Outside the restaurant, Phil switched his phone back on. And the happiness he had been feeling dissipated.
Message after message piled up in his phone. He played them. Marina stopped fussing with Josephina and looked up, becoming aware of the hardening in his features, concern spreading over her face in response to the changes to his. Eventually he took the phone away from his ear. Marina waited.
He looked at her. ‘Oh God…’
‘What?’
‘I’ve got to go. Now.’
‘Need me to come with you?’
Phil looked between the baby and Marina. ‘Can you?’
She nodded. Phil caught the look in her eye, fleeting and sharp, but unmistakeable. She was as hooked as he was.
‘I’ll fill you in on the way.’
They went to find the car.
Greenstead Road was a crime scene.
The road was entirely closed off, from the supermarket at the far end to the roundabout at the top of Harwich Road to the level crossing at East Street. Yellow and black tape fluttered in the slight, warm breeze, making a gentle, lapping sound that would have been calming and summery in any other situation.
Phil showed his warrant card as he stepped under the tape, uniforms closing in to block the cameras that tried to follow him. He kept a protective arm round Marina’s shoulders as he walked from the level crossing and round the corner to the house itself.
They had phoned ahead to Don and Eileen, asked if they fancied spending a bit of time with their granddaughter. They jumped at the chance. Although Phil kept the tone light, they sensed something was wrong but, from years of experience, knew better than to ask what.
Phil saw Nick Lines enter the house, his pale blue suit clashing with the colours on the tape. Anni was standing on the opposite pavement, waiting for the signal to enter the house. She saw Marina and him approach, crossed over to them.
‘Where’ve you been, boss?’ Conflicting emotions were running behind her eyes.
‘I… went to get a better profiler.’ He turned to Marina who said hello to Anni.
Anni returned the greeting.
‘So what we got?’ Phil tried to appear professional, speaking as if this was any other crime scene. But he didn’t pull it off.
‘Well…’ Anni looked round, herself struggling to keep it together.
‘From the beginning, Anni. I got your calls but catch me up.’
‘Call came in over an hour ago. Someone staggering about on the pavement, blood all over the place. Called for an ambulance.’ Her eyes involuntarily went to the pavement in front of the house, now dried brown against the grey. A mundane stain barely reflecting the enormity of what had actually happened.
‘Where is he now?’
‘The General. Thought we’d lost him at first. But he’s hanging on in there, apparently.’
‘That the latest?’
She nodded. ‘They’re operating now. Lost a lot of blood.’ Her eyes back to the pavement. ‘Hell of a mess.’
Phil nodded, looked around. The Birdies were there, notebooks out, coordinating uniforms. ‘Where’s Mickey?’
‘Keeping watch on the boat. Didn’t want to leave that lead in the wind. Thought he might be the best one for that.’
‘And Rose Martin?’
Anni shrugged. ‘Dunno, boss. Not answering her phone.’
Phil’s pulse quickened. ‘When was she last seen?’
‘At the station. Talking to Ben Fenwick.’
‘Fuck…’
Anni said nothing. She knew what he was thinking.
He rubbed his face, his eyes. Trying to think, concentrate. He glanced at Marina. It felt good to have her back on the team. To have her back beside him.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Looks like I’m acting DCI now for this case. Let’s get on. Any witnesses? Anyone know what happened? ’
‘Person who called it in, neighbour opposite. Saw the DCI come out of the house and stagger into the street clutching his stomach, waving something round. Turned out to be his warrant card.’
‘Clever man,’ said Phil, a sadness in his voice. ‘Identifying himself.’
‘It worked. Someone called an ambulance straight away. Saved his life.’
‘What about the people who live in the house? Any sign of them?’
‘None.’
‘Who lives there, do we know? Looks like a student’s place.’
‘It is,’ said Anni. ‘I had a little root around before. Mark Turner, Suzanne Perry’s ex, lives there. Renting.’
‘The guy Rose Martin questioned the other night.’
‘That’s the one. And said she thought he was harmless.’
Phil sighed. ‘She’s good, isn’t she?’ Not bothering to hide the sarcasm in his voice. ‘Does Mark Turner live alone?’
Anni shook her head. ‘With his girlfriend.’
‘And neither of them are there.’ It wasn’t a question.
She shook her head again. ‘But we’re on the lookout for them. Got their descriptions out straight away.’ Anni looked uneasy. ‘And you’re not going to like this, boss.’
Phil waited. Eyes hard.
‘The girlfriend. Like I said, I rooted round in the house before. Found some photos, paperwork…’
‘You’re stalling. Tell me.’
Anni sighed. ‘It’s Fiona Welch.’
78
Mickey was keeping watch. And he wasn’t happy. Just over the river from where the action was, stuck watching a boat just in case its occupant returned at any time soon. When he and Anni had received the call telling them of Ben Fenwick’s attack he had experienced that old Drugs Squad adrenalin rush straight up his spine, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He was ready. Two-fisted, lip curled and ready. And he and Anni had discussed and it and, yes, in his head he understood that him staying behind and Anni going to the crime scene was the right decision but his heart was telling him something different. He was a copper. A detective. And he should have been down there, getting stuck in, finding the villain, hauling him in, making him sorry.
But he wasn’t. And that adrenalin was still there, charged up, pawing around inside him like a caged beast, just waiting for an outlet.
It wasn’t long in coming. And, when it did, he could barely believe it.
He was sitting in the car, fidgeting and uncomfortable. At least when Anni was there he had someone to talk to. All he had now was the radio and that was tuned to Radio One, spewing afternoon inanities and songs he was embarrassed to admit he didn’t recognise. He was contemplating turning over to Radio Two but something within himself wouldn’t allow it. It was comfortable. It was set in the past. It had DJs he had grown up with playing songs he had grown up with. To listen willingly would be like acknowledging he would never again embark on a four-day coke and alcohol bender, go straight from clubbing on a Friday night to the football on a Saturday afternoon, pick up a girl in a bar and stay with her for the whole weekend, coming in to boast about his stamina and prowess on a Monday morning.
