of his hand across his bloodied mouth, and then brought his gaze slowly back to her. ‘I don’t do any of those things,’ he answered her quietly, finally, a flash of defiance now in his eyes.

‘Hah!’ Taylor scoffed. ‘You pay them money, Adams! For services rendered. Do you think your badge makes it any different?’

Yes, think on, copper, Taylor thought, as Adams appeared to ponder that. ‘You turn a blind eye when they’re blatantly pulling punters. You pay for their drug habits. You’re a facilitator, Adams. A user and an abuser just like any drug pusher or pimp. The only difference is, you do it under protection of the law!’

That got him. Taylor saw the shake of his head, the confusion cloud his eyes. She was on to him, and he knew it. ‘At least my father was honest about what he did, Adams. You,’ she said, pointing a finger accusingly at him, ‘you’re a liar! A liar and a murderer!’

‘It . . . was self-defence,’ Adams mumbled, dropping his deceitful gaze.

‘Bullshit!’ Taylor fumed. ‘Do you think I don’t know that disgusting flabby bastard, Hayes, was gunning for my dad, because of you? Only it wasn’t my dad on the take when that drugs consignment went missing, was it, Adams? It was you!’

‘Not true,’ the copper denied it outright.

Lying shit! Taylor watched as he raised a trembling hand to wipe the sweat from his face. ‘Did you think my father wouldn’t do whatever he had to to try and get that money back, knowing what that butcher would do to him?’ she asked him. ‘That was a question!’ she screamed, when he didn’t answer.

The copper jumped, physically. ‘I . . . don’t know,’ he muttered hoarsely, looking very uncomfortable now. And well he might.

‘And then he ends up dead anyway. And you walk away a hero. A hero! Hah! You’re as bent as a nine-bob note, Adams,’ Taylor went on, quoting her dad and getting some satisfaction as she watched the copper grow paler by the second.

‘I saw it all, Adams. I listened and I saw: the bruises on my dad’s face after you’d kicked him to the floor like a dog. The threats you made. Do you remember? It was the day after my eighteenth birthday? No, of course you wouldn’t remember,’ she sneered, when the copper looked clueless. ‘Wasn’t important enough, was it? I wasn’t! I was just another young girl whose innocence you stole simply because you could.’

‘Innocence?’ Adams had the effrontery to look mystified at that.

‘Innocence!’ Taylor bawled.

Warily, sweat beading his forehead for obvious reasons, he studied her for a second. He didn’t deny it. Couldn’t really, could he? No, Adams wasn’t the tragic hero everyone thought he was, his perfect little family targeted by a psychopath with a grudge. Adams was the psychopath, a disturbed individual who’d got where he was by using people, abusing people. It was time he was outed, given the opportunity to prove how heroic he really was.

‘What do you want?’ he asked her gruffly, glancing away.

Guilty, Taylor thought. And he knew it. ‘You,’ she replied simply. ‘An eye for an eye, as they say, eventually. Meanwhile,’ she paused, watching him closely, wanting to see his reaction, ‘you’d better do everything you’re told, when you’re told, or there might be another little baby lying cold somewhere. Get my drift?’

Adams winced discernibly at that. ‘Where is she?’ he asked, obviously emotional now, which Taylor supposed he would be.

‘For me to know and you to find out,’ she informed him as Adams looked guardedly back at her. ‘If you want to see her again, I suggest you start doing what I tell you to do. Comprendre?’

Taylor was a bit taken aback when he laughed. Right there, in front of her, he actually laughed. Was he mad? ‘Not funny, copper!’ she fumed, turning the gun and delivering a mighty blow to his ribs.

* * *

‘Shit!’ Steve slammed his hands against the steering wheel, as the grey Fiat cut across the red light ahead of him. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’

‘Uh, oh, sounds like a problem.’ The pathologist he was speaking to observed over his hands-free.

‘Definitely.’ Steve sighed despondently. ‘Give me a minute, Nicky, will you?’ Waving his apologies to the driver of a car, which had skewed to a halt diagonally across him, Steve skirted around it, and then made his way across the lights to a cacophony of horns.

Waiting as long as he dared before following the car Matthew had climbed into, he’d managed to pick them up reversing sharply from an empty premises, and now he’d gone and lost them. Idiot. Cursing himself, he pulled up at the nearest available place and turned his attention back to his call. ‘It’s Matthew. DI Adams.’

‘Oh, no, what’s happened now?’ Nicky asked warily, obviously aware of his situation, up to a point.

‘Long story,’ Steve said, aware he needed to get off the phone and alert Davies, and fast. He’d been yards from the hospital when Ashley had rung him. Thanks to her, he was able to follow Matthew as he’d walked along the main road. He’d assumed that Davies was up to speed and that Matthew might have been about to pick up instructions, no more than that. He hadn’t bloody well imagined he was about to get snatched too. Christ, what a balls up. ‘Anything on that report?’ he asked hopefully.

‘Hold on,’ Nicky said. ‘Taylor Sullivan, you say?’

‘That’s the one,’ Steve confirmed, not sure whether he wanted this to be a result or not.

‘Yup, got it. Eighteen-year-old suicide. Messy from the looks of it.’

‘Was it definitely her?’ Steve asked, getting straight to the point however crackers it sounded.

‘Sorry?’ Nicky was obviously confused.

‘Was she officially identified?’ Steve asked.

‘I should think so, Steve. We don’t generally just hazard a guess, you know?’ Nicky sounded bemused now.

‘Yes, but was it established?’ Steve pushed it, a desperate edge to his voice. ‘Forensically, I mean?’

Matthew’s unshakable belief that this was connected to Sullivan, the similarities between that bastard’s victims and Natalie, not forgetting the previous case Matthew had mentioned, the heel of the shoe against his boss’s temple? Steve was beginning to think it might not all be quite as off the wall as it sounded.

‘Well, there wasn’t a lot left to identify after scraping her off the tracks, but I imagine all the usual fingerprinting was done. Give me a second and I’ll check.’ Nicky paused. Listening to her fingers clacking over her keyboard, Steve willed her to hurry it up.

‘Looks like she was carrying identification,’ she said, eventually. ‘Driver’s licence retrieved from the scene.’ Again she paused. Steve could almost hear the clock ticking. He was running out of time.

‘The aunt identified the body,’ Nicky went on as Steve waited and prayed. ‘There was a ring recovered, apparently. One the girl’s father had given her and . . . Um, can’t see anything else, Steve. I’ll have to do some more digging. I’ll ring you back.’

‘Do that,’ Steve said tightly.

Shit, he thought, cold panic gripping his stomach. Barking mad it might sound, but if he was right, this woman had already killed twice, maybe three times, assuming the body on the tracks wasn’t hers. And, if it wasn’t, Steve’s guess was Taylor Sullivan had planned her apparent suicide meticulously, aiming to steal her victim’s identity. She’d got away with it, somehow. She obviously had no qualms about killing whoever she needed to and was intent on her aim, which, all in all, meant Matthew had a snowball in hell’s chance of getting his daughter and himself out of this intact.

‘Can you do me another favour, Nicky?’ he added quickly.

Nicky sighed demonstratively. ‘It’ll cost you,’ she said. ‘We’re well backed up. A decent bottle and chocolates at the very—’

‘His kid’s been kidnapped,’ Steve cut in. ‘Matthew’s. His little girl, Mia,’ he went on over Nicky’s audible intake of breath. ‘And it looks like Matthew’s delivered himself into the hands of her kidnappers, stupid prat. Tell DCI Davies what you’ve just told me, will you, Nicky. It’ll move things along faster coming straight from you.’

Nicky took a second to answer, and then, ‘Bloody hell,’ she whispered, clearly shocked. ‘I’m on it,’ she assured him. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘I haven’t a clue yet,’ Steve admitted. ‘Follow in the general direction. I lost them a couple of miles outside London.’ He reeled off his location. ‘I’ll head on in, sniff around. Get on it before anyone else does, that’s for sure.’

‘Good luck. Oh, and you can forget the bottle.’

‘Cheers, Nicky.’ Cutting the call, Steve started his engine, stalled it, and cursed volubly. What the hell was Matthew doing, again? Going off half-cocked, without back up? Was the bloke determined to get himself killed, or what? Frustrated, Steve restarted the car and pulled off.

‘Talk about a needle in a freakin’ haystack,’ muttering to himself, he drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as he drove. Obviously, Matthew had considered the risks of allowing himself to be taken. Would Steve have done the same? Yes, was the clear-cut answer. Lindsey was pregnant now, and as much as Steve knew that Davies and the bods at serious crime would do all they could, he also knew the chances of retrieving that little girl alive were miniscule, as would Matthew. The man was doing what he had to. Nothing could have dissuaded him from that.

So where did he start? Clubland, he decided. With any kind of luck, which Matthew had had precious little of, he’d come up with something, prise information out of someone. Find out just how involved she was with the likes of Hayes for a start, a cold vicious bastard, if ever there was one. Steve needed to know why she’d be involved with him, the bloke who’d derailed what was left of her father’s dubious sanity, get into the mindset of this creature who’d clearly inherited the worst of Patrick Sullivan’s genes. The best place to start, therefore, had to be with the Tony Hayes association.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Matthew watched the video play over, and over. And over. Looping ceaselessly around, driving him halfway insane. He clamped his eyes closed, slammed his head back against the wall, tried to block it out, but still it kept rolling. One minute Sullivan was staring out at him, looking for all the world like a caring father, glowing with pride as his daughter managed her first stabiliser-free bicycle ride. The next Lily was looking out at him, all bundled up in her woolly hat and scarf, her nose and cheeks tinged pink from the cold, her eyes aglow with a child’s delight at Christmas; she looked like a little pixie.

She was laughing into the camera.

Matthew felt his heart tear apart inside him.

Laughing at Becky chasing her around the park, trying to get a good shot of her. The video was shaky. Becky had been fooling around. Matthew recalled it vividly. They’d purchased a new camera to capture the memories, their little girl growing up, who would never grow up. Please make it stop. Matthew glanced upwards, caught a sob in his throat and looked back at the screen. He didn’t want to. Desperately didn’t want to. Yet, was compelled to.

He winced as she slipped, her small legs sliding from under her as she attempted to give the football a good wallop. ‘Whoops,’ Matthew heard himself say. ‘Up we come.’ He watched on, himself swooping Lily up in his arms, checking for damage.

‘You’re okay, trooper,’ he assured her as her bottom lip wobbled tellingly. ‘Nothing damaged but the grass. Come on, let’s go and get our own back on that ball.’

‘I can’t,’ Lily said tearfully. ‘I’m crying. With my eyes.’

Matthew had laughed, as she’d pointed a mitten-covered finger at the evidence. He’d wanted to eat her. He’d loved her so much. ‘Oh, my word, so you are,’ he’d said, widening his own eyes as he looked into hers: huge innocent eyes, framed by softly curled eyelashes, the colour of the truest summer blue sky and so full of promise.

Vacant. Life extinct. The flashback hit him full on, his precious little girl dying in his arms, the joy of life stolen from her. Unable to suppress the choke that built in his throat, Matthew dropped his head to his knees, and wept silently.

Where was his baby?

Where was Mia?

Jesus Christ, please make it stop. Matthew prayed hard, repeating his plea, like a mantra in his head, but still he could hear it. There was nowhere to go. No way to get away from it. What did she want? What the hell did she want?

Again, Matthew heaved himself to his feet. His hands tied behind him, his gut clenching, his soul aching, he used the wall for support, pulling himself up from the sleeping bag he’d been shoved violently down on. He remembered that vaguely. He hadn’t recalled anything after that, until the sounds from the screen had catapulted him from his drug-induced nightmare to another living one. He’d slept. He didn’t know how long. He couldn’t see his watch. He’d fucking slept! Like a baby, when he had no idea where his baby was. No idea if she still was. Christ. Matthew sucked in a breath that turned to a rasp in his chest. He couldn’t do this. Couldn’t.

Turning his back on the screen, he tried hard to shut it out. Please make it stop. He prayed over. Please . . . And over.

‘YeesSS!’ He heard Becky behind him, her triumphant cry when Lily had saved the goal. That’s where the video of Lily ended. Matthew braced himself, hearing the words that weren’t there on the tape, yet kept going around in his head. ‘You’re useless, Adams!’ Becky shouting. ‘Daddy’s useless.’ Lily giggling. Why did he remember those words so well?

Behind him, the video looped back to Sullivan, to Taylor, similar in age to Lily, laughing as she pedalled full pelt towards the camera. Even facing away from the screen, Matthew could still see it. ‘Go on, princess, you can do it. Go on. Go girl!’ Sullivan’s voice, relentless, always there in his head, haunting him endlessly night and day. Day after day after day. ‘Stop!’ His jaw clamped tight, Matthew whirled around. ‘For pity’s sake, please . . .’

‘Is that what my dad asked you to do, Adams?’ Taylor’s voice, idly curious as it emerged from the TV.

Breathing deeply, slowly, his ribs too painful to do otherwise, Matthew turned back and braced himself to ask what he had to. He didn’t really expect a sensible answer. ‘What do you want?’ he tried futilely again anyway.

‘You,’ she answered, inevitably. Over and over it went. A sick, twisted game, and this creature was winning hands down.

‘You have me!’ he shouted, his throat tight, his chest raw, his body trembling, still.

‘Full marks for observation, Detective,’ she drawled sarcastically.

Shaking his head, Matthew tried to stay calm. She was toying with him, goading him into losing it, and, God help him, she was succeeding. ‘You have me,’ he repeated more quietly, attempting to reason with her. ‘Please let Mia go. Just leave her safely somewhere. You don’t need her.’

‘And where would the fun be in that, Matthew? You have to have some incentive to do the right thing, don’t you? Little Mia is it. She stays.’

‘Jesus Christ! What thing? Please . . .’ Matthew’s voice cracked. ‘. . . just tell me what you want?’

No answer. Plainly she was getting maximum pleasure from this systematic, mind-crushing torture. ‘Two things, actually,’ she said, at length.

A mixture of relief and foreboding flooding through him, Matthew leaned to wipe his sweat-soaked face against his shoulder. ‘Which are?’ he asked guardedly.

‘A signed confession,’ she informed him matter-of-factly.

Matthew frowned, confused. She must know she didn’t have a hope in hell’s chance of a forced confession standing up, but if that’s what she wanted, ‘You’ve got it. And?’

‘All in good time, Matthew,’ she replied leisurely. ‘Everything comes to those who wait.’

Matthew emitted a short, satirical laugh. Obviously she did aim to take her time. Time Mia hadn’t got. ‘I need to know Mia’s safe,’ he said tightly.

‘She’s fine,’ came the same response as last time.

‘I need to know!’ Matthew grated. ‘Christ almighty, do you have one ounce of compassion?’

Again, no answer, and then, ‘Did you? When you aimed that gun at my father, did you show any compassion, DI Adams? When you left me to fend for myself after smashing my life into smithereens, did you show any then?’

Matthew felt the sheer hopelessness of his situation weigh down on him. ‘He kidnapped my wife,’ he said impassively. The Ketamine had had his emotions swinging all over the place. Now, he was beginning to feel nothing but empty.

‘You stole what was his,’ she countered.

What was the point? Again, Matthew glanced upwards, as if there was a God in Heaven who could help him. In her deranged mind, her skewed logic was right.

‘You haven’t answered me, Matthew. Did you show any compassion?’

Knowing denial would be useless, Matthew hesitated, then, ‘No,’ he said simply, his gaze dropping to the floor.

‘Look up,’ she said, after a second.

Matthew shoulders sank. He didn’t move.

‘You want to know whether your daughter’s all right, then look up.’

Matthew’s blood ran cold as his baby’s subdued cries reached his ears. Apprehension crawling over him, terror permeating his every pore, he faltered for a split second and then looked at the screen. Dear God. No. His breath hitching in his chest, his legs failing beneath him, Matthew sank to his knees. Please don’t do this. Please don’t. Begging, silently pleading, he stared hopelessly at the Skype window that had appeared on the screen. Lying listlessly on her side, foetus-like and frightened, seeking comfort from the thumb wedged in her mouth it couldn’t possibly offer her, Mia was caged. Matthew clenched his jaw hard. Her face caked in crap, her glorious flame-coloured hair matted, she was caged in a playpen, like an animal. Matthew felt something explode inside him. ‘You heartless fucking bitch!’

‘Uh, uh, language, Adams,’ she taunted him. ‘She can hear you.’

Confirming it, Mia immediately scrambled to sitting and blinked bewilderedly around her. Her little cheeks were red raw from crying, her eyes swollen and . . . unfocussed?

Matthew’s gut twisted violently as realisation swept nauseatingly through him. ‘What the hell have you given her?’ he yelled, his rage spewing over.

‘Just Melatonin,’ she replied blithely. ‘Not too much, don’t worry. Only enough to keep her quiet.’

‘Daddy?’ Mia murmured uncertainly.

‘Baby . . .’ Matthew felt his heart splinter into a thousand pieces as he watched her knead her sleepy eyes with her knuckles and then blink confusedly around her again. She was looking for him, wondering why he didn’t go to her, and it was killing him. ‘I’m here, sweetheart,’ he said, his throat hoarse.

‘Mia no like, Daddy,’ she said in a tiny voice, tears plopping from her eyes to spill down her frightened little face. ‘Mia want go home. Want Mumm—’

Swallowing back the physical pain in his chest, Matthew squeezed his own eyes closed as the screen went blank. ‘What do you want?’ he asked again, feeling utterly defeated.

The bitch ignored that. ‘I’m going to give you a little more time to consider my second request, Adams,’ she told him nonsensically instead.

‘I don’t know what it is! You’re completely insane!’

‘You will,’ she said meaningfully. ‘I’m going to have some dinner now. Why don’t you chill out and watch some TV while I’m gone? Later, Adams.’

Matthew remained where he was for several seconds, then raised himself to his feet. He looked at the screen still playing the video painfully over, then turned away, walking towards the impenetrable cellar door and back. Rage building slowly inside him, he paced the length and breadth of the cell-like room he was in, before coming to rest facing one of the stone brick walls, where he stayed. His forehead hit the brickwork without process of forethought. His chest heaving, he attempted to control his emotions, blinked away the blood oozing over his eyelashes and studied the ceiling, and then emitted a low, guttural moan that came from the depths of his soul.

* * *

‘Anything?’ Becky was on her feet almost before DCI Davies came through the door.

His face grave, DCI Davies shook his head quickly.

‘Crap,’ Ashley cursed, glancing towards Kristen, who sank back on her pillows. Ashley saw the anguished look on her face, and knew it was more to do with fear for Matthew than the post-surgery pain she was in.

‘Why don’t you go home?’ DCI Davies suggested kindly to Becky. ‘Get some rest. We’ll be in touch as soon as—’

‘Home?’ Becky stared at him, confounded. ‘Do you honestly think I’d want to go back there without my family? That I’d ever want to go back there again, if . . .’ Stopping, Becky scanned his face furiously, and then turned away.

Noting the straight set of her shoulders, Ashley knew it was only anger holding Becky upright now, fuelling her adrenalin and keeping her going. She knew also that Becky hadn’t meant to exclude her when she referred to her family, but the painful truth was she would have lost everything if she lost little Mia. If she lost Matthew. Willing the stupid tears that kept threatening back, Ashley dropped her gaze. She wished Matthew and Becky had never come that day to the care home. That they’d never set eyes on her, as no doubt Becky now did. The bad stuff had started happening the minute she’d come into their lives, and it just kept on happening. It was like she was a curse around their necks.

Not true. Emily said in her head. You stopped that evil man from hurting them.

I killed him, Ashley answered bluntly.

Good. He deserved it.

Attempting to ignore Emily, who everyone insisted wasn’t there, but who always bloody seemed to be when she felt like this, like shit, Ashley tried to imagine where Mia might be, what kind of place she might be in; tried hard not to picture her scared and lost and lonely. And Matthew. His heart would be broken. Just like Becky, he would be desperate, going slowly out of his mind. If he was still alive. That thought popping into her head, Ashley sank lower in the bedside chair she was sitting uselessly on and wished she wasn’t there at all.

She felt something brush her hair then, a whisper of fingers as Kristen reached out. ‘It’s not your fault, Ashley,’ she said, her face turned towards her. Her complexion was ashen. She must be in so much pain, and yet she was refusing any drugs that might refuel her addiction. ‘None of it,’ Kristen added forcefully as Ashley met her eyes uncertainly.

Ashley nodded, unconvinced though she was.

‘Don’t blame yourself for other people’s failings, Ashley. You’re all right. You must be for Matthew and Becky to have stuck with you. Trust me, Matthew doesn’t give up on people he thinks are worth the effort.’

Ashley scanned her face. ‘He didn’t give up on you,’ she said, watching her carefully.

‘Yeah. Did I also mention he’s a complete pain in the bum?’ Kristen joked. ‘He’ll be back. Don’t give up hope, Ashley. Meanwhile, Becky’s going to need you.’ She nodded in Becky’s direction, who DCI Davies was attempting to offer more reassurances to. Becky wasn’t listening. She was back to staring out of windows at nothing.

‘She loves you, Ashley,’ Kristen assured her. ‘They both do. They’re going to need you to hang in there and be strong, even if you do feel like curling up in a ball and crying like a baby.’

Running a hand under her nose, Ashley glanced away.

‘I know I do sometimes,’ Kristen admitted, telling Ashley she thought it was okay to feel that way, she supposed. ‘Becky’s distracted, that’s all. She’s bound to be. Don’t take it personally.’

She was right, Ashley decided, amazed at how much sense Kristen seemed to make when she was sober. Focussing on herself was pretty pathetic with all that was going on.

‘I won’t.’ Mustering up a smile she glanced back at her, and then towards the doorway where DS Collins seemed to be hovering, trying to attract the attention of DCI Davies.

‘Just popping to the loo. Won’t be a sec,’ Ashley said, deciding anything Jamie had to share was their business too.

‘Make sure to come straight back, Ashley.’ Kristen gave her a stern look, as Ashley got to her feet.

Ashley might have told her she’d given up any right to tell her what to do when she’d abandoned her. Would have done a while back. Now though, she realised that would be pretty immature too. Noting again how ill she looked, this woman who was trying hard to stay clean, who’d given birth to her, abandoned her in some misguided attempt to protect her, but who clearly did care and was trying to reach out, Ashley wondered whether it might be time to risk taking a small step towards her.

‘I will,’ she promised, hesitated and then leaned in to give Kristen a hug. It couldn’t hurt. Well, actually it might if things didn’t work out, but . . .

‘Thank you,’ Kristen whispered and hugged her fiercely back. ‘I won’t let you down.’

A gulp sliding down her throat, Ashley simply nodded.

‘You’re still wearing it,’ Kristen said, glancing astonished at her as Ashley eased away.

Ashley’s fingers strayed towards the locket Kristen had obviously noticed. ‘I hoped.’ She shrugged, glancing awkwardly away and then back. ‘I didn’t have much faith, but I kept hoping. Sorry, I need the loo,’ she added quickly as Kristen’s gaze fluttered guiltily down. ‘Back soon.’

‘Ashley,’ Kristen said, as she turned for the door, ‘for what it’s worth, I love you, too.’

Ashley glanced cautiously back at her.

Kristen clearly noted the look. ‘Sorry,’ she said sadly. ‘It’s a pretty useless word really, isn’t it, but . . .’

‘It’s the only one you have,’ Ashley finished. Kristen had said it before. She’d been right then too, when she’d admitted getting sober couldn’t undo all the hurt. You couldn’t unmake history. Ashley would if she could. She wasn’t ready to make affirmations of love yet, but . . . Nodding, she offered Kristen a more genuine smile instead, and then turned back to the door.

Acknowledging her with a nod, Jamie stopped mid-sentence as Ashley walked along the corridor towards them. Following her gaze, DCI Davies nodded in turn. ‘Not going too far, are we, Ashley?’ he asked, giving her one of his short smiles.

He did that a lot Ashley had noticed. Vaguely, she wondered if it was an interrogation technique designed to lull suspects into a false sense of security before going in for the kill. If it was, he seriously needed to go back to detective training school. ‘Downstairs to get some cash from the cash machine and then to the toilet,’ she assured him. ‘If you want to come and stand outside, I’ll whistle while I’m in there.’

His smile fell a bit flat as she walked past him, taking the exit to the stairs to the ground floor, where she stopped, and listened.

‘You’ve checked out the building?’ she heard DCI Davies ask Jamie, after a pause.

‘Yes, sir. Nothing,’ Jamie replied. ‘The place is derelict. No signs of recent disturbance.’

What place? Ashley strained to hear the conversation. Something about a sighting. The car Matthew was travelling in, she gleaned.

‘Dammit,’ Davies cursed agitatedly. ‘Anything else on the tape to go on?’

‘We couldn’t get a clear image, sir, but it looks like it’s definitely the daughter.’

‘Taylor Sullivan.’ Davies sighed disconsolately. ‘Meaning Patrick Sullivan’s daughter and Jasmine Francis are one and the same. How the hell did we miss this?’

Sullivan? Jasmine’s his daughter? Ashley’s heart flipped in her chest. Oh God, no. Closing her eyes, she gulped back the immediate suffocating terror the name evoked and leaned unsteadily against the wall for support.

‘According to Nicky, it could well be,’ Jamie went on warily. ‘Seems there’s no official ID on file in regard to her suicide. Just circumstantial identification.’

Davies drew in a long breath. Ashley could hear his frustration even from where she was standing. ‘And Steve also thinks it could be her?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir. He said he was as sure as he could be when he asked me to pull up the CCTV from the building where the car Matthew was in stopped.’

‘And the accomplice?’

‘We’re working on the images now,’ Jamie supplied. ‘But from Steve’s visual, plus the footage we have, it looks like it could be Connor Preston. He’s in the driving seat. The girl’s in the back passenger seat and definitely armed, a shotgun possibly. And, er . . .’

‘Get on with it, Collins,’ Davies snapped.

‘It doesn’t look good,’ Jamie went on hesitantly. ‘It appears they’re force-feeding Matthew drugs.’

‘Shit. Shit!’ Davies cursed again, furiously. ‘I don’t bloody believe this. Hasn’t the man suffered enough? How? What drugs?’

‘Not sure,’ Jamie said. ‘Could be any number of white substances: coke, H, K.’

‘We need to find them,’ DCI Davies said grimly. ‘We need to find them now.’

Attempting to quell her almost overwhelming queasiness, Ashley slid to her haunches. Find him how? Where? Taking slow breaths, the way Matthew had taught her to ward off panic attacks, she tried to think. Should she tell Becky? She needed to. They needed to . . . do something.

Waiting until Collins and Davies had finished talking, Ashley checked the coast was clear and then headed back the way she’d come.

‘But you can’t! Not on your own,’ she heard Kristen as she went in, who sounded frantic, and, judging by the way she was trying to sit up despite the leg brace, obviously was.

A new kind of panic rising in her chest, Ashley glanced towards Becky, who was hastily gathering up her bag and coat. ‘Where are you going?’ she asked her, probably sounding as shit-scared as she was feeling.

Becky turned towards her, a determined look on her face. ‘I can’t just sit here doing nothing, Ashley,’ she said, heading purposefully towards the door.

‘So what are you going to do?’ Ashley asked as she strode past her. ‘Becky?’

Her eyes flicking to Kristen’s concerned face, Ashley guessed Becky had decided on action rather than inaction and, nodded on by Kristen, twirled quickly around to go after her. ‘You’re going to look for them, aren’t you?’

Becky’s step faltered.

Ashley studied her, as she turned back, noting the haunted look in her eyes, the tangible fear, but also the fire there. The same fire she’d seen once before, when Becky had taken Sullivan by surprise and fought back. She’d fought back hard. Sprawled on the floor where he’d thrown her, she’d lashed out with her foot, kicked and bit and gouged, her fingernails clawing deep scores in his cheeks as he’d heaved her up. Right up until the sadistic freak’s appropriate demise she’d kept fighting, always watching, waiting, looking for his weaknesses. Becky hadn’t given in. She wasn’t about to now.

‘Where?’ Ashley asked, relief surging through her, trepidation hard on its heels. She needed to tell her what she’d heard, but not until Becky was on her way, with her alongside her, because there was no way she was letting Becky go anywhere on her own.

Becky drew in a breath and notched up her chin. ‘The fucking drug dealer’s club,’ she said, using language Becky rarely did as she turned back to the door to stride on.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Steve sighed despondently, his gaze drifting sympathetically to the pole dancer, who far from hot stuff, looked bloody cold to him, cavorting about on stage wearing nothing but a sequinned thong.

‘Blimey, she’s supposed to be an exotic dancer and she’s got two left feet.’ Dougie, one of Hayes’ henchmen and presumably in charge while Hayes was ‘helping’ the police with their enquiries, winced as the woman went over on one spindly stiletto. ‘Shame. Nice pair of tits on it. Maybe I can get one of the other girls to train her up?’ he pondered.

‘I wouldn’t bother if I were you,’ Steve offered, swallowing back his contempt. ‘She’s underage.’

‘Yerwhat?’ The guy goggled and looked her up and down disbelievingly.

‘Hayes is not going to be happy if you start recruiting schoolgirls to add to his problems, is he?’

The guy looked momentarily panicked at that, tugging at his shirt collar as he gestured the girl off stage. ‘You’re too young, luv,’ he shouted as she pouted. ‘Come back when you’ve finished school, yes?’

At which the girl bent to pluck up the miniscule bra affair top she’d just wriggled out of and turned to strut huffily off.

‘Happy?’ Dougie asked Steve, with a flat smile.

‘Delirious.’ Steve smiled back, equally flatly.

‘What’s it to you anyway? Last I heard you’d been pensioned off.’ Dougie looked him over suspiciously as Steve scanned the bar, looking for any likely suspect he might put some pressure on.

‘Resigned,’ Steve corrected him, ‘voluntarily.’

The guy’s eyes narrowed. ‘So what you doing sniffing around here then?’

‘Private investigation,’ Steve supplied. ‘Jasmine’s mother’s trying to locate her.’

‘Oh blimey, we are desperate, aren’t we? Missing the action, are we, Mr Ingram?’

The emphasis was on the ‘Mr’, Steve noted. ‘Not much, no,’ he assured him. ‘I’m also trying to locate Matthew Adams.’

‘Adams?’ Dougie eyed him questioningly. ‘I thought he was in police custody. Hang on a minute.’ He narrowed his eyes. Squinty little eyes. Steve wouldn’t trust him as far as he could throw him. ‘He’s skipped bail, hasn’t he? Well, well, well, DI Adams on the run. A guilty man if ever there was one.’

Steve waited, any hope he might get information here dwindling as the man trundled brainlessly on. ‘Is that why you’re looking for Jasmine?’ Dougie asked, inevitably. ‘You don’t reckon he’s caught up with her and done her in after all, do you? Bloody hell.’ The man paused for one second’s mindless thought. ‘Then again, I can’t say I’d blame him what with that trollop claiming he raped her. She was bound to have been leading him on if he did.’

Steve looked at him askew at that little gem.

‘She’s no angel, Ingram,’ the guy went on, giving Steve the benefit of his wisdom. ‘I mean, come on, a girl like that interested in Hayes? Ugly bastard. She’s obviously only after his dosh.’

‘Brilliant deduction, Dougie.’ Steve arched an eye, taking in Dougie’s rearranged features, which didn’t exactly make him beauty pageant material. ‘You ought to be on the police force.’

‘You reckon?’ Looking pleased with himself, Dougie straightened his tie.

‘No, not really.’ Steve sighed again, heavily, and turned to go. He was getting nowhere here. ‘Oh, incidentally, DI Adams hasn’t skipped bail. He’s out. You’d better watch your mouth, Dougie, me old son. If Hayes doesn’t shut it for you, Matthew just might. Like you say, he’s pretty pissed off.’

Leaving the cretin with that worrying thought, Steve walked on, racking his brains as to where the hell he would look next.

‘All right, DS Ingram?’ One of the bouncers nodded uncertainly as he passed him, heading in Dougie’s direction.

‘Yeah, peachy,’ Steve replied gloomily, pushed the doors into reception open and then stopped.

‘What bloody builder?’ he heard Dougie ask the bouncer behind him.

Steve turned back, cocking an ear interestedly.

‘The bloke who’s doing the renovation work on Seventh Heaven,’ the bouncer supplied. ‘Says his last invoice hasn’t been paid and he ain’t going back on site until it is.’

Seventh Heaven? If Hayes had bought it, then surely Taylor would know about it? And if renovation was underway it was obviously sitting empty. Shit.

* * *

They hadn’t done a very good job with the water membrane, Matthew thought obliquely, feeling the damp seep through his shirt as he sat with his back to the wall. His arms felt numb behind him. His whole body felt numb, inside and out. How cold was his baby?

Pulling his gaze away from the rusty hook in the ceiling, which for some reason kept drawing his attention, he recommenced counting the bricks on the opposite wall, futilely attempting distraction while the video played relentlessly over, a cacophony of words and sounds merging into one: a child’s innocent laughter. Would Mia ever laugh again? A tight breath catching in his chest, Matthew bowed his head. Vaguely, he wondered whether it was possible to die from a broken heart. He’d come so close once. He didn’t think it was humanly possible to endure that kind of pain twice. How could Becky survive this?

She’d be better off without him. Matthew swallowed, and then braced himself for the next words on the tape, which were steadily chiselling away at his soul: I’m crying. With my eyes, Lily’s little voice, reminding Matthew how much pain he’d caused his wife, his children. He’d sworn to protect them. He’d failed. Christ, he was so useless.

YessSS! Becky’s voice then, whooping out loud. Fractured reminders of his life, a life wasted. Too much time spent on inconsequential things, so little time with his family. Matthew smiled at the irony of the timely confirmation of how much of a useless bastard he was, then idly, his thoughts seeming to slow as his body grew colder, he wondered at the scratching at the door. A rat, he supposed, glancing towards the corner, where one scaly-tailed cellmate had scurried when he’d kicked out at it. Cocking his head to one side, he squinted at the thing, which was hunched and immobile, and then snapped his gaze up sharp as the cellar door slammed open, crashing into the wall behind it and causing the rat to scuttle frenziedly across the floor.

‘Where’s your meds?’ Connor Preston banged in, shouting urgently as he did.

Looking towards the man, whose cheeks were flushed and whose body language was definitely agitated, Matthew eyed him narrowly, wondering what new game this was. If this was about to get physical, he’d stand no chance against someone of Preston’s considerable bulk with his hands tied.

‘Your inhaler! Where is it?’ the bitch demanded, coming in behind Preston, the gun clutched in her hands and pointed right at Matthew.

Noting her eyes, which like her psycho father’s before her were normally awash with nothing but goading contempt, but were now wide and wild, Matthew felt a knot of trepidation rise in his chest. ‘Why?’ he asked, attempting to find some leverage to get to his feet.

‘I told you this would happen,’ Preston muttered in Taylor’s direction as he hurtled towards Matthew, hooking an arm under his armpit and heaving him up. ‘Where is it?’ Palpable fear now in the man’s eyes, he asked Matthew again.

Terrified as sick realisation hit him, Matthew scrambled to remember. ‘In her bag,’ he said, panic twisting his stomach as he glanced towards Taylor.

‘Where’s your bloody bag?’ Preston yelled at her, turning fast back to the door.

‘I don’t know! Eeeargh. Shit!’ Taylor recoiled as the rat reappeared, scampering for the safety of a dark corner, and then gestured frantically after him. ‘Out there, I think, by the steps. How was I supposed to—’

‘Stupid cow!’ Preston growled and swung out of the room.

‘Watch your mouth, Connor! And you,’ Taylor whirled back, levelling the gun as Matthew moved towards her. ‘Stay where you are!’

His terror mounting, threatening to choke him, Matthew kept going.

‘I said stay!’ Taylor hitched the gun higher, pointing it squarely at his chest.

‘She won’t take it!’ Ignoring her, Matthew shouted after Preston, praying that if this sick bitch had no heart, Preston would find one. ‘For God’s sake! You need to untie me!’

‘Nice try, copper,’ Taylor spat, closing one eye and focussing her aim.

‘She won’t take the bloody thing!’ Matthew walked right into the gun, the barrel of it pressing hard into his torso. His only concern if she blasted him to kingdom come right now was for Mia. ‘She won’t know how!’

Preston appeared back at the door then, the inhaler in his hand.

Desperately, Matthew searched his face. ‘She won’t know how,’ he repeated, willing him to believe him. ‘She needs her aerochamber.’

‘A what?’ Taylor lowered the gun a fraction as she glanced between them askance, and then jabbed it hard back at Matthew when he tried another step.

‘Please?’ Matthew begged, his gaze never leaving Preston’s. ‘Let me go to her.’ She was close. Matthew’s heart pounded hard against his ribcage. She was here. She needed him. Please . . . Dear God help me.

Preston hesitated for a fraction of a second longer, and then, ‘Stuff this,’ he muttered, stepping in and behind Matthew.

‘What are you doing?’ Taylor gawked, the weapon in her hands drifting dangerously between them as Preston fumbled to untie Matthew’s bindings.

‘What the hell does it look like?’ Preston snapped. ‘Move.’ Glaring at her, he manoeuvred Matthew past her. ‘And stop waving that bloody thing about, daft bitch.’

‘Where?’ Matthew asked, ignoring the searing sensation as the blood rushed to his hands.

‘There.’ Shoving the inhaler at him, Preston pointed him towards a room across the open floor area they’d first brought him into. Realising how close she’d been, Matthew spat out a curse, and then ran.

He heard her before he saw her, a rasping wheeze rattling through her tiny chest, which meant she was having a severe attack. ‘Mia!’ His foot catching an abandoned piece of scaffolding, Matthew pushed, half stumbled, through the door, then, ‘Oh God, no.’ No. No. No.

Slamming a lid tight shut on his rage, he crossed the room, stepped into the playpen, and lifted his baby gently into his arms. Her breaths were shallow, short and rapid, stopping partway down her trachea. Minimal air reaching her lungs, Matthew realised, his heart plummeting inside him. Climbing out, he looked frantically around. Nowhere to sit. No safe place to lay her, he lowered himself to his knees, easing himself to sitting and cradling his little girl as he did.

‘It’s okay, munchkin,’ he tried to reassure her. ‘I’m here, sweetheart.’ But it wasn’t okay, it was far from okay.

‘What can I do?’ Preston asked worriedly, hovering in front of him.

Contempt clawing at his insides, Matthew didn’t answer. His focus was on Mia.

‘Okay, baby,’ he said, nestling her head in the crook of his arm. ‘I have our magic medicine.’ But what if it was too much? If the dose was too high. What then? Matthew dragged in a ragged breath of his own. ‘Daddy can’t remember how to use it though. Stupid Daddy.’ He choked out a laugh. He wanted to weep. ‘Can you show me, Mia? Can you show me how to breathe it?’

Mia’s eyes flickered open. A flutter of recognition? Matthew prayed it was. Prayed she could hear him. Her colour was all wrong. Blue. She was blue. Jesus Christ . . . Please help me. ‘Here we go, sweetheart. Breathe it in for me, angel, will you?’ Softly, Matthew tried to cajole her. ‘Mummy’s going to do that thing with her eyebrows if she thinks I’ve forgotten.’ Scowl despairingly at him. Pseudo-despairingly. It was a ritual they went through. Daddy in the doghouse meant he needed rescuing by Mia doing whatever it was he needed her to do. He knew Mia knew. Prayed hard again that she would help him now. That she could.

‘Mia?’

Blinking away the sweat and tears from his eyelashes, Matthew pressed the inhaler between her tiny lips. His hand was shaking. He hoped she couldn’t feel the tremors that seemed to be running through his entire body.

‘Can you breathe it for me, munchkin?’ he asked her, forcing back the constriction in his own throat. ‘Big breaths, yes?’ Breathe, baby. Please breathe.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Lying flat on his stomach, peering through the small space in the back basement window that wasn’t blacked out, Steve had seen enough. He had to find a way into the place. Now! Assuming he could work out how the bloody hell to get to his feet, that was. Cursing his protesting spine and the pain that shot straight down his leg, he rolled over and then, wincing, pulled himself to sitting. Dammit, he wasn’t cut out for this anymore, not since that bastard Sullivan had shot him. You’re just going to have to grin and bear it though, Ingram, he told himself, grimacing as he heaved himself up. Inside that building was the gun-wielding psychopathic daughter of a psychopath, a bloke built like a brick shithouse, and Matthew, who looked like death and who was now trying to save the life of his daughter.

Steve needed help fast. The way Taylor Sullivan was swinging that gun around meant that uniforms crawling all over the show might just mean it would go off, Matthew or little Mia on the receiving end, but there was simply no other choice. They needed marksmen, someone who could take the bastards out the second an opportunity presented itself. Meanwhile, he had to get inside and do whatever he could until they got here if things went awry. Moving far away enough to make his call without being overheard, he surveyed the back of the premises, noting another basement window on the opposite side of the fire exit. The window he’d managed to get a look through was obviously a no go with Connor Preston apparently babysitting in there. If the other window didn’t give, Steve hadn’t a bloody clue what his next move would be, but he had to try to gain access somehow.

Pulling out his phone, he selected Davies’ number. He was just about to press call when he felt the unmistakeable cold steel of a gun press against the base of his neck.

‘Don’t!’ a female voice warned him.

Shit! Steve gulped back hard, immediately feeling the impact of the bullet all over again, like a sledgehammer slamming into him. The odd tingling, surging throughout his entire body. The warm sensation as his blood had flowed from the open wound in his torso. The use of his legs, gone in an instant.

‘The phone,’ she said, pushing the barrel further into his neck as Steve relived his worst nightmare. ‘Drop it.’

His thumb hovering shakily over the keypad, Steve looked down at it, and then, steeling himself for whatever was to come next, did as she said.

‘Crush it,’ she growled as it landed in front of him, her voice low and menacing.

Steve hesitated, knowing that to do that would be to destroy any chance of him being tracked.

She pressed the gun closer. ‘Do it!’

Not daring to nod, lest the bloody gun go off, Steve lifted his foot and slammed the heel of it down.

‘Again,’ she snarled.

Thorough bitch, wasn’t she? Bracing himself, praying his dodgy leg didn’t cause him to fall over and give the cow an excuse to decorate the ground with him, Steve repeated the procedure, cursing himself silently as he did. He should have pressed call. This delightful spawn of her equally delightful father was probably going to blast his brains out anyway. He should have connected the call.

‘That’s better,’ she said, sounding marginally appeased. ‘Now, you’re going to turn around and walk back towards the building, very slowly. One twitch in the wrong direction and the sewer rats will be feeding off you for weeks. Comprendre?’

‘I think I’ve got the drift, yes.’ Steve gave her an answer, assuming she needed one from the way she gave his neck another vicious jab.

‘Move,’ she said, nudging him in the desired direction and shadowing him as he turned. ‘Hands where I can see them. No smart business. Not that you are that smart, poking your stupid moronic face up against the window. Did you honestly think I wouldn’t see you? Or hear you?’

She kept talking as they walked, grating seriously on Steve’s jagged nerves.

‘Not exactly light on our feet, are we, with that stupid spastic limp of yours?’

Steve smiled wryly at that and repressed an urge to turn and shove the gun so hard down her throat it would reappear where the sun didn’t shine.

‘Stop,’ she instructed as they reached the fire escape door. ‘Now open it,’ she said, stepping a safe distance back from him.

Finding it still slightly ajar from when the bitch from hell had obviously emerged, Steve did as she ordered, and prayed he might still be of some use to Matthew once inside.

Stepping through the door, though, Steve found the metal staircase beyond it looming towards him faster than he’d expected, thanks to a violent shove from behind.

Shit! His vision fading to white as his head cracked against the last step, Steve fought to stay conscious. Attempting to spit the blood and crap from his mouth, his final thought as the deranged woman looming over him raised the gun high and smashed it down against his skull was that he really should have placed that call.

* * *

Matthew waited for Mia to take another shallow breath in, then, praying in earnest, he simultaneously pressed the canister down. Please breathe, baby. Please . . . Holding his own breath, he studied her pale face intently, and then closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to hers when her breathing slowed, becoming deeper, slower, as she dragged life-giving air into her small lungs.

‘Is she all right?’ Preston asked warily, after a second.

Matthew didn’t answer. Easing back a fraction instead, he scanned his baby’s face again, noting, as he did every time he looked at her, how beautiful she was, how completely perfect this little replica of his wife was, with her gorgeous fiery hair, her softly curled eyelashes, delicate features and tiny cupid lips, which were no longer tinged blue. Matthew offered up another prayer, this time of gratitude.

‘Is she breathing?’ Preston’s voice was a hoarse whisper. He was scared. Not nearly as terrified as Matthew was. He had to get her out. Whatever they wanted, he had to make them see that they had it. They didn’t need to torture him by torturing this child. Surely, they must know he’d do anything for her?

Planting a soft kiss on her forehead, he brushed Mia’s sweat-dampened ringlets from her face, wiped his tears from her cheeks, and nodded tightly. ‘She needs to go to a hospital,’ he said, his own voice ragged with the effort of trying to control his heartbreak.

‘Not happening,’ Preston said, trying for adamant. He wasn’t confident, though. He knew he was deep in the shit and he was floundering, hoping that Taylor Sullivan would pull him out. ‘You need to sign the confession and then . . .’ Preston stopped and furrowed his brow, apparently at a loss as to what happened next.

‘And then?’ Matthew asked, easing his daughter closer as she stirred in his arms. ‘And then what Connor? She’s going to let me go? Let Mia go? The police will pick me up, lock me up, and you two waltz off into the sunset hand in hand, happily ever after?’

The furrow in Preston’s brow only deepened.

‘Is that what you think’s going to happen, Connor?’

‘I’m not going to prison.’ Preston’s gaze shot to his. ‘I didn’t do anything.’

Apart from allow himself to be coerced by a deranged woman, Matthew was pretty sure that he hadn’t. ‘Nor did I, Connor,’ he assured him quietly.

At which Preston narrowed his eyes. ‘That’s crap. Someone killed that girl. And it sure as hell wasn’t me.’ Jabbing a finger at his own chest, he stared at Matthew accusingly.

Matthew nodded, and simply let it hang.

‘You’re twisting things around, that’s what,’ Preston jabbered on, taking two paces to the side and back. ‘They have my DNA and you’re claiming it was me who killed her and it wasn’t! It was you. Jasmine said you’d point the finger at me.’

‘Taylor,’ Matthew calmly corrected him.

Looking flustered, embarrassed almost, that he might have fallen for her obvious lies, Preston took a step in the other direction, and back. ‘I didn’t do anything,’ he repeated, looking as if he might burst into tears.

Matthew could probably take him, here, now, if not for Mia. Cautioning himself not to take any risks that might endanger her further, he stilled his desire to beat some sense into the man. For what he’d done to Mia, for being complicit in allowing this to happen to his family.

‘If I didn’t do it and you didn’t . . .’ Matthew left him to ponder that too.

‘Bullshit,’ Preston said, at length, dragging a hand under his nose.

‘Why is it, Connor? Don’t you think she’s capable?’ Matthew pushed it. He was balancing on a knife-edge, he knew it. Had no idea what Preston was capable of. What he wanted him to be, though, was uncertain. Suspicious of Taylor Sullivan’s motives and worried about his own pathetic skin once this was all over. ‘Do you think allowing anything to happen to this little girl will help your case, Connor?’ he asked him, noting the beads of sweat on the man’s upper lip. ‘Because it won’t. Trust me, the worst kind of punishment is meted out to child killers.’

Matthew kept his tone quiet, hoping that Mia couldn’t hear. That the sadistic bitch, who was as likely to let them go unharmed as she was to sprout wings, couldn’t. Glancing quickly towards the closed door, he forged on. ‘What else does she want, Connor? This other thing, what the hell is it?’

‘I don’t know, do I?’ Connor splayed his hands helplessly.

‘For Christ’s sake, Connor, you need to tell me,’ Matthew appealed to him, ready to beg. ‘I need to make sure my child is—’

‘Daddy?’

Feeling his daughter’s fingers brush his arm, Matthew stopped. ‘Hey, baby.’ He smiled down at her, trying to inject some normalcy into his voice. ‘How’s my little munchkin, hey?’

‘No like, Daddy.’ Mia studied him, a puzzled furrow in her little forehead, her rich velvet brown eyes still hazy and dazed as she uncertainly searched his. She needed him to fix this. Immediately seeing Lily’s confused eyes silently begging him to make her pain go away, Matthew’s chest tightened.

‘I want to go home, Daddy,’ Mia said, surprising Matthew with a whole sentence and cracking his heart wide open all over again.

‘We will. Soon, sweetheart,’ he promised, a promise he intended to deliver, whatever it took. He’d take the shot gladly, as long as he could kill Taylor Sullivan going down.

On cue, the woman herself came through the door. ‘Well, well, isn’t this a nice little family scene?’ she said, looking Matthew over icily. Also looking cocksure, he noted. Definitely a chip off the old block. With her cropped hair, ripped jeans, Dr Martens on her feet and that fucking gun propped on her shoulder, she looked like she’d stepped straight out of a vigilante movie. Had she worked on her ‘Don’t mess with me’ image, he wondered? Whatever, knowing exactly what she was capable of, he had no doubt she intended to live up to it.

‘Time for you to leave her,’ she said unemotionally.

Matthew locked eyes with hers. ‘No way,’ he stated emphatically.

She nodded. Obviously, it was what she’d expected him to say. ‘You can either hand her over now, without any fuss, or we’ll take her. Your choice, Adams.’

Meaning she wouldn’t hesitate to use whatever force she deemed necessary. Glancing over at Preston, whose belligerent expression told him he was still ready to believe her version of events, Matthew knew he had no choice. To resist would be to distress Mia further. Looking disgustedly back to Taylor, Matthew drew in a breath and acquiesced with a short nod.

‘Hand her to Connor,’ she said, a glint of victory in her merciless black eyes. ‘Don’t worry, he’s child friendly,’ she added glibly. ‘She wouldn’t still be here if he wasn’t.’

Preston stepped forwards, his stony expression faltering for a second, as Matthew handed his daughter to him. Watching the man lift her higher in his arms, gently at least, Matthew worked at containing his screaming emotions. He felt as if his vital organs had been ripped out. She was still lethargic, her limbs floppy from the drugs that sick bitch had pumped into her system, her face tearstained and bewildered. He would kill this woman, Matthew vowed. And there would definitely be no compassion, no second’s hesitation while he struggled with his conscience. Given a chance he would take it and kill her as calculatedly and dispassionately as she’d taken his daughter.

‘Daddy!’ Realising what was happening, Mia’s face crumpled. ‘Want Daddy,’ she screamed, stretching her arms towards him, as Matthew got to his feet.

‘I’m coming straight back, Mia,’ Matthew lied, his gut twisting violently, as Preston moved away from him.

‘Stay,’ the bitch warned him, as Matthew instinctively took a step towards Mia. ‘Or she watches.’ She levelled the gun, and Matthew froze.

Mia was sobbing in earnest now, stretching a hand over Preston’s shoulder, as he turned his back and made some clumsy attempt to placate her. She wouldn’t be placated. Did the man honestly think promises of chocolate would subdue her, take away the sheer terror running through her? Matthew’s fury escalated, along with his frustration at his own pathetic powerlessness. He could do nothing. Nothing but watch as his daughter’s little heart broke. How long would it be before the sobs turned to chokes? What then? What if the asthma kicked off all over again?

‘I’m . . . getting the car, Mia,’ he said, trying to disguise the choking desperation in his voice. ‘I’ll be back soon.’

‘Now, Adams,’ Taylor instructed, backing towards the door, the gun, the only thing stopping Matthew doing something he’d never imagined himself capable of, poised and ready.

Should he call her bluff? Matthew debated as he walked towards her. Dragging a hand over his neck, hopelessly attempting to ignore his daughter’s distress, he considered it seriously, and then, Natalie’s lifeless form, the emptiness in her eyes, flashing through his mind, he immediately dismissed it.

‘That way,’ she said once he reached her, gesturing him through the door and back towards the torture chamber she’d fashioned especially for him. ‘And, incidentally, if you look at me like you did just now again, like I’m a piece of dog shit you just stepped in, it will be your darling little girl’s head I blow off. Comprendre?’

A sense of déjà vu washing over him once more, Matthew felt bile rise afresh in his throat. Sullivan. She talked like him, reasoned like him. She was a female reincarnation of the bastard. Narrowing his eyes, he searched her face, looking for some small shred of humanity.

‘Why are you doing this?’ he asked her. His daughter’s cries were killing him. Unaffected though she obviously was, surely she must know it. ‘Why can’t you just tell me what you want?’

‘Funnily enough, I was just about to. Spooky that, don’t y’think? I reckon you must be a detective, Adams,’ she drawled amusedly, sounding more and more like her psychotic father every time she opened her vile mouth. ‘Being the caring sort that I am, though, I didn’t think you’d want your little “munchkin” around to witness events.’

Matthew shook his head. ‘You’re completely insane, you know that?’ he said, disbelieving.

‘Correct.’ She smiled flatly and then loosened one hand from her gun to land him another stinging slap to his face. ‘Avert the judgemental gaze, copper,’ she snarled, as Matthew fought very hard not to react. ‘You’re the one on trial here. And guess what, you’ve been found guilty. Now move.’

Chapter Twenty-Six

Ashley glanced at Becky worriedly, as the barrel-chested bouncer refused to allow them access to the club. ‘He’s busy, my luv,’ he said, referring to whoever was in charge in lieu of Tony Hayes. ‘You’ll have to make an appointment.’

‘In which case, you’d better interrupt him,’ Becky suggested, eyeballing him coolly, ‘unless you’d like me to start screaming, that is, which might just attract his and one or two other people’s attention. And for your information,’ she went on, as the guy knitted his thickset brow dubiously, ‘I am not, nor in your wildest dreams will I ever be, your “luv”. Tell him I’d like to speak to him. Now, please.’

Becky turned away from the man then, perusing the décor in the foyer and making it obvious she was going nowhere, other than inside. ‘Tasteful,’ she commented to Ashley.

Facetiously, Ashley gleaned, taking in the ambience of what looked like a plushly decorated tart’s boudoir. The lounge was no better, red and gold everywhere, show girl posters all over the walls and girls showing their all everywhere else. A few had looked them curiously over as they stood waiting at the bar, as instructed. Becky didn’t bat an eye, all kudos to her. Even Ashley had been a bit gobsmacked when one girl with legs up to her armpits and wearing nothing but a thong and two bits of tinsel on her boobs had sauntered by.

‘All right?’ Ashley whispered sideways to Becky.

Becky nodded and smiled tightly. She wasn’t, Ashley knew, but she was doing a flipping good job of pretending to be. ‘Do you reckon that’s him?’ She nodded towards a door at the far end of the bar, from where a middle-aged man dressed in a business suit appeared to converse with the bouncer, glancing in their direction as he did.

Becky followed her gaze. ‘Must be. He looks every inch a seedy little pimp,’ she said, notching her chin up, as the guy ambled across.

Not so little, Ashley decided, as he stopped in front of them. Standing a good head taller than Becky, he looked gnarled and mean. Like an ageing, overweight boxer. His nose had been broken, more than once probably, or else he must have been a really ugly baby.

‘Ladies,’ he said, looking them lewdly up and down whilst passing the disgusting cigar he was smoking to his left hand and extending his right. ‘Dougie,’ he introduced himself, as Becky shook it, then, ‘Tony’s not here, I’m afraid. If it’s a job you’re after you’ll have to come back.’

Becky didn’t miss a beat. ‘I have one. I’m a policeman’s wife,’ she said, with a short smile. ‘Rebecca Adams. Nice to meet you.’

But not very nice, Ashley mentally added. ‘And I’m his daughter,’ she said, eyeing him distastefully, as the man’s look changed immediately from leery to wary.

‘Oh blimey,’ he said, appearing to gather himself, ‘not someone else looking for the mysterious missing policeman?’

Becky and Ashley exchanged quick glances, as he took a tout on his cigar. ‘Only it ain’t actually that mysterious, is it, luv?’ he said, his mouth curving into a smirk, as he puffed out a fat cloud of putrid smoke. ‘I mean, let’s face it, the bloke’s in the proverbial up to his neck, ain’t he? If I was him I’d have done a runner an’ all.’

Becky’s gaze didn’t falter. ‘Who else has been looking for him?’ she asked evenly, her thoughts obviously on a par with Ashley’s.

‘His partner in crime. Or should I say, ex-partner?’ the man said, studying Becky interestedly now, and seeming to have decided to enjoy himself winding her up. ‘I told him the same. Ain’t seen Adams. Ain’t clapped eyes on Jasmine either, not since your good husband . . .’ He paused, pointedly. ‘For diplomacy’s sake, shall we say, decided to help himself without asking permission first?’

Still Becky didn’t react, but Ashley saw her body tense and knew how much she must be hurting inside. ‘Thank you,’ she said curtly instead and turned to leave.

The guy smiled expectantly in Ashley’s direction, as Becky headed for the door, his lascivious, squinty little eyes eating her up. Ashley offered him a fluttery-eyed smile back, then, ‘Piss off.’ She gave him one finger and turned to follow Becky.

‘Pity you weren’t looking for employment. You’d have made a tempting twosome,’ the guy chortled as he called coarsely after them. ‘I’d pay for it, darling.’

‘Tosser,’ Becky fumed and almost collided with a near naked girl emerging from the loos as she strode through the foyer.

‘I take it you’ve met the delightful Dougie?’ The girl eyed them questioningly, and then lowered her gaze to adjust one of the tassels she was wearing, for what little modesty it offered her.

Becky drew in an angry breath. ‘Yes,’ she snapped and marched on. Then, ‘Why on earth do you do this?’ she asked, whirling back around. ‘I mean how can you possibly work with someone like that?’

‘Not easily.’ The girl shrugged, unconcerned. ‘But it pays my uni fees.’

Becky blew out a sigh and then nodded sympathetically. ‘Your left one’s crooked,’ she said, offering the girl a small smile and indicating the other sparkly tassel she was wearing.

Ashley watched all this goggle-eyed. She had to hand it to Becky. She really would not have been able to restrain herself in there. ‘Do you think Steve’s looking for them?’ she asked her, scooting to catch up, as Becky turned to walk on.

Becky nodded despondently. ‘Yes, but where?’ Dragging her recalcitrant hair from her face she sighed again, heavily.

Now the armour was slipping. Ashley noted the tears welling in her eyes and wished there was something she could do to make her pain go away. She couldn’t though, could she? All she’d ever seemed to do is cause havoc in her life.

Don’t give up, whispered a voice in her head. You have to keep looking.

Yes, but where? Ashley silently echoed Becky.

‘Come on,’ Becky said, attempting yet again to pull herself up. ‘Let’s get out of this place. I need to get some air.’

‘Mrs Adams?’ someone called as she pushed open the exit door.

The Neanderthal bouncer, Ashley realised, glancing over her shoulder. One smart comment from him and the mood Becky was in he probably wouldn’t walk for a week.

Becky paused. ‘Yes?’ she said, glancing impatiently back.

‘What you were saying in there, I, er . . . Well, it might be nothing, but Ingram seemed to think it might be worth checking out.’ He stopped, looking awkward as Becky turned to eye him curiously. ‘I was worried about Jasmine see, and he asked about the place, and I told him she seemed really interested in the work going on there. She was the one who encouraged Hayes to buy it. She was always popping over there and—’

Again, Becky and Ashley exchanged quick glances, then, ‘Where?’ they both bawled together, causing the guy to jump in his suit.

‘Seventh Heaven,’ the bouncer supplied warily. ‘Patrick Sullivan’s old place.’

* * *

‘I take it it’s not money you want?’ Matthew asked, trying to work out how he could distract her long enough to get hold of the gun. Not easily, he decided, given she was now pressing the thing hard into his back.

‘Correct,’ she said. ‘Now stop with the fucking questions.’ She gave him a shove with the flat of her hand and, stumbling forwards, Matthew gritted his teeth hard. Don’t, he cautioned himself, sorely tempted to turn anyway. He might succeed in taking the gun. He might also end up taking a bullet to the chest, which would do Mia no good at all.

‘Stop,’ she ordered as he struggled to bring his fury down to a containable level.

Matthew braced himself, wondering what the bloody hell she was going to do next.

‘See anything you recognise?’ she asked behind him.

Her tone was light, teasing almost, reminding Matthew her moods were likely to swing like a pendulum. Narrowing his eyes, he tried, yet again, to work out what sick game she was playing.

‘Or should I say anyone?’ she amended, giving him a sharp jab with the gun.

A chill of trepidation running down his spine, Matthew gulped against the grittiness in his throat and glanced around the semi-dark basement. Then stumbled of his own accord, as his eyes snagged on a hand protruding from behind a roll of abandoned wall insulation. Male, caucasian, he registered. Blood. Fresh blood. On the hand and sleeve. Spatters around it. A ring on the wedding finger. Steve?

‘Christ, no,’ groaning out loud, Matthew moved instinctively towards him, and then stopped dead, as she screamed, ‘Don’t! Don’t you dare move until I tell you to!’ Matthew felt spittle hit the side of his face as she snarled close to his ear. ‘Do not mess with me, Adams. Understand?’

Breathing deeply, the damp, fetid air testing his lungs, Matthew waited, counting silently down as he did. How long could he do this, he wondered, his heart heaving inside him. How long before she lost it completely. She already has, a nagging voice warned him.

‘I need to go to him,’ he said, attempting to keep his tone even.

‘Why?’ she asked, after several loaded seconds’ silence.

Quashing the violent rage simmering inside him, Matthew steeled himself to ask the question he didn’t want to. ‘Is he alive?’

‘He’s twitching,’ she answered casually.

Matthew dragged a hand through his hair, now desperately fighting his urge to turn and wrap both hands around her throat, whatever the consequences. Did she actually expect him to just stand here? To stand by and watch while his friend bled out all over the floor? No way. ‘I need to go to him,’ he grated, taking a step forwards.

‘I said. Don’t. Move!’ she growled.

Matthew guessed she had the gun levelled right at him. ‘Christ! What do you want from me?’ Regardless of the threat, he turned, causing her to cock the gun high. ‘Do you want me to beg? Is that it?’ he asked, searching her face, trying in vain to understand her motives, what the hell it was she expected to gain from this utter insanity. ‘For my daughter, my family? For Steve? I will. For pity’s sake, please . . . Just tell me what you want!’

A slow smile curving her mouth, she searched his face in turn. ‘I want you to beg for you,’ she said coolly. ‘Now, stay. Unless you want to crawl over there and die with your buddy in the dust and the shit. I’ll do it, Adams, trust me.’

Matthew met her eyes. Cold, indifferent, as black as her father’s, there was nothing there, no humanity, no decency. Feeling something he’d refused to allow himself — utter, soul-crushing defeat — Matthew glanced away. ‘At least let me check his airways are clear?’ he asked hopelessly.

‘I don’t give a shit whether his airways are clear! He’s as responsible as you are!’

Responsible? ‘For what?’ Matthew’s gaze shot back to hers. Obviously, just like her fetid-minded father before her, she felt that he, the police in general, everyone in general, was responsible for whatever misfortunes had befallen her. Yet again, Matthew cursed his inadequacy. He should have hunted Sullivan down and rid the world of the scum sooner. Way before the animal had taken the life of his innocent child. When they were younger, when Sullivan and his gang of brainless minions had taken pleasure in kicking the crap out of him time and time again. He should have done it then, sunk to Sullivan’s pathetic level and killed him by whatever means he’d had to, before the bastard spawned the evil he obviously had. He should never have allowed it to come to this!

‘Everything!’ she screeched, her face puce with fury. ‘He was with you. You obviously didn’t even see me did you, so focussed were you on fitting my dad up for something he didn’t do? But I saw you. And him!’ She gestured the gun towards where Steve lay, dead or dying, Matthew had no way of knowing. ‘Constantly hounding him. You destroyed him, Adams. You killed him!’

His mind racing, Matthew searched frantically for something to say. What? What could he say that wouldn’t immediately be deemed a desperate lie?

‘But he didn’t die straightaway, did he?’ It was an accusation, not a question. Her eyes, as she narrowed them, were pools of pure unfettered hatred. ‘I had to make the decision, Adams. Me! I had to pull the plug. Have you any idea how that feels? To watch someone you love die right before your eyes? To know someone murdered them and then walked away scot-free and there’s nothing you can do about it? He was my father, and you . . .’

She ranted on as Matthew’s head reeled with the impact of the immediate flashbacks. Lily, the light in her eyes fading as she lay dying in his arms; Becky, her life hanging on a brink, at the mercy of a madman. An unscrupulous, sadistic psychopath with no qualms about prostituting young girls, pumping them full of drugs, beating them to death, yet still he was loved, hero-worshiped by his daughter. The takes on the tape clicked through Matthew’s mind, one by one, Sullivan in awe of his daughter, Taylor’s gleeful laughter. Sullivan had loved her; a tiny piece of the man’s heart had functioned as normal. And Taylor Sullivan had loved him back. Matthew felt his last vestige of hope slip away. Why wouldn’t she?

‘. . . lost everything!’ Taylor snapped his attention back to her. ‘I loved that horse. My dad bought him for my birthday. And now he’s probably dog meat, thanks to you! I was going to veterinary college, did you know that? Did you care? I was going to get my veterinary nursing degree and then it all went tits up because of you.’

‘I . . .’ Matthew glanced quickly in Steve’s direction. He had no idea what to say, how to even try to appease her. Warnings of her spending a long time in prison would make no impact. It was clear there were going to be more casualties and Matthew wasn’t sure she cared whether one of those casualties was her.

‘You killed my baby! You killed her! You’re an absolute bastard, Adams! The only people who don’t seem to realise it is that pathetic bloody family of yours.’

Baby? Matthew was struggling hard to keep up. The horse? No, she’d referred to the horse as him. What the hell was she talking about? Whatever madness it was, Steve didn’t have time for this.

‘Don’t,’ she said again as he tried a step in Steve’s direction. Her tone was quiet now, inflection free, which was infinitely more terrifying than the screaming vitriol of a second ago.

‘You have to pay, Matthew,’ she added, quite calmly. ‘A life for a life.’ Keeping the gun raised, she moved slowly around behind him.

Her hands were shaking, Matthew noted. Perspiration trailing down his back, he waited for the impact his gut was telling him would come, his thoughts on Mia, who would be defenceless without him. On Steve, who was defenceless too, even with the man he’d proven he would give his life for standing only yards away.

‘Move,’ she said, after an agonising few seconds.

Reeling on his feet, Matthew squeezed his eyes closed. She hadn’t done it yet, but she would. He could feel it.

‘Now!’ she yelled, gesturing him in the direction of what might well be his tomb.

As soon as he stepped through the door, Matthew realised that that, in fact, was what it was. He’d wondered why his hands hadn’t been retied. Now he knew.

Ignoring the video playing on its continual loop, Matthew stopped, unconsciously running a hand over the back of his neck as he looked up at the noose hanging in the centre of the room, casting a prophetic shadow on the wall beyond it. His mouth twitched into an ironic smile. He’d wondered about that hook too. An upturned, sturdy wooden box now stood under it. A tray placed on top of it. Pulling in a tight breath, he pressed his thumb and forefinger hard against his eyes, and then walked across to examine the contents of the tray: one scalpel — picking it up, he ran his finger over it — surgically sharp. A syringe — Matthew had no clue what was in it, but whatever it was, he guessed it was lethal. Enough to kill a horse? Given her revelations back there, Matthew supposed she’d know how much Ketamine would do that. Lastly, a bottle of strong malt whisky. A final drink for the condemned man?

‘A life for a life, DI Adams,’ Taylor said again, her voice thick with deep satisfaction. ‘You claim to be a hero, ready to die for your family? Here’s your chance to prove it. You’ll find a note over on the sleeping bag, typed. Have you guessed the content of it yet, Detective?’

Her tone was back to playful. Matthew took another breath, which wheezed tellingly through his chest.

‘There’s a clean sheet of paper and a pen there, too. Hand copy the note and then sign it. Think of it as doing the world a favour,’ she went on chattily. ‘You’ll certainly be doing your long-suffering family a favour, won’t you?’

‘And if I don’t?’ Matthew asked, his own voice calm, his warring emotions colliding.

‘Oh, I think you will, Matthew. I mean, could you really live with yourself if you were responsible for another daughter’s death? Would you want to? You’d better check your watch, by the way. Once I leave, you have half an hour to decide who lives or dies.’

Contemplating his options, which seemed to be none, Matthew nodded slowly. ‘What guarantee do I have that you won’t harm Mia?’

‘None,’ she answered blithely. ‘Apart from my word. Do what you have to and she remains unharmed. I’ve no wish to hurt your child, Adams. I imagine you’ve already screwed up her life enough anyway, don’t you?’

Matthew swallowed and nodded again. Undoubtedly.

‘I’d have a drink, if I were you, blur the edges,’ Taylor said, the innuendo behind the comment telling him she’d done her homework there too.

Dragging a hand through his hair, Matthew eyed the bottle and smiled wryly.

‘That wasn’t a suggestion, Detective. It was an order. Drink it.’

Matthew glanced back at her, and then at the incessantly playing video, his gaze finally travelling back to the rope swinging from the ceiling. Click, clack, crack, he thought, and then, taking another fortifying breath, he reached for the bottle.

‘All of it, DI Adams,’ she instructed as he surveyed the contents. ‘It will numb the pain. And remember, I’ll be watching you.’

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Taylor walked back across the open area, feeling reasonably pleased. Things were still going to plan despite the copper’s attempts to get Connor onside with his usual bullshit and lies. She’d been so close to losing it when she’d overheard Adams trying to put the frighteners on Connor with his smart talk about ‘punishment meted out to child killers’, she really had had to call on all of her willpower not to shoot the bastard’s legs from under him. She’d restrained herself, just, reminding herself that she’d worked too hard, waited too long for the copper to get his just desserts. And now, finally, he was about to.

Adams was exactly where she wanted him, knowing he was about to meet his maker and no amount of reasoning could change his fate. He was at the mercy of someone with the power to end his life on a whim, just like her father had been. Taylor wanted him to have time to reflect on why he was in the position he was, to realise his misdemeanours were too great to go unpunished, that he couldn’t hide behind the law anymore. She wanted him to get down on his knees and beg. Would have made sure he’d done it sooner had his lumbering peg-legged sidekick not blundered in. Obviously he was as competent at screwing things up as his ‘boss’. But then, did it matter? With her new stolen identity all lined up, Taylor would be long gone by the time their colleagues found them both, plus the suicide note, which was the important thing here. Whether or not Adams had been coerced into doing it under threat of his precious little daughter losing her life wasn’t an issue. The fact was, he would be dead. Had he taken the coward’s option or the hero’s option would be the question on people’s minds. Was he a greedy, bent copper on the take, or the goody-two-shoes detective everyone held in such high esteem, selflessly sacrificing his life for his daughter? Had he cared about his first daughter, they might wonder, enough not to expose her to the danger he obviously had? His wife? Had he ever really cared about anyone except number one and his job, which allowed him free rein to use and abuse the very people he claimed to be protecting? Those were the eternal questions his family would be asking, and that would be just punishment enough to fit their crimes in Taylor’s mind.

Yes, he would beg. She’d make damn sure he did, she decided, quashing the burning anger which always accompanied the grief when her thoughts wandered to her own father and how much he’d cared for her. A lot, she reassured herself, with a determined nod. Hadn’t he told her over and over it would be nothing but the best for his daughter? She’d only had to bat her eyelashes at him and he’d buy her whatever she’d wanted, clothes, the latest laptop or phone. Her beautiful tri-coloured pony. It was that thieving, abusing copper and his pathetic sidekick who’d robbed her of it all: her childhood, her innocence, left her on her own, pregnant! They’d destroyed everything, she reminded herself furiously. On which subject . . . Taylor detoured before going back to join the equally pathetic Connor, intending to check whether the detective’s dutiful friend was actually still alive — and then stopped dead.

Shit! A flutter of panic rising in her chest, she cocked her head to one side and squinted against the fast-descending dark of the cellar, seeing a definite trail of crimson bleeding into the dust and concrete, but no signs of the blundering ex-policeman. Damn! Obviously, he was still breathing. That had been careless. She should have finished him off. The sharp end of the spade would have done the job. If only she hadn’t overheard Adams trying to win that wimp Connor over, she would have made sure the cripple wasn’t capable of taking another step. Cursing her incompetence, Taylor moved tentatively towards the roll of insulation she’d dragged the unconscious man behind, almost rupturing herself in the process, and then peered warily over it. Nothing but another deep scarlet puddle, which meant Ingram’s blood was definitely still pumping.

Shit. Shit, shit! Holding the gun high, Taylor stepped over the insulation, her heart jumping as shadows flickered and danced in dark corners. Crap! Her heart almost leapt out of her mouth as, lit by the thin light of passing car beams through the low basement window, a bulbous grey rat scurried across her path a mere inch from her foot. Ugly fucking thing. Taylor’s stomach recoiled as it scuttled towards the far wall, its long scaly tail trailing disgustingly behind it.

Vile, vermin ridden creatures, they made Taylor’s skin crawl. Had done since she’d first encountered one in the upstairs bar, sitting on the bar, she could hardly believe, cleaning its whiskers! Chelsea, that slag her dad had moved in had been there at the time, snorting out that irritating laugh of hers when Taylor had screamed for her dad. He’d been well rid of her, common mouthed cow, always banging on at him about the club and him bringing the law to her door. Her door? Freeloading trollop. Like Adams, her dad had been good-looking, but it was obvious the only thing a cheap tart half his age was after was his dosh. Taylor had tolerated the woman for her dad’s sake, but she’d hated the bitch. She had wondered at the coincidence of her disappearing the day Adams had paid her dad one of his visits. The tart had simpered all over Adams, of course, flaunting herself in her microdot bikini and fluttering her eyelashes, like she did at anything good-looking in trousers, which seriously annoyed her dad. Taylor hadn’t been surprised when she’d turned up dead. Obviously, someone had finally decided to shut her endless chuntering up and bashed her senseless blonde head in, which, of course, the copper had accused her dad of doing, just like he’d accused him of killing those five other women, as if he was a whore hater or something. Like, hello? He employed them, paid their rent, Taylor would have liked to have pointed out. The copper was relentless. Every time a body turned up so would Adams, like a fucking bad penny, wanting to know where he was, whether anyone could vouch for his movements. It was no wonder her dad was so sick of being hounded he’d asked her to vouch for him the night of her birthday. He hadn’t actually been at home, he’d been at the club, Taylor had rung him on his mobile so she’d known he was, but still Adams kept on coming back. Even when he’d been dead and buried, they hadn’t let him rest in peace, newspaper reporters seizing every opportunity they could to big up the copper’s hero status, trashing her dad’s reputation in the process, claiming he had killed all those women and his slutty wife. All lies, no doubt fed to them by Adams and his cronies.

His fault. All of it. He might have got away with murder, thanks to his corrupt colleagues protecting one of their own, but his day of reckoning had come. He would pay for his crimes, along with that scummy sidekick of his, once she found him. Where the hell was he? The door was locked and there was no way he’d be able to squeeze his great bulk through the rusted up basement window. He was down here somewhere, hiding amongst the building debris. Idiot. Didn’t he realise he was totally pissing her off? Bending, Taylor narrowed her eyes and peered under and around a carpenter’s bench, and then straightened up and twirled to her left as something moved swiftly in her peripheral vision.

Bastard. He was doing this deliberately, scaring her half to death, hiding in the shadows, making her search for him with scaly oily rats scratting about all over the place. Did he really think she wouldn’t find him? Pathetic cripple.

‘Oh, Mr Ingram, come out, come out, wherever you are,’ she called in singsong tones. ‘Best not to make Taylor angry, or Taylor will blast your fucking brains out!’ Silence.

‘Shit!’ she cursed out loud, twirling sharp right as something scraped along the floor in the corner. Wiping the sweat from her brow with her forearm, Taylor pointed the gun and squinted hard, then, ‘Ah, there you are,’ she said sweetly as she made out a form against the wall that was far too fat to be a rat.

Her mouth curving into a satisfied smile, Taylor advanced carefully, keeping her gaze fixed on him as she did. ‘Oh, deary me, we have been in the wars, haven’t we?’ She sighed dramatically, noting his blood saturated shirt and his head lolling back against the wall he was sitting against for support.

The bumbling policeman didn’t answer. Taylor hadn’t really expected him to. She reckoned half his brains must have spilled on the floor when he’d landed at the bottom of the steps. She was mildly perturbed, however, when, caught in the glow of passing headlights, he appeared to smile. Imbecile. Make that all his brains, she thought, eyeing him derisorily. Evidently he was cerebrally challenged to start with. Must have been to have danced to the bent detective’s tune.

‘You’ve made an awful mess on the floor,’ she observed, further perturbed as the sole of her boot slid in the sticky red gloop underfoot. ‘That’s not very polite in someone else’s property, now is it, Mr Ingram?’

Taylor waited. Still the halfwit didn’t reply, which, as he was capable of smiling, clearly he could. ‘That was a question, Mr Ingram,’ she pointed out, growing more seriously aggrieved by the second. ‘Don’t they teach you people any manners at police school?’

Ingram’s response was to blow out a deep sigh and drop his head slowly to his chest.

‘Aww,’ Taylor tutted sympathetically. ‘Too weak to be courteous, is that it, hmm? Or is it more because you lot are all pig-ignorant to start off with?’

She cocked her head to one side, waiting for an answer. None was forthcoming, to Taylor’s now immense agitation. ‘I mean, you’d have to be a special breed to do your dirty little job, wouldn’t you, Ingram?’ she went on angrily. ‘Fitting people up when you can’t be arsed to go out and actually do your job, shitting all over people, abusing them and revelling in their misery?’

That got his attention. Ingram looked up at her then, shaking his head disgustedly as he did. Stupid moronic pig! Taylor’s blood boiled. ‘Get up,’ she seethed.

He didn’t budge, just continued to look at her, a smirk still playing about his face, nothing but unbridled contempt in his eyes.

‘Up or die, retard!’ she shouted.

At which, Ingram laughed. Taylor couldn’t believe it, a short derisory laugh.

‘Just do it,’ he said, coughing and emitting a dribble of blood from his mouth. ‘Go on, grab your fifteen minutes of fame, you sad bitch.’

What? Taylor gawked at him as he held her gaze, a challenge now in his eyes. He really did have a death wish, didn’t he? Wish granted, copper. Fury coursing through her, Taylor raised the gun and took another step towards him.

‘What are you hoping to gain, Taylor?’ he asked her, wiping his chin with the back of his hand.

Taylor stopped, eyeing him bemusedly now. Was he serious? Did he really think he could ‘talk her down’?

‘I mean, what are you trying to prove, hey?’ Cocking his head to one side, he kept right on looking at her. ‘Tell me, I’m interested.’

‘I’m not trying to prove anything, copper,’ Taylor growled. ‘I don’t have to.’

‘Oh?’ Ingram said, and there it was again, that goading smirk.

Not going to work, copper, Taylor thought confidently. Unlike some people, she was in control of her emotions. ‘Adams is going to do that job admirably for me,’ she informed him coolly.

‘Ah.’ Ingram nodded. ‘What job would that be then?’ he asked her, furrowing his brow.

‘You’re taking the piss, Ingram.’ Taylor felt like hooting, she really did. ‘Do you honestly think I’m stupid enough to fall for this concerned copper crap?’

‘On the contrary,’ Ingram assured her. ‘I think the stupidity is all firmly on our side.’ He laughed, shaking his head self-deprecatingly, which did surprise her, Taylor had to admit. ‘It’s just, if I’m going to die, I’d quite like to know why.’

As if he didn’t already. ‘You can ask Adams when you meet him in hell,’ Taylor suggested, a satisfied smile curving her mouth as the copper’s gaze darted past her. Obviously he was desperately contemplating his chances of escape.

Nil, copper. You’re fodder for the vermin, fittingly. ‘Your little game is up, Ingram,’ she warned him, refocussing her aim.

Locking eyes with his as he looked back at her, Taylor didn’t notice the figure creeping up on her, until a hand snatched for the gun. Shit! Instinctively, she yanked the gun upwards and raised one heavy booted foot, kicking out hard and sending the woman sprawling.

In two strides, Taylor was on her. ‘Not fast enough, bitch,’ she snarled, catching hold of the mane of hair that hubby probably loved to run his hands through when he shagged her and twisting it tight. ‘Up!’ she commanded.

The bitch didn’t oblige, reaching up instead, ineffectually trying to relieve the pressure as Taylor tugged her hair mercilessly tighter.

‘Stupid cow! Did you really think you would get away with that?’ she spat. ‘Well, did you? No chance, lady.’ Taylor pulled harder. ‘You never did stand a chance with that husband of yours determined to screw up your life, did you?’

Fuming, Taylor glared down at perfect Rebecca, whose cat’s eyes were full of fire and defiance, and decided she’d take great pleasure in hacking her lovely long locks off, but later. Right now, she had business to attend to. Giving her hair a final cruel twist, she released her, yanking her head back, as she did, and then turned her attention back to Ingram, who had clearly been making a valiant attempt to save the lady.

Not a very effective attempt though. He’d only managed to make it to his knees, and even then he appeared to still need the wall for support. ‘Not quite the white knight, are we, Mr Ingram, hmm?’ Taylor asked, moving towards him.

Ingram just glanced at her, that same look of open disdain in his eyes, Taylor noted.

Look your last, moron, Taylor smirked contemptuously. ‘Now then, what to do with you is the question.’ She raised the gun, pressing the barrel to his temple. ‘I mean, I can’t leave you here, bleeding all over the floor and making a nuisance of yourself, now can I?’

‘Please don’t,’ the woman pleaded wholeheartedly behind her as Ingram closed his eyes, clearly ready to accept his inevitable fate.

Taylor glanced disinterestedly in her direction. ‘I’d keep it shut, if I were you, sweetie,’ she warned her, applying just enough pressure to make Ingram wince.

‘It wouldn’t be a wise move.’ The woman took no notice whatsoever, which severely tried Taylor’s patience. ‘If you fire that thing, you’ll have the world and its dog here in seconds.’

Taylor paused, her finger hovering over the trigger. ‘And this would bother you how?’ she asked contemplatively, after a pause. The woman was right, obviously, but, ‘I’m intrigued. Tell me, why would you not want to attract attention?’

‘And endanger my child’s life?’ the woman shot the question back.

Fair comment, Taylor thought. ‘Not too bothered about hubby’s life then?’ she asked her interestedly.

Taylor’s mouth curved into a knowing smile when the woman didn’t answer. ‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘I wouldn’t give a stuff about the selfish bastard either, given the shit he’s put you and your family through. You’re right, though,’ she conceded, glancing at her and then back to Ingram. ‘Best not to shoot him.’

Ingram’s shoulders slumped with relief as she backed away. ‘Probably a better idea to knock the rest of his brains out instead. Can’t leave him stumbling about in the dark, after all, can we?’ With which Taylor turned the gun around and smashed it violently into the side of the moron’s head.

‘Quiet!’ she instructed, pointing the gun swiftly towards the woman, who whimpered like a big bloody girly. Mind you, Taylor had to admit the crack as she’d made contact had been a bit sickening. ‘Get over here and remove his belt,’ she said.

Her hand clamped to her mouth, the woman just blinked stupidly from Ingram to her.

‘Do it!’ Taylor ordered, gesturing her with the gun. ‘You’re going to tie his hands behind him. And you’d better make sure to tie them nice and tight if you’d rather see your darling daughter than join him.’

* * *

‘Is she with you?’ Taylor asked, giving Rebecca a nudge in the right direction from behind. ‘Your special needs daughter - is she with you?’ she repeated, when Rebecca didn’t answer.

Monster, Rebecca thought, drawing in a tight breath and ignoring both the question and the next sharp poke with the gun. Her father had been spawned from the Devil. No surprise then, that this creature was the epitome of pure evil.

‘Sad little cow, isn’t she?’ The bitch chatted on, almost chummily Rebecca could hardly believe. ‘Dead gullible. I mean, did she really think someone like me would want her as a BFF, drippy, droopy Ashley, hiding behind her hair if a boy so much as says hello to her? Honestly, what a loser. She’s dead freaky. Talks to herself. Did you know that?’

Rebecca ignored that too, concentrating her efforts instead on trying to remain calm.

‘Wait,’ Taylor instructed as they reached the door, behind which Rebecca had left Ashley trying to persuade Connor Preston to hand Mia to her. It had been a hopeless plan but seeing him alone with Mia when they’d peered through the window, they’d been galvanised into trying to gain entry through the other one. To not have tried to do something might have meant losing Mia forever. That was the scenario Rebecca had imagined if the police had swooped while this she-Devil was anywhere near her. She’d made a decision. She’d made a mistake. She prayed to God her family didn’t suffer because of it.

‘You’re dead rude, you are, you know, Rebecca? Or stupid, possibly? That was a question, sweetie,’ Taylor said, close to her ear. ‘Make sure to answer promptly next time. My father couldn’t abide disrespectful people. Like your husband — who shot him. I can’t either.’

She gave her another shove, harder this time. ‘Open it,’ she said, stepping back a little. ‘And don’t try anything funny, or you’ll be choosing another child’s headstone, as well as one for your cheating, lying husband.’

Rebecca swallowed back her contempt, along with the fear clutching at her chest. ‘Where is he?’ she asked, desperately trying to keep her tone even.

‘You’ll find out soon enough. Now open the bloody door! Please.’

She was mad. As insane as her father before her. There would be no reasoning with her, Rebecca knew. She had nothing to offer this inhuman thing behind her. There was no inducement that might persuade her to let them go. She’d got what she wanted. She’d wanted Matthew. Stifling the sob that climbed her throat, Rebecca prayed hard he was still alive. All she could do for now was to watch and wait for another opportunity to grab that gun and then use it. Pressing down the handle, she pushed open the door, refusing to let go of the hope that she would be given that opportunity, that somehow DCI Davies might have pinpointed their location as Ashley had suggested he might, even though the phone she’d thought was Steve’s appeared to be useless. Rebecca hoped he could, that somehow a miracle would occur, because, despite the risks their presence might bring, it seemed that police intervention was their only hope of survival.

Pushing Rebecca viciously on through the door, Taylor followed her in. ‘Well, well, isn’t this cosy?’ she said, noting, as Rebecca did, that Mia was nestled safely in Ashley’s arms. ‘Been having a nice little chat, have we, Connor? Fancy her, do you?’

Connor sighed. ‘Don’t talk wet, Jasmine. You really are losing—’

‘Taylor!’ Taylor bellowed, causing Mia to twizzle in Ashley’s arms, where she immediately noticed Rebecca.

‘Mummy!’ she cried, reaching terrified towards her.

‘Yeah, all right! I got it. Taylor!’ Connor yelled back, eyeballing Taylor furiously. He was scared. Rebecca could see the confusion and fear in his eyes. She could smell it. He didn’t want to be part of this.

‘Are you mental, or what? What did you go and give her the kid for?’ Taylor snapped, the gun hovering dangerously between them. ‘Stay!’ She settled her aim on Rebecca, who’d moved towards Ashley.

‘She was crying!’ Connor splayed his hands exasperatedly. ‘What was I supposed to do?’

‘She could have legged it and taken the kid with her, you complete bloody wanker. What the hell is wrong with you?’

Looking humiliated at that, Connor glanced down. ‘Why would it have mattered if she had?’ he muttered.

‘Why would it have . . . ?’ Taylor stared at him, incredulous.

‘You’ve got what you wanted.’ Connor nodded towards a computer screen parked on a table, the only furniture in the room, other than a playpen containing a filthy sleeping bag, which they’d obviously imprisoned her baby in. Her heart twisting, Rebecca stepped again towards Mia and Ashley.

‘I said stay put!’ Taylor seethed, releasing one hand from the gun to wipe spittle from her mouth.

‘Let her go to her mum, you sick bitch,’ Ashley shouted, moving towards Rebecca regardless.

‘Me, sick? Hah! It’s you who’s sick, sweetheart.’ Taylor loosened her hold on the gun again, to poke herself demonstratively in the temple. ‘A complete bloody schizo. Stay where you are!’ Looking Ashley over derisorily, Taylor backed towards the computer.

Shushing Mia in her arms, Ashley glanced questioningly towards Rebecca, who nodded, indicating Ashley should comply, for now. Understanding, Ashley nodded back, and stayed where she was.

‘It’s all right, munchkin,’ she said, pressing Mia to her shoulder and planting a soft kiss on her head. ‘We’re going home soon.’

‘Want go home now. Want Daddy,’ Mia grizzled around the thumb plugged into her mouth.

Hearing that, seeing how exhausted she looked, how utterly bewildered, Rebecca’s heart shattered all over again. She would kill the bitch, snap her neck in an instant. Click, clack, crack. Silently, she repeated that sick animal Sullivan’s mantra, knowing she truly would, given half a chance to get near her.

‘On second thoughts, you can hand her over,’ Taylor said, the gun still pointed in their direction, her gaze on the computer screen. ‘And then you can all come over here and say goodbye to Daddy.’

Locking eyes with Rebecca, as she gathered Mia safely to her, the bitch’s mouth twisted into a smirk. ‘I wouldn’t get all sentimental and weepy when you do though,’ she went on languidly. ‘You should know, I did fuck him when he gallantly escorted me home. Or rather, he fucked me.’

‘You what?’ Connor’s astounded gaze twanged towards her.

‘Liar!’ Ashley yelled as Taylor — ignoring Connor telling her to ‘cut the crap’ and that she ‘did no such thing’ — continued to hold Becky’s gaze. ‘He wouldn’t look twice at you. You’re a complete—’

‘Hard!’ Taylor talked over her. ‘Every which way,’ she went on nastily, a glint of triumph in her eyes. ‘A desperate man if ever I saw one, had me bent over the sofa the second we walked through the door.’

‘Don’t listen, Becky. She’s talking absolute crap,’ Ashley tried desperately, looking from Becky to Connor, who was now studying Taylor intently, his cheeks flushing furiously.

‘Said he’d been fantasising about what he was going to do to me all night,’ Taylor continued to taunt, clearly getting maximum satisfaction at the added pain she was causing, and clearly oblivious to Connor now visibly fuming. ‘It was interesting watching him lying to you, pretending he didn’t know who I was, and all the while his pretty brown eyes were burning with obvious lust. Just like the first time he fucked me. I was only eighteen then. My beautiful little virgin, he called me.’

‘Bullshit! Shut her up, can’t you?’ Ashley screamed, turning to Connor.

‘Stop it, Taylor,’ Connor said, his voice hoarse, his whole face now growing puce.

‘He called out my name when he came,’ Taylor just kept on, her amused gaze still fixed on Rebecca. ‘Does he do that with you, Rebecca?’

‘I said that’s enough!’ His expression a mixture of acute embarrassment and impotent rage, Connor stepped angrily towards Taylor, as Rebecca desperately played the evening’s events over. Not true. None of it! Matthew’s eyes were filled with confusion when he’d looked at this thing, not lust.

‘Don’t you dare.’ Taylor shot Connor a warning glance.

‘Or what?’ Taking another step, Connor eyeballed her furiously. ‘Give me the key, you demented little slut! Now!’

‘Back off!’ Taylor swung the gun towards him. ‘See that there?’ she said, nodding towards the PC as Connor moved again towards her.

Breathing heavily, Connor stopped.

‘There, on the floor,’ Taylor went on as his eyes flicked towards the screen. ‘That, Connor, is your get out of jail card. His confession. Still want me to stop?’

His chest heaving, Connor glanced uncertainly from the screen to her, and then, ‘Fuck!’ He swiped a hand over his face and turned away.

‘Thought not.’ Taylor smiled, behind him. ‘Do join us, girls,’ she said companionably. ‘This is reality TV at its most riveting, trust me. I bet it’ll go viral when I upload it.’

‘You’re disgusting.’ Nausea churning her stomach, Rebecca looked disbelievingly at the vile thing before her.

‘Ooh!’ Taylor blinked girlishly. ‘Such hostility! I’m shocked, Rebecca. Truly, I am. But not much,’ she added, with another inane smirk. ‘I’m actually not that shockable. You, on the other hand . . . Come on over,’ she said. ‘Come and see what hubby’s been up to in your absence.’

Chapter Twenty-Eight

They’d turned up the volume, the sound so deafening and distorted now it was crucifying him. The images on screen playing as relentlessly over as those going around in his head, Matthew couldn’t make his thoughts make any sense. The whisky had done its job, blurred the edges. Blurred his whole sorry life story into one obscene, fruitless disaster. He’d done it again, the only thing he could be relied on to do successfully. He’d let his family down.

Tipping the bottle to his mouth, he took another swig, gaining no comfort as the alcohol burned the back of his throat. He never had. Pulling the bottle away, Matthew ran an arm across his mouth and examined the depleted contents. He’d drunk the stuff in hopes it would do what that bitch had said it would, numb the pain. He’d thrown himself into his job in hopes of doing the same. ‘Useless bastard!’ Gripping the bottle hard, Matthew cautioned himself not to hurl it at the screen, an action that might precipitate God only knew what kind of reaction but aimed it at the opposite wall instead. He gained no comfort from that either, as it smashed, sending a thousand slivers of glass shooting across the room.

His thinking had never made any sense. His decision-making had always been skewed in favour of work over his family, his family’s safety. What the hell was wrong with him? He’d had a chance to make things right, to prove to his wife how important she was, and he’d blown it. Gone right back to his workaholic tendencies, sending out clear signals to Becky what his priorities were. He had to make it right now. For once in his life he had to make a right decision.

Walking back towards the centre of the room, reeling to one side as he went — pathetic specimen — Matthew stopped, surveying first the macabre contents of the tray and then the noose hanging almost beckoningly above it. No option, he decided. No other way out for the people he loved more than his life. But . . . he squatted, squinting at the suicide tools before him . . . he’d be no good to Mia dead. No good to her alive. Matthew closed his eyes. ‘Jesus, please!’ he shouted, clamping his arms over his head. ‘Make it stop!’

Groaning, as the video played on, and on, Matthew dropped defeated to his knees. He had to make it stop. Him. End it. Now. Make it safe for Mia. Would she live up to her word? Matthew could hear the insistent tick of the clock in his head, counting down the seconds in tandem with the dull thud in his chest. No option. Swallowing hard, a predictable cough tickling its way up his windpipe, indicating an attack that might kill him too slowly, he looked down at the tray. Syringe? Scalpel? Noose? He needed to choose. Would the hook take his weight? He glanced upwards towards it. Possibly. He’d have no way of knowing until he swung. Would the syringe be quicker? More painful? Matthew didn’t much care. He doubted he’d feel it anyway, given he already felt dead inside.

Should he go for two of the options? One after the other and make damn sure to get the job done? All three? Would that satisfy the sick, twisted bitch? Coughing, Matthew ran his hands up over his face and gulped back the jagged pieces of his heart, now wedged like shards of glass in his windpipe, and then glanced heavenwards. ‘Christ, please . . . help me.’

No intervention from Heaven, no surprise, Matthew swiped at the tear the bitch would no doubt be ecstatic to see roll down his cheek and reached for the scalpel. A clean, deep cut to both arms down towards his palms should do it. Noting the visible shaking of his hands, Matthew almost laughed at the impossibility of that task. Was that what she wanted, to see him spill his own blood? Or did she want to see his neck break? Hear it? Would the stuff in the syringe send him peacefully to sleep? Matthew did laugh then, a low scornful laugh. That, she definitely wouldn’t want. She wanted maximum suffering. She wanted a show.

Holding the scalpel in his left hand, he bared the forearm of his right. He didn’t want to be making the second cut with a shaking hand that was unfamiliar and draining of blood. Which vein? Matthew closed one eye and tried to focus on the blue mapping on his wrist. Should he ask if he could call a friend? Nicky. She would know. Laughing again, a sardonic choke that caught in his throat, Matthew blinked back the sweat trickling steadily from his forehead into his eyes. Whichever he chose, radial, ulnar, he needed to slash straight down if he was going to avoid any tendons, making the hand useless and preventing him cutting the other.

Just do it. Desperately trying to block out the sounds, Lily, laughing into the camera, crying . . . with her eyes. Becky whooping. Sullivan, ‘Go on, princess, you can do it. Go on. Go girl.’ The bastard’s voice in his head, haunting him night and day into eternity. Matthew looked briefly heavenwards again, and then pressed the blade to his flesh. ‘Please make it stop,’ he begged hopelessly, caught a sob in his throat, and pressed harder.

* * *

‘Dear God . . . Stop!’ Her face ashen, Becky backed away, clutching Mia to her breast, trying to shield her from the horror unfolding on the monitor. ‘Stop it! Stop it now!’

‘Connor! Make her stop!’ Ashley begged him, the blood seeming to drain from her own body, as she moved towards him.

‘Don’t!’ Taylor warned, her eyes glinting with morbid fascination as they flicked from the screen towards Ashley. ‘He only jumps to my command anyway, don’t you, Connor?’

Connor’s answer to which was to just stare at her, his eyes dark and his expression . . . bland, almost. As if he, too, had switched off his emotions.

God, please . . . ‘You need to make this stop. You have to,’ Ashley screamed, her stomach knotting painfully inside her. ‘Why are you doing it?’

‘Justice, sweetie.’ Taylor’s mouth twisted into a sadistic smirk. ‘He’s finally realised his punishment should fit his crimes. Poetic, don’t y’think? Though, personally, I’d have preferred him to use the . . . Oh, hold on, he’s going for the noose as well.’ She paused, her eyes widening as she looked back to the screen. ‘Brave man. Maybe there’s a bit of the hero in there after all, hey, Becky?’

‘Sick bitch!’ Her chest ready to explode, Ashley turned towards Becky. ‘Let me have her,’ she said urgently, attempting to ease a sobbing Mia from her arms.

Becky only held on tighter, the look in her eyes bordering on hysteria.

‘I told you not to move!’ The bitch hissed.

‘She’s a baby!’ Ashley yelled, incredulous that even someone as sick as this woman was, would have no compassion for a child. ‘She’s done nothing to deserve this!’

‘Sins of our fathers,’ Taylor retorted, with callous indifference.

‘His daughter’s already paid,’ Ashley seethed, turning back to Becky. Wrapping her arms around her, she tried bodily to protect both of them from the living nightmare playing out before them. ‘Hold on, Becky. Please hold on,’ she urged her, then, ‘The window,’ she whispered, close to her ear.

Becky’s eyes shot towards the low basement window, and then, barely comprehending, back to Ashley.

‘We have to keep Mia safe,’ Ashley urged her, meaningfully holding her gaze. Then, praying Becky would get the message — that they needed to be out of the line of fire — she steered her gently backwards and prayed hard again that the police marksman lying flat on his belly outside that window could make his shot count.

‘Oh, you have to be kidding?’ Taylor said, her attention back on the PC. ‘What just happened to the webcam?’

‘It’s covered in blood,’ Connor supplied calmly, as if unaffected. Noting his expression, which still seemed devoid of any feeling, Ashley stared at him, disbelieving. ‘It’s spurting everywhere,’ Connor went on, moving towards Taylor. ‘This needs to stop.’

‘Bit late, don’t y’think?’ Taylor glanced at him disdainfully, then leaned forwards to jab at the keyboard.

‘We need to stop! Now!’ Connor shouted, causing Ashley to jump.

Squeezing Becky and Mia closer, she stopped breathing as Connor took another purposeful stride towards Taylor, his hand shooting out to make a grab for the gun she was neglectfully holding onto with only one hand.

‘Don’t you fucking dare, Connor,’ Taylor snarled, whirling around, as he tried to twist the gun from her grasp. ‘I swear to God I’ll blast your brains—’

A single shot ringing out cut her threat short. Ashley snatched her gaze from Taylor to the marksman and back, and her heart dropped like a stone. The bullet had grazed her arm, nothing more. Still Taylor fought on, desperately holding onto the gun, while the screen behind her spat sparks and died.

Blood oozing from a wound she seemed oblivious to, Taylor locked eyes with Connor’s over the weapon between them. ‘Stupid idiot,’ she hissed. ‘You’ll go to prison.’

His eyes fixed hard on hers and bulging with fury, Connor stopped still, breathing hard.

‘Let go,’ she seethed.

Connor seemed to debate. A split second passed, and then, his jaw set determinedly, he loosened one hand from the gun and stepped back. The blow he delivered to Taylor’s surprised face landed with a sickening crack, bone against bone, teeth clacking against teeth, and, finally, the bitch crumpled and fell.

Momentarily frozen, Ashley heard the scramble at the window and guessed the police were on the move. She kept her gaze on Connor. The gun now in his possession, he looked dazed, panicked and furious in turn.

‘Connor?’ Becky spoke as he looked down to where Taylor lay sprawled on the floor. Her voice shaky, tearful, Becky pressed on. ‘I have to go to my husband, Connor. Please, where’s the key?’

Ashley extended an arm to stop her, as Becky stepped towards him. His  chest heaving, his brow furrowed uncertainly, he looked disorientated, unpredictable.

‘Connor, please,’ her voice wretched with fear, Becky begged.

Seeming to come to his senses, Connor glanced quickly in their direction and back down to Taylor, who appeared to be stirring, then, ‘Go,’ he said, gruffly.

Ashley moved then, fast. ‘The key, Connor! Where is it?’

Connor nodded down at Taylor. ‘In her jacket pocket,’ he said. ‘Right hand side.’

Swooping down, Ashley clutched hold of the front of Taylor’s hoodie and yanked her up to ferret in her side pocket. ‘You’ll get yours, bitch,’ she hissed as the sick cow smirked in her face. Then, dropping her back down, she flew towards the door.

‘Wait!’ Becky stopped her. ‘Take Mia.’

‘But . . .’ Glancing from Becky’s determined gaze to Mia, whose sobs had turned to sharp, heartbreaking hiccups, Ashley hesitated. She couldn’t let Becky go in and find . . .

Clearly of the same mind, Becky seemed immovable. ‘I have my nursing qualification,’ she reminded her, attempting to sound calm, though her voice was actually choked with emotion. ‘Take Mia.’

Nodding, Ashley quickly grabbed her, making sure to hold her close and whisper reassurances as she followed Becky at a safe enough distance for Mia not to see . . . See what? Her own emotion threatening to choke her, Ashley swallowed back her tears, and pressed Mia closer.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Cursing her fumbling fingers, Rebecca finally pushed the key into the heavy lock. ‘Matthew!’ she shouted again, desperately, hopelessly. There’d been so much blood, too much. And the rope. That thing had said . . . Dear God. Rebecca’s stomach turned over.

He wasn’t answering. Because he couldn’t hear her, she groped for some small spark of reassurance. Because of the noises inside, ear-piercing, heart-shattering. Her baby laughing. Becky would know Lily’s voice anywhere. Matthew laughing with her. Rebecca had seen the video playing in the background as she’d been forced to watch her husband brought sickeningly to his knees. How long had they played it? How many times over had they subjected him to this slow, cruel torture?

Foreboding at what she might find on the other side of the door ratcheting her fear to a suffocating level, she faltered for a split second and then, her hand visibly shaking, she pressed down the handle and shoved the heavy door open.

Stepping inside, her eyes immediately darted to the rope. It swung, ominously, chillingly, from side to side, casting grotesque shadows on the blood-spattered wall beyond it. Ghosts in the shape of Sullivan. Rebecca clamped her eyes closed. ‘Matthew?’ She squeezed his name past the sharp lump in her throat and took another step — and then froze.

Her legs almost gave way as Matthew spoke behind her. ‘I heard you,’ he said, his voice shaky and raw with emotion. ‘Out there. I heard you. The monitor. I heard . . . the shot. I . . .’

Apprehension clutching at her insides, Rebecca whirled around as he trailed off.

‘I thought . . .’ Clearly struggling, Matthew stopped again, dragging an arm across his eyes, attempting to compose himself, as only Matthew would. Hiding his tears, always ashamed of his self-perceived weaknesses. A legacy of a childhood spent at the hands of a merciless bully, a sick, twisted individual, who’d pursued him into adulthood, even invading his dreams. His arm was drenched in blood. Becky glanced down, quickly trying to evaluate his physical injuries. In his hand, the scalpel he’d used. Intended to use again? On himself? Whoever came through the door? His bare torso was slicked red. The shirt he’d used as a compress on his wounded arm saturated crimson. His pallor the colour of death itself.

‘Mia?’ he asked hoarsely, bracing himself, as she moved towards him. He was shivering. Every limb in his body seemed to be trembling. He was unsteady, swaying on his feet, his eyes unfocussed, his strong features etched with so much undiluted pain, Rebecca felt she might break down and weep his tears for him.

‘With Ashley,’ she quickly reassured him. ‘Just outside. They’re all right.’

Matthew nodded, the relief flooding his face palpable. ‘Steve?’ He looked at her now as if he hardly dared hope.

‘He’s alive, but I’m not sure how badly he’s injured,’ Rebecca answered honestly. She stopped him as he moved towards the door. ‘The police are here. Paramedics too. They’ll look after him.’

Again, Matthew nodded. His expression was now one of overriding guilt, but he seemed to accept that his friend was in safe hands.

‘The shot?’ he asked, scanning her eyes, attempting to process his thoughts, to weigh up the situation. Rebecca could tell from the flash of unmistakable white-hot fury in his own where his thoughts were leading him.

‘A police marksman. She’s wounded. Still alive.’ Rebecca took another step towards him, willing him to stay still, to not react, as she knew his instincts would drive him to. His features were now taut, tension and anger emanating from him. Whatever was going through his mind, he needed physical help. Now.

Matthew, though, simply nodded again and took a step back. His cheek twitched, once, indicating the irrepressible agitation she knew so well. ‘Not for long,’ he said, the look in his eyes darkening to pure murder. ‘I’m sorry,’ he added thickly, glancing down and back. Then, his jaw locked determinedly, he moved to walk past her.

‘Matthew?’ Rebecca turned to follow him. ‘You’ve lost so much blood. You need help.’

Matthew didn’t answer. Instead, he appeared to debate for a second, before placing the scalpel on the tray, which housed the tools with which he was supposed to end his own life, picked up what appeared to be a syringe, and headed towards the door. His stride was firm, despite his weakened condition. Purposeful, as he headed across the open area of the basement towards the room they’d held Mia in. The room Connor still held the gun in, Rebecca realised, a new kind of fear gripping her. ‘Matthew!’ she shouted, going after him.

* * *

Matthew’s step didn’t falter.

He was functioning on adrenalin. One aim driving him. To stamp out the evil that had dogged his whole life. Destroy the inhuman person who’d dared hurt his baby, his family. Rid the world of Sullivan and his vile legacy once and for all.

Seeing Connor sitting stupefied against a wall, the gun resting between his legs, he didn’t pause, but strode straight over to where Taylor Sullivan sat propped against the playpen, nursing a wound to her arm.

‘Stand up,’ Matthew grated furiously, stopping in front of her, looming over where she now cowered looking up at him. He was a grim sight, Matthew supposed, covered in his own fucking blood. ‘Up!’ he yelled. ‘Now!’

‘I have a witness, Adams,’ she said shakily, dragging her hand under her snivelling nose. ‘Anything you do to me—’

Trying and failing to control the rage broiling inside him, his chest damn near to exploding, Matthew emitted a roar that gave vent to the pain in his soul and then reached down to drag the woman up. Twisting the fabric at the neck of her top tight, he yanked her towards him, heaving her upwards, until she was eyeball to eyeball with him, then, ‘I have something to numb the pain,’ he seethed. ‘Poetic justice, don’t y’think?’

‘Don’t,’ she said, her terrified gaze sliding downwards, as he pressed the syringe under her chin. He might not hit the jugular, but Matthew guessed it would do the job adequately. ‘Please don’t.’

His breathing irregular, tight with ill-suppressed rage, Matthew pressed the syringe closer, every fibre of his being willing him to pump the stuff into her system. ‘Are you begging?’ he asked.

‘Yes!’ Her eyes were petrified, wide and tearful. ‘Please, don’t do it.’

‘Right.’ Matthew smiled wryly. ‘So, tell me, did you show any compassion, Taylor,’ he repeated another of her taunting phrases back to her, ‘when you killed Natalie? When you hurt my daughter? Tried to destroy my family?’

Taylor studied him for a second, seeming to be searching for an answer. ‘You hurt me,’ she said pathetically. ‘You destroyed my family.’

Matthew swallowed back his contempt. He’d played this game before. His whole life, on one continuous loop. He was just like one of the rodents he’d been locked in with, a rat on a wheel and, no matter how hard he ran, he would never shake off the spectre of Sullivan.

‘Quid pro quo?’ sick to his stomach, he repeated another phrase he’d heard over and over, from the mouth of her psychopathic father.

She nodded. ‘That’s right.’

Battling the demons that he knew would dog him for the rest of his life if he did this, Matthew twisted the fabric of her top tighter. She held his gaze. Matthew didn’t look away. Even catching the gun-wielding figure moving into his peripheral vision, Connor, he guessed, hearing the uniforms yelling as they came into the room, at him, at Preston in turn to drop the weapon, he didn’t look away. He needed to know. He needed to see. Was there an ounce of humanity in there?

‘Do it then,’ she said, her gaze gliding confidently in the direction of Connor, and then back to him, a smile of victory curving her mouth. ‘Go on, Adams. Let’s see if you’ve got the balls.’

Press it. Matthew tensed his arm, his thumb poised, ready to send this bitch back to hell.

Her eyes grew wider as the first shot pierced the standoff. She jolted physically as the second shot hit her. Matthew watched, as the triumph gave way to surprise, and then indisputable pain. Instinctively, he caught her as she wilted, supporting her as her legs crumpled beneath her. Going down with her as she slid to the ground, her head resting on his knees, he took a second to assimilate, to realise that it had been Connor who’d shot, and then, again, instinctively, sympathetically — he had no idea why — he pressed his hand to the gaping wound in her side.

Blinking dazedly, she looked up at him. There was no hatred there now, no malevolence or bitterness. Only unadulterated fear. Fear Matthew had witnessed before, felt before. Felt now, on a daily basis. ‘I’m going to die, aren’t I?’ she asked him.

Glancing briefly at Connor, noting the gun he’d dropped to his side, the officers moving in on him, Matthew kept his focus on her. He saw the bubble of blood at her mouth. ‘There are uniforms here,’ he said as the certain spray of death spattered his torso. ‘Paramedics too.’

She nodded weakly, though he doubted she was reassured. ‘You look a bit like my dad, you know?’ she said, searching his face.

‘I’m flattered.’ With monumental effort, Matthew smiled and told her what she needed to hear. ‘He was a good-looking bloke.’ If a sick, twisted bastard.

She smiled a small smile back. ‘I’m sorry about your little girl. Will she be all right?’ She coughed, another telling spray of red speckling Matthew’s chest.

He hesitated. ‘She’s young, strong,’ he offered, after a second. ‘She’ll forget in all probability.’ Matthew prayed that she would. ‘We’ll make sure to keep her safe.’

Taylor closed her eyes, a single tear escaping the corner of one to slide slowly sideways down her cheek. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘She’s lucky.’

Matthew doubted she was, with him for a father.

‘I wouldn’t really have hurt her. I had a baby once, did you know that?’ she asked, looking woozily back at him. ‘No, of course, you wouldn’t,’ she added as Matthew studied her, confounded.

‘I was pregnant when my dad died. He didn’t know. He’d have gone ballistic.’ She laughed, and coughed, and winced. ‘He would have looked after me though. He always did, you know?’

Matthew nodded. ‘I know,’ he said throatily, realising that, in his own perverse way, Sullivan had cared for her. No matter the devastating impact on her life of what he did for a living, he had cared for his daughter. Were they really that dissimilar?

‘A little girl. She died too,’ Taylor went on, a deep sadness in her eyes Matthew would never have imagined he’d see. ‘I think it was probably my fault. They said it wasn’t, but I didn’t look after myself very well. Didn’t go for my checks or anything. I know I should have.’

Feeling something touch the very core of him, Matthew glanced briefly upwards. ‘I doubt it was your fault,’ he tried to reassure her, working to contain a quite different emotion to the one he’d had just a short while ago. ‘Think about it, babies get born and survive in the bleakest of circumstances. God takes the best first.’

She smiled at that, then frowned. ‘Do you believe in God?’

‘I do.’ Matthew nodded adamantly, though he really wasn’t sure that he did.

‘It was probably just as well He did take her. I don’t think I’d have known how to be a mum. I never really had one.’ She coughed again, painfully, and looked beseechingly back at him.

Knowing she didn’t have long, Matthew felt compelled to reach for her hand.

Seeming comforted, she squeezed it. ‘I wouldn’t have known what to do with a baby on my own,’ she went on, her words becoming more slurred as she spoke. ‘My boyfriend dumped me. My dad was right, they are all only after one thing. He said I was beautiful, you know, my dad.’

‘He was right,’ Matthew assured her. ‘You are.’ She was. Most definitely. Beautiful on the outside, broken on the inside.

‘Yeah,’ her mouth curved briefly upwards. ‘Being beautiful is a curse, I reckon. That’s why I cut my hair off. I missed him,’ she said, the light in her eyes fading. ‘Still miss . . .’

Eyes vacant. Matthew swallowed hard. Life extinct.

Aware of the commotion now in the background, the police officers manhandling Preston out, blue lights rotating ominously outside, Matthew stayed where he was. Closing her eyelids over her empty eyes, he studied her features. Bereft of the tortured spirit that drove her, the woman looked peaceful, angelic almost, untroubled. Girl, he reminded himself, recalling the young age her violent actions had belied. An innocent child once, untarnished by life, the corruptness that lurked in all walks of life, she’d been severely damaged inside. Wounded, like him. His wounds had scarred over, allowing him to function, appear normal, to fit in. Hers had been too deep, wide open, debilitating. Dependent on the cards life dealt them, were any of them ever really that different?

‘Matthew?’ He heard Becky say his name, as if from a distance, though she was only yards away. He felt a hand on his shoulder, tried to focus on Davies as he crouched beside him.

‘Steve’s on his way to the hospital,’ he said, his tone quiet, his eyes deeply troubled as he scanned Matthew’s. ‘He has an open skull fracture.’

Matthew was focussed now, his emotions descending again into freefall.

‘It doesn’t appear to be a depressed fracture,’ Davies added quickly. ‘Given his medical history though, he’ll be thoroughly checked out.’

Understanding, Matthew nodded. He didn’t feel capable of formulating actual words.

‘Come on, you can’t do any good here,’ Davies said, squeezing his shoulder and urging him up.

Matthew allowed himself to be helped to his feet by Davies and an assisting paramedic, while Davies instructed an officer to attend to the deceased. Taylor Sullivan. She had a name, more than one. Matthew doubted she’d ever had an identity. Davies was right. He couldn’t seem to do any good anywhere.

‘Your family needs you,’ Davies said, nodding him towards Becky, who still stood uncertainly inside the door, watching, waiting, always watching and waiting, for signs he wasn’t coping. For him to talk to her, instead of bottling things up. For him to hit the bloody bottle. Always ready to pick up the pieces. She looked petrified, dark circles under her eyes, her face chalk white, no bright spots on her cheeks. Still, she was beautiful. Her glorious flame-coloured hair, tumbling carelessly over her shoulders, her clothes covered in his blood, still she looked desirable. And strong. Petite though she was, she seemed to have a rod of iron running right through her. It would break. One day, she wouldn’t be able to pull herself up. To take any more crap. Crap that was heaped on her shoulders because of him. She couldn’t take any more. Hadn’t she told him as much? He hadn’t wanted to hear them, wished he’d never heard the words she’d spoken from the heart at the hospital, but still his mind played them over, I can’t do this, Matthew! Don’t you understand? I can’t! I don’t want to!

He’d promised himself he’d do the right thing. He now knew what that was.

‘Matthew?’ she said, coming towards him, and then stopping, leaving a small but significant gap between them. Matthew couldn’t blame her for that. ‘Please go with the paramedics,’ she said, her gorgeous aquamarine eyes glassy with tears.

Christ. Matthew breathed in. Did she even have to worry about whether he’d do that?

‘You need help,’ she said, searching his face.

Swallowing, Matthew nodded. ‘I know,’ he admitted, more to himself than to the woman he’d idiotically shut out of his life while he tried to mend his own wounds. Cautiously, he stepped towards her, ready to back away if she flinched at his touch, and then he reached out, cupping her face in his hand to stroke the tears from her cheek with his thumb.

She cried too many tears over him. Easing her towards him, he felt something shift inside as she rested her head on his shoulder. Breathing in the familiar, intoxicating scent of the woman he loved with every fibre of his being, Matthew dropped a soft kiss to the top of her head. ‘I won’t cause you any more hurt, Becky,’ he promised quietly.

* * *

Ashley came through the cubicle curtains as Matthew was getting ready to leave. They’d wanted to keep him in for observation, but he needed to be elsewhere. Steve was conscious, he’d been informed, cracking jokes about how Lindsey would be making room for him in the doghouse. That would be Steve. Matthew needed to see him. He needed to go and see Lindsey, make sure the man’s wife, his pregnant wife, was provided for while Steve was hospitalised. Again. Thanks to him. What he’d do beyond that, other than check on Kristen and then collect the lock of hair from the cemetery he felt bereft without, Matthew wasn’t thinking about. Didn’t dare allow himself to think about home and Becky and whether she’d get through the aftermath of what had happened. How the hell she had stayed with a useless bastard like him was the only question he’d asked himself over. Still, he had no answer.

Nevertheless, the first question on his lips was, ‘How are they?’

‘Good,’ Ashley said, eyeing him guardedly as he hurriedly pulled on the shirt one of the nurses had offered him from lost property. ‘They want to keep Mia in overnight, but they’re both doing okay. Becky’s staying with her, obviously.’

Matthew nodded and glanced at her. ‘How are you doing, Ash?’

Ashley shrugged, in that non-committal way she did. ‘I’m okay.’

Still the same old Ashley, Matthew thought, looking her over, pretending to the world she was fine, when she was hurting like hell underneath, and probably as depressed and bewildered as he was, as Becky was. After almost losing another child, all down to him, again, she was bound to be that. He should be there for her, for all of them. First, though, he had to get his thinking straight. Starting with not thinking about his own needs. If his being there physically was detrimental to his family’s wellbeing, then he couldn’t be. He doubted he’d be staying on the force, but there would always be other people with grudges against him, scores to settle. No, he couldn’t take any more risks where his family was concerned.

‘Are you going to see her?’

Matthew hesitated. ‘Do you think she really wants to see me?’

Ashley folded her arms and rolled her eyes, unimpressed. ‘Oh, dear, we are feeling sorry for ourself, aren’t we?’

‘No,’ Matthew assured her, then winced as he attempted his shirt buttons.

‘Here, let me,’ Ashley offered, walking over to him.

‘Thanks. I can manage.’ Matthew tried another button, but the hand of his injured arm just wouldn’t oblige.

‘’Course you can. God forbid anyone might doubt it.’ Sighing, Ashley reached for his buttons anyway. ‘So, are you going to see them?’ she asked, glancing curiously up at him from under her eyelashes.

Matthew sighed in turn. ‘She might need some space, Ash,’ he tried to explain. ‘After all that’s happened . . .’ He trailed off. He really didn’t want to bring the sex video up. The implications of that alone would be enough for any woman. Add to that the fact that he was emotionally challenged, to say the least, a selfish bastard who’d refused to seek the help he’d needed, insisting on carrying on with his job. Even if she hadn’t meant what she’d said, Becky would be mad to want to pick up where they left off.

‘Right.’ Ashley’s forehead knitted itself into a scowl as she peered at his shirt. ‘Call me stupid, but don’t you think Becky might be the best judge of that?’

Matthew ran his good hand through his hair, frustrated. ‘Possibly not.’

Finishing off the buttons at the neck, a little too tightly, Ashley now gave him a majorly unimpressed look. ‘Good job Becky didn’t hear that.’

Matthew’s mouth twitched into a small smile. He had to agree it probably was. ‘Do you honestly think she needs to be with someone whose only success in life is monumentally balls . . . messing things up, Ashley?’ he asked her, unfairly. She didn’t need this, not now; if only she hadn’t chosen that moment to come in and check on him. ‘Someone who’s been so selfish and obsessed with his job, he’s put his family at risk, twice?’

‘Yeah, right.’ There went the eyes again, sky high this time. ‘Then you messed up really badly and saved your family’s lives, twice. Three times, in my case. And as for my mum, she’d definitely be dead if not for you, or well on the way to being.’

Matthew got what she was saying, but it didn’t excuse his preoccupation with himself, did it? Nothing could undo the horrors they’d been through. Sighing, he turned to the bedside cabinet to pick up his meds.

‘Don’t you think your perspective might be a little skewed, Matthew?’ Ashley asked despairingly.

‘Definitely.’ Matthew had to agree there too.

Ashley sighed, audibly, and then, ‘She loves you, Matthew,’ she said firmly. ‘Yes, she thinks you’re a right pain in the bum sometimes, doing your macho “I don’t need anyone” thing, but she loves you.’

Matthew shook his head. She just wasn’t getting that loving him, if ever she could after all this, was a major risk to Becky’s health. ‘I will go and see her,’ he said, turning back, ‘as soon as I’ve—’

‘Had a medicinal drink?’ Ashley suggested, hitting him where it hurt.

‘Got my thoughts straight. Given Becky time to think. I won’t go far and not without leaving a message for her. I won’t be drinking.’ Matthew looked Ashley over. A beautiful young woman, she was all grown up now. Not quite, he reminded himself, watching as she retreated under her curtain of hair, as she tended to when she wasn’t getting her own way. Also, when she was scared, he reminded himself too. Whatever happened, he would make sure to be there for all of them, even if it had to be from a distance.

Walking across to her, he hugged her to him. ‘I’m not going far,’ he repeated adamantly. ‘You’re stuck with me whether you like it or not.’ Getting no reaction, he sighed inwardly and headed for the cubicle curtain before his courage failed him.

Ashley stopped him short. ‘Lily loves you too,’ she said quietly.

Tugging in a tight breath, Matthew turned towards her. ‘Don’t, Ashley,’ he said, pressing his thumb and forefinger hard against his forehead. She had issues, Matthew knew that. She probably meant well, might even have thought that one of the voices she heard in her head was Lily, but this was definitely hitting where it hurt most. ‘Just . . . don’t.’

‘She said to give you a message,’ Ashley went on regardless, possibly trying to make him change his mind, see that she needed him, but Christ this was too much. ‘She said to tell you you’re not useless.’

What? Matthew stared at her, incredulous. She couldn’t know. How could she possibly know the words that had never been anywhere other than spoken a long time ago, or floating hauntingly around in his head?

Ashley turned to him, looking at him from under her hair, her eyes now definitely guarded. ‘She said you’re the only one who thinks that.’

She studied him for a second, as Matthew continued to stare at her, too stunned to speak, then, ‘From the mouths of babes,’ she said, walking past him. ‘If you leave now, then useless is exactly what you’re being, Matthew.’

Chapter Thirty

He’d wanted to give Becky some space, time to think through what she wanted. In slipping quietly away, he’d intended to do that without compromising her. He’d thought that if she needed to make decisions about their future together, then she’d want him to prove how much he really did love her and give her that space.

The one small flaw in Matthew’s valiant thinking was that, yet again, he hadn’t discussed any of this with Becky. He was taking her at her word. Words spoken from the heart, yes, but a heart that was breaking. He’d been working on the assumption that she’d meant them. That she wouldn’t want to spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder, living in fear of what might happen if she stayed with him. Living with the unimaginable thing that had happened to him. He hadn’t talked to her though. Told her he was ready to make changes. Whatever changes he needed to ensure, as much as a man was able to, that he could keep his family safe. That he knew he needed psychological help, that he desperately wanted to be there for her emotionally and physically, if she wanted him to be. He hadn’t given Becky the chance to talk either, to say what she needed to, however painful it might be to hear. Ashley was right, he really was a self-important bastard sometimes.

Pausing outside the side room in the children’s ward, he glanced through the viewing pane in the door, to where Becky was keeping vigil next to the cot-sided bed Mia was in. His wife, she was beautiful, sensitive, caring, amazing. Had to be to have put up with him. She completed him. There was no other way to describe it. When he wasn’t with her, half of him was missing. It was as simple as that. She was also a fully functioning person in her own right. If Becky couldn’t deal with it and truly wanted him to go, she would say so. If she hadn’t told him she would prefer him not to stay on the force, it was because she’d tried to live with it for his sake. In every other area, she was directional, resolute. They would never have had Mia if not for her unwavering determination. She was strong. Stronger than he was emotionally. Stronger than he’d given her credit for. Becky would fight for what was dear to her. Never give up, providing it was what she wanted. She didn’t need handling like she was made of glass. Hoping he didn’t read in her eyes what he thought he would, eyes that always communicated how she felt more than words ever could, and which had a disconcerting knack of peeling back his veneer right down to his soul, Matthew braced himself and pressed down the handle.

Becky’s gaze shot from Mia to him as he walked in. Seeing none of the anger he’d imagined he might, Matthew took a breath, relief surging through him. ‘How is she?’ he asked quietly, walking across to the bed.

‘Sleeping, off and on. They’re giving her fluids. Just as a precaution.’ Smiling pensively, Becky dropped her gaze back to Mia, her thumb gently stroking the impossibly small hand the cannula was inserted in.

Nodding, Matthew looked down at his child. She looked so tiny in the adult sized bed, so vulnerable. Watching her long eyelashes brushing her overripe cheeks, her eyelids fluttering as her thoughts chased her dreams, he silently thanked God for hearing his prayers. He would rather have died than lose her. Awe filled, as he always was when he studied the miracle they’d produced together, Matthew’s gut tightened again at the thought that he still might.

Mia’s eyes fluttered open as he watched her. ‘Hey, munchkin.’ He smiled and reached to brush her cheek with the back of his hand.

Mia’s eyes focussed on his. Rich velvet brown eyes, always curious and full of wonder. His eyes, Becky had always said. Matthew doubted his eyes were ever as beautiful as this child’s.

‘Ouch,’ Mia said, her gaze travelling down to the hand he’d instinctively used, his right hand, where the heavy bandage to his wrist was visible.

He reached towards her tiny pierced hand, his fingers brushing Becky’s as he did. Becky flinched. It was a kneejerk reaction, almost imperceptible, but Matthew felt it, ‘Ouch,’ he said softly, his heart sinking, his gaze still on Mia’s.

‘Daddy poorly,’ Mia said, her little brow furrowed, her perceptive eyes now shadowed with concern.

Matthew laughed at that. ‘A bit,’ he admitted. ‘We’ll mend though, won’t we, sweetheart? With the right help.’

‘Daddy stay.’ Nodding decisively, Mia patted the mattress next to her.

Matthew laughed again, amazed at how she could make him do that, when he actually felt like crying, right there in front of his wife and daughter. So much for Ashley’s perception of him as macho. ‘I’m not sure there’s enough room there for me, munchkin,’ he said doubtfully.

The shadows in Mia’s eyes darkened. ‘Daddy no go,’ she said, uncertainty in her voice, her face etched with tangible fear that he would disappear again and leave her on her own in some terrifying place.

Matthew swallowed back the lump in his throat. ‘Daddy no go, sweetheart,’ he said, blinking hard against the tears that now threatened to spill over. ‘I promise.’

Mia studied him, her little forehead still furrowed worriedly. ‘Promise cwoss heart.’

Matthew would normally have finished, hope to die, but avoided that. ‘Cross heart,’ he said instead, hurriedly swiping at his eyes and then making sure to draw a cross on his chest, as Mia would expect.

Seemingly satisfied, Mia nodded. ‘Daddy no go work. Daddy stay in bed with Mummy and Mia,’ she imparted, and then yawned widely and gave into the need to close heavy-lidded eyes.

That would have normally been a cue, if ever there was one, for Becky and him to exchange amused glances. Matthew couldn’t bring himself to look at her. She hadn’t said a word, other than to tell him how Mia was, which to Matthew spoke volumes.

‘Right.’ He nodded soberly instead. ‘Good idea,’ he said, for Mia’s sake, and then took a breath. ‘Unless Mummy needs some space, that is?’

It took him every ounce of his courage to finally meet her eyes, knowing that when he did, he would read what was there in an instant.

Becky’s gaze was troubled and confounded in turn. ‘Are you mad?’ she said, sounding bewildered.

Matthew wasn’t sure what to say to that. Obviously, he was. Completely, to have made the decisions he had.

‘Where on earth would we warm our feet?’ Becky asked, wiping at a tear sliding down her own cheek.

Matthew managed another laugh. It came out a bit choked. ‘Good question,’ he said. Then, more seriously, ‘I’d understand if you couldn’t deal with it. The fallout, I mean. If you felt you couldn’t . . . If you didn’t want to—’

Becky stopped him. ‘Would you? If the situation were reversed, would you be there for me?’ she asked him, holding his gaze, obviously seeing he was struggling to ask the one thing he wanted to, desperately needed to.

‘Without question,’ Matthew assured her.

‘Which is why I love you,’ Becky said, reaching across their little girl for his hand. ‘Will. Always. Though if you don’t start talking to me, DI Adams, you might find yourself joining Steve in the doghouse.’

Seeing her mouth curve up at the corners, Matthew’s dormant heart kicked back in. ‘I will,’ he promised, hoping she could see how sorry he was, for not talking to her, for doubting her ability to handle things probably better than he could.

Becky hesitated, then, ‘And you’ll speak to the psychiatrist?’ she asked him, her look wary now, as if expecting him to claim, as he generally had, that they couldn’t help him by stating the obvious.

‘I, er, think I might need to,’ Matthew admitted, his gaze flickering down again and then back to hers.

‘Good,’ she said, relief now obvious in her all-telling eyes. ‘I’d hate to have to find another man to warm my feet on.’

Confounded, Matthew studied her, this beautiful woman who seemed to see something in him he couldn’t, no matter how hard he looked. He loved her, completely, with all of himself. It was time he really did start proving how much. ‘You’d better bloody not,’ he growled softly.

At which Mia’s eyes drifted open. ‘Rubbish word,’ she imparted sleepily.

Becky laughed. Matthew did too, and realised it was something they hadn’t done together properly in too long a time. ‘I love you, Mrs Adams,’ he said throatily.

‘Just as well if you’re going to get intimate with my toes.’ Becky smiled, getting to her feet to walk around the bed towards him. She stopped in front of him, and Matthew felt the unbearable weight of uncertainty lift from him as he saw what he needed to in her beautiful eyes, no reproach, no pity — he didn’t think he could bear that. Nothing but sweet, quiet longing.

Matthew’s kiss was tentative as she pressed her lips lightly to his, as if he were kissing her for the first time. And then he grew bolder, his tongue gently seeking hers as he tasted the sweet familiarity of her. It would be okay. Matthew felt his heartbeat ratchet up in the best possible way as she reciprocated, pressing the delicate tip of her tongue into his mouth. He wanted her. Every delectable inch of her. Promising himself he would never lose sight of what was important again, he traced the soft curve of her back, kissing her hungrily, and then pulling her fiercely towards him.

THE END

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Thank You

Thank you for reading Sins of the Father, the second in the Detective Inspector Matthew Adams series. I really hope you enjoyed Matthew’s continuing saga as much I enjoyed writing it. I must admit some of the scenes gave even me the odd nail-biting moment, also one or two worries about the police and forensic detail. I was over the moon therefore when Former Senior Police Detective, Stuart Gibbon, said he thought the series was a ‘cracking’ read. There’s nothing quite like that feeling you get knowing that a reader has connected with your characters, laughed and cried with them, screamed at them, or worried for them.

The road to publication can sometimes be a little bit bumpy and seeing your book finally ‘out there’ is truly amazing. Knowing people are reading it is equally amazing and reader feedback is invaluable. Reviews can do so much to up a book’s profile but they do also inspire the author to keep writing and improving. If you’ve connected emotionally with DI Adams and his family, therefore, and you have time to leave a brief review either on the site where you bought the novel, or somewhere like Goodreads, it would be hugely appreciated.

Please do feel free to contact me anytime. You can find my details under my author profile. And if you like the book, please do look out for my previous and upcoming thrillers. You can also find details of my other contemporary fiction books on my website or on the Choc Lit website. Meanwhile, I’ll keep being inspired and I’ll keep writing.

Happy reading all!

Lots of love,

Sheryl x

Acknowledgements

With thanks to former Police DCI Stuart Gibbon at GIB Consultancy for his fabulous advice on Police actions and procedures.

Thank you too so much readers and book bloggers for your wonderful support and taking time to leave a review.

Special thanks to Shell Baker at Chelle’s Book Reviews who selected the first in the Detective Inspector Matthew Adams series, After She’s Gone, as a TOP 20 BEST READS OF 2016

And to Alison Daughtrey-Drew at Ali the Dragon Slayer who selected After She’s Gone as one of her FAVOURITE BOOKS OF 2016.

Huge thanks also to the members of the Choc Lit Panel (Jenny M, Jenny W, Rosie F, Kate A, Peggy H, Stacey R, Jo O, Katie P, Linda Sy, Sigi, Betty S, Ruth N, Els E and Joanne B) for recommending Sins of the Father for publication.

I’m thrilled and humbled. I simply could not do this without you.

Keep safe all.

About the Author

Heartache, humour, love, loss & betrayal, Sheryl Browne brings you edgy, sexy, poignant fiction. A member of the Crime Writers’ Association, Romantic Novelists’ Association and shortlisted for the Best Romantic e-book Love Stories Award 2015, Sheryl has several books published and two short stories in Birmingham City University anthologies, where she completed her MA in Creative Writing.

After She’s Gone is the first book in Sheryl’s Detective Inspector Matthew Adams series.

www.twitter.com/SherylBrowne

www.sherylbrowne.com

Discover More Books By Sheryl Browne

AFTER SHE’S GONE

UK www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0DPL5HTBC

US www.amazon.com/dp/B0DPL5HTBC

DI Matthew Adams. He’s spent his life fighting crime. But this case is about to hit closer to home . . .

Detective Adams has witnessed the worst of humanity. But nothing could’ve prepared him for the tragic hit-and-run that takes his precious daughter’s life.

Adams has made enemies on the job — none as bad as Patrick Sullivan, a sadistic mastermind seeking revenge. He’s convinced Sullivan’s the culprit, but there’s no proof.

Then a young girl comes forward with evidence. Before she can testify, she’s found dead in an alley.

Adams will do anything to see Sullivan behind bars. But justice comes at a price.

Sullivan swore he’d take everything from Adams, and he isn’t finished yet . . .

Also by Sheryl Browne

DETECTIVE INSPECTOR MATTHEW ADAMS SERIES

Book 1: AFTER SHE’S GONE

Book 2: DEAD AND GONE

The Choc Lit Story

Established in 2009, Choc Lit is an independent, award-winning publisher dedicated to creating a delicious selection of quality women’s fiction.

We have won 18 awards, including Publisher of the Year and the Romantic Novel of the Year, and have been shortlisted for countless others. In 2023, we were shortlisted for Publisher of the Year by the Romantic Novelists’ Association.

All our novels are selected by genuine readers. We are proud to publish talented first-time authors, as well as established writers whose books we love introducing to a new generation of readers.

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Glossary of English Usage for US Readers

A & E: accident and emergency department in a hospital

Aggro: violent behaviour, aggression

Air raid: attack in which bombs are dropped from aircraft on ground targets

Allotment: a plot of land rented by an individual for growing fruit, vegetables or flowers

Anorak: nerd (it also means a waterproof jacket)

Artex: textured plaster finish for walls and ceilings

A levels: exams taken between 16 and 18

Auld Reekie: Edinburgh

Au pair: live-in childcare helper, often a young woman

Barm: bread roll

Barney: argument

Beaker: glass or cup for holding liquids

Beemer: BMW car or motorcycle

Benefits: social security

Bent: corrupt

Bin: wastebasket (noun), or throw in rubbish (verb)

Biscuit: cookie

Blackpool Lights: gaudy illuminations in a seaside town

Bloke: guy

Blow: cocaine

Blower: telephone

Blues and twos: emergency vehicles

Bob: money, e.g. ‘That must have cost a few bob.’

Bobby: policeman

Broadsheet: quality newspaper (New York Times would be a US example)

Brown bread: rhyming slang for dead

Bun: small cake

Bunk: escape, e.g. ‘do a bunk’

Burger bar: hamburger fast-food restaurant

Buy-to-let: buying a house/apartment to rent it out for profit

Charity shop: thrift store

Carrier bag: plastic bag from supermarket

Care home: an institution where old people are cared for

Car park: parking lot

CBeebies: kids’ TV

Chat-up: flirt, trying to pick up someone with witty banter or compliments

Chemist: pharmacy

Chinwag: conversation

Chippie: fast-food place selling chips, battered fish and other fried food

Chips: French fries but thicker

CID: Criminal Investigation Department

Civvy Street: civilian life (as opposed to army)

Clock: punch (in an altercation) or register

Cock-up: mess up, make a mistake

Cockney: a native of East London

Common: an area of park land or lower class

Comprehensive school (comp.): a public (re state-run) high school

Cop hold of: grab

Copper: police officer

Coverall: coveralls, or boiler suit

CPS: Crown Prosecution Service, who decide whether police cases go forward

Childminder: someone paid to look after children

Council: local government

Dan Dare: hero from Eagle comic

DC: detective constable

Deck: one of the landings on a floor of a tower block

Deck: hit (verb)

Desperate Dan: very strong comic book character

DI: detective inspector

Digestive biscuit: plain cookie

Digs: student lodgings

Do a runner: disappear

Do one: go away

Doc Martens: heavy boots with an air-cushioned sole, also DMs, Docs

Donkey’s years: long time

Drum: house

DS: detective sergeant

ED: emergency department of a hospital

Eagle: children’s comic, marketed at boys

Early dart: to leave work early

Eggy soldiers: strips of toast with a boiled, runny egg

Enforcer: police battering ram

Estate: public/social housing estate (similar to housing projects)

Estate agent: realtor

Falklands War: war between Britain and Argentina in 1982

Fag: cigarette

Father Christmas: Santa Claus

Filth: police (insulting)

Forces: army, navy and air force

FMO: force medical officer

Fried slice: fried bread

Fuzz: police

Garda: Irish police

GCSEs: exams taken between age 14 and 16, replaced O levels in 1988

Gendarmerie: French national police force

Geordie: from Newcastle

Garden centre: a business where plants and gardening equipment are sold

Gob: mouth, can also mean phlegm or spit

GP: general practitioner, a doctor based in the community

Graft: hard work

Gran: grandmother

Hancock: Tony Hancock, English comedian popular in 1950s

Hard nut: tough person

HGV: heavy goods vehicle, truck

HOLMES: UK police computer system used during investigation of major incidents

Home: care home for elderly or sick people

Hoover: vacuum cleaner

I’ll be blowed: expression of surprise

In care: refers to a child taken away from their family by the social services

Inne: isn’t he

Interpol: international police organisation

Iron Lady: Margaret Thatcher, applied to any strong woman

ITU: intensive therapy unit in hospital

Jane/John Doe: a person whose identity is unknown/anonymous

JCB: a manufacturer of construction machinery, like mechanical excavators

Jerry-built: badly made

Jungle: nickname given to migrant camp near Calais

Lad: young man

Lass: young woman

Lift: elevator

Lord Lucan: famous British aristocrat who allegedly killed his children’s nanny and disappeared in 1974 and was never found

Lorry: truck

Lovely jubbly: said when someone is pleased

Luftwaffe: German air force

M&S: Marks and Spencer, a food and clothes shop

Miss Marple: detective in a series of books by Agatha Christie, often used to imply a busybody, especially of older women

MOD: Ministry of Defence

Mobile phone: cell phone

MP: Member of Parliament, politician representing an area

MRSA: A strain of antibiotic-resistant bacteria

Myra Hindley: famous British serial killer

Naff: tacky/corny, not cool

Naff all: none

National Service: compulsory military service, in the UK ended in 60s

Net curtains: a type of semi-transparent lace curtain

NHS: National Health Service, public health service of the UK

Nick: police station (as verb: to arrest)

Nowt: nothing

Nutter: insane person, can be used affectionately

Nursery: a place which grows plants, shrubs and trees for sale (often wholesale)

O levels: exams taken between age 14 and 16 until 1988 (replaced by GCSEs)

Old bag: old woman (insulting)

Old Bill: police

OTT: over the top

Owt: anything

Pants: noun: underwear, adjective: bad/rubbish/terrible

Para: paratrooper

Pay-as-you-go: a cell phone on which you pay for calls in advance

PC: police constable

Pear-shaped: gone wrong

Petrol: gasoline

Pictures: movie

Pillbox: a concrete building, partly underground, used as an outpost defence

Pillock: fool

Pips: police insignia indicating rank

Piss off: an exclamation meaning go away (rude), can also mean annoy

Pissing down: raining

Playing field: sports field

Pleb: ordinary person (often insulting)

Portakabin: portable building used as temporary office etc.

Post: mail

Planning Department: the local authority department that issues licences to build and develop property

PNC: police national computer

PSNI: Police Service of Northern Ireland

Prat: idiot, can be used affectionately

Premier League: top English soccer division

Proms: annual concerts held at the Albert Hall

Public analyst: scientists who perform chemical analysis for public protection purposes

RAF: Royal Air Force

Rag: newspaper

Ram-raiding: robbery where a vehicle is rammed through a shop window

Randy: horny

Recce: reconnaissance

Red Adair: famous oil well firefighter

Resus: resuscitation room

Right state: messy

Ring: telephone (verb)

Roadworks: repairs done to roads

Rozzers: police

RSPB: Royal Society for the Protection of Birds

RTC: road traffic collision

RV: rendezvous point

Royal Engineers: British army corps dealing with military engineering, etc.

Rugger: rugby (posh American football)

Sarge: sergeant

SCO19: Specialist Crime and Operations Specialist Firearms Command

Scrote: low life

Section: to have someone committed to a mental hospital under UK mental health laws

Semi: semi-detached house, a house with another house joined to it on one side only

Shedload: a large amount

Shop: store

Shout the odds: talk in a loud bossy way

Sickie: day off work pretending to be ill

Sixth-form college: where students study A levels

SIO: senior investigating officer

Skell: a homeless person, aka ‘tramp’ (insulting)

Skip: a large open container used for building waste

Slapper: used to label somebody as overtly sexual, typically a younger woman, aka ‘skank’ (insulting)

Smackhead: heroin addict (insulting)

Snout: police informer

SOCO: scene-of-crime officer

Sod: an annoying person

Sort: to do or make

Solicitor: lawyer

Sparky: electrician

Spook: spy

Spuds: potatoes

Squaddie: a soldier of low rank

Stunner: beautiful woman

Super: superintendent (police rank)

Surveyor: someone who examines land and buildings professionally

Sweeting: endearment, like sweetheart

Tabloid: newspaper, typically known for a sensationalist style of journalism

Tea: dinner (Northern English)

Tea towel: drying cloth

Till: cash register

Tip: a mess, e.g. ‘This room is a tip’, or a local garbage dump

Tipsy: a bit drunk

Top oneself: commit suicide

Torch: flashlight

Tutor: university teacher

Tower block: tall building containing apartments (usually social housing)

Twoc: steal a car, often just for joyriding (taking without owner’s consent)

Upmarket: affluent or fancy

Wacky baccy: cannabis

Wally: silly person (can be used affectionately)

War Cry: Salvation Army magazine

Wash: the washing machine

Water board: company supplying water to an area

White van man: typical working-class man who drives a small truck

WI: Women’s Institute, organization of women in the UK for social/cultural activity

Widow’s weeds: black clothes worn by a widow in mourning

Wilco: will comply, i.e. ‘yes’

Wrinklies: old people

Yellowbelly: native of Lincolnshire (not to be confused with yellow-belly, meaning a coward)

Yob: a rude or aggressive youth or person

Yorkie: type of chocolate bar