girly-girl, Gemma thought . . . not that she’d have had much idea what to do with one.
“Lorries drink petrol,” Alia explained, “but maybe just this once they could have tea.” She shot Gemma a meaningful glance and mouthed, “Go.”
“Right.” Gemma adjusted the strap of her handbag on her shoulder. “You have my mobile—”
“Of course I do.” Alia rolled her eyes.
“Okay.” Gemma gave in. “I’ll see you then.” With an effort, she resisted the urge to give Charlotte one last hug. She was trying to discourage clinginess, she reminded herself, not foster it. She took a deep breath, and with a jaunty wave, headed for the door before she could change her mind about going.
Once outside, though, the bright day seemed to welcome her, and she suddenly felt bracingly, exhilaratingly independent. She stretched her legs into a welcome adult pace. Turning into Lansdowne Road, she decided to make a quick detour on her way to the station.
Ten minutes later, she walked into Notting Hill Police Station, armed with two lattes from the Starbucks on Holland Park Avenue. Melody had brought her coffee often enough—it was time she returned the favor.
“Inspector!” The desk sergeant, a grizzled Scot called Jonnie who had been a fixture at Notting Hill since long before Gemma’s time, beamed at her as if she were long-lost kin. “You’re a sight for sore eyes. I thought you weren’t due back until Monday.”
“I’m not,” Gemma explained. “I’ve just dropped in for a chat with Melody.” She raised the cardboard cups in demonstration.
“How’s the new addition to the family?” he asked. “Have you got a picture?”
“More than one, actually,” Gemma answered with a smile. She set the coffees on the reception counter and took out her phone.
When she pulled up photos of Charlotte, the sergeant scrolled through them with admiring exclamations. “What a lovely wee lass,” he said, returning her phone. “I think you’ll be missing her when you come back to work.”
“Yes, but I miss this place, too. It will be good to—”
“Boss?” Melody came through the door into the lobby. “Somebody said you were here.”
“Police station ESP,” said Gemma, grinning. “I’ve never understood how that works. The psychic grapevine.” Now she felt truly at home.
“Oh, coffee. Brilliant. Ta very much.” Melody took the hot cup and led the way into the station proper. “I’ve commandeered the Sapphire office for a bit. Mike and Ginny are both testifying in court.”
As they walked through the corridor, Gemma felt the station settle round her. The faint odor of chip fat from the canteen, the rise and fall of voices punctuated by the occasional muffled laugh, the click of keyboards and the ringing of phones—all seemed as familiar to her as her own heartbeat. “What about the super?” she asked.
“Divisional meeting. He’ll be sorry to have missed you—not that you won’t see him soon enough. And be back in your own office,” Melody added, sounding pleased.
Gemma hesitated. “Um, Melody, I’m just as glad he’s out, to tell the truth.” She’d always had a good relationship with Superintendent Mark Lamb, her boss, but explaining to him exactly what she was doing would be more than ticklish.
Instantly alert, Melody gave her a searching glance and closed the door of the Project Sapphire office behind them. The small space was cluttered with computers, filing cabinets, and the personal belongings of Melody’s colleagues. Melody sat at her own desk, which was by far the tidiest of the three. “So, what’s up, boss?”
When Gemma had rung her last night, she’d explained only that she wanted to have a look through the records. Taking one of the neighboring chairs—the absent Ginny’s, she guessed, if the hearts-and-flowers mug and the potted plants on the desk were a clue—she said, “Can we search for any female officer reporting a rape by an unknown perpetrator?”
Melody frowned. “Female police officers? That’s it? Any other parameters?”
Gemma thought back. Rebecca Meredith had reported her rape to Superintendent Gaskill a year ago. Her own mercifully aborted encounter with Craig had been a little less than five years ago. But she suspected that Craig’s methods had been long and well practiced by the time he’d driven her home to Leyton that night. “Can we make it ten years?” she asked, with an inner shudder.
Melody’s eyes widened. “You want the moon, too?” She shook her head. “I’m good, but even I have limits. This may take a while.” Her level gaze met Gemma’s. “So, in the meantime, are you going to tell me exactly what we’re doing here?”
Gemma felt a sick clutch of revulsion, her pleasure in the day erased by the thought of what Angus Craig might have done to other women.
And walking into the station, avoiding her own boss, had made her realize just how risky an endeavor this might be. “Melody, look. I’ll understand if you don’t want to do this. Duncan’s already been warned off by the powers that be, and I don’t want to ask something of you that could damage your career.”
“Boss. Come on.” Melody’s hands hovered over the keyboard. “You know me better than that. Just tell me what we’re looking for. How bad can it be?”
“We’re looking for a retired deputy assistant commissioner who’s a serial rapist,” said Gemma. “And I think it could be very bad indeed.”
Chapter Fourteen
—Rory Ross with Tim Foster
Having given his name to one of the women in Leander’s front office and asked to speak to Milo Jachym, Doug took advantage of the few minutes’ wait in the club’s lobby. Hands behind his back, he strolled round the room, trying not to look as if he was gawking at the photos and trophies on display. He’d stopped in front of the gift shop display cabinet, pondering whether he’d buy a French-cuffed shirt just to wear a set of pink hippo cuff links, when a female voice spoke behind him.
“I’d go with the navy baseball cap if I were you.”
Turning with a start, he saw it was Lily Meyberg, the pretty house manager.
“You don’t think the pink would work?” he asked, making a valiant effort to appear nonchalant. He nodded at the violently pink cap in the cabinet.
“I think I’d admire such a brave man,” she said, smiling. “But the color doesn’t suit you. I’d stick with the navy.” Touching his arm lightly, she added, “Mustn’t forget my mission. I’m to take you up to reception. Milo will be along in a few minutes.”
Following her up the staircase, he was torn between watching the way her bum moved in her slim navy skirt and looking at the photos of the Olympic medalists and world champions that lined the stairwell. He’d only glimpsed the photos the other night—he certainly hadn’t wanted to stop and gawp in front of Kincaid, but now he was finding the alternative option more tempting.
“We’re just setting up for lunch,” Lily said when they reached the reception area at the top of the stairs. “But the bar’s open. Can I get you something?”
“Oh, no thanks. Bit early for me.”
“And no drinking on duty, right?”
Not wanting to sound a complete plod, he shrugged and said, “Well, an occasional pint at lunch, maybe.”
Slipping his hands into his pockets, he walked to the balcony doors and looked out across the meadows that
