Set behind a low wall surmounted by iron railings, the cottage was a squat stone building, cramped windows flanking a front porch the size of a sentry box, two more dormer windows upstairs that couldn’t have let in much light. But it was trim and well-kept. A greenhouse sat in one corner, filled with luxuriant greenery, the occasional red of a tomato showing through. At the foot of the back garden, she glimpsed the wall of the convent grounds.
Sophie opened the gate and walked up the flagstone path. No doorbell, just a heavy brass knocker, polished to a high shine. She raised it and let it fall with a heavy thud. No response. She decided to take a look through the windows, because why not? The living room on the left featured a long leather sofa well past its prime and a couple of armchairs that had seen less use. Opposite the sofa, hanging above the fireplace, was a massive flat-screen TV. A single mug sat on a low coffee table; she was pleased with herself for recognising the logo of Bradfield Victoria FC.
She turned to check out the other ground-floor windows and nearly screamed. On the path, a few feet from her, a man stood, a hammer dangling from one hand. He wore a Bradfield Vics replica top over his bulky torso. Heavy denim jeans that owed no debt to fashion and a pair of well-worn work boots completed his ensemble. Sophie took all this in as she collected herself and finally checked out his face. Somewhere in his thirties, she estimated. A mop of thick straight dark hair. ‘Can I help you?’ He looked East European, but he sounded local.
‘I’m with the police. Detective Inspector Valente.’ She pulled her ID from her pocket. ‘And you are . . . ?’ Trying very hard to sound calm and authoritative while her heart continued its pounding. She hadn’t heard him approach, nor sensed his presence. That was what freaked her out.
‘Jerome Martinu. Everybody calls me Jezza. I’m the groundsman here.’
‘And you live here?’
He sighed. ‘Look, I’ve explained all this already to you guys. I bought the cottage off the church. This is my property. The church pays me to keep the grounds from getting out of hand. End of. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.’ He moved towards the cottage.
‘What’s the hammer for?’
He stopped and shook his head. ‘Knocking in nails.’ He glanced over his shoulder, probably to see whether she was smiling. She wasn’t. ‘One of the raised beds needed a bit of attention.’ Then he was gone, surprising her with his turn of speed as he rounded the corner and made for the rear of his property.
She hadn’t seen him over by the raised beds. But then, she hadn’t been paying that much attention. If he’d already been checked out, there was no need for her to repeat someone else’s work. Now she had a sense of what things were like out here, it was time to head back and set up the operations room back in the Skenfrith Street police station. The sooner she got that up and running, the sooner she’d be able to impress Rutherford – and the rest of the team. She had ground to make up, so she’d better start running.
18
Babies are biologically programmed to smile from birth. It makes them more appealing to adults, who are also programmed to respond. But beyond that, when it comes to forming relationships, we shift into the realms of learned behaviour. And too many people fail to learn what they need to be comfortable in their skins. Mostly because they never encountered anyone to learn from.
From Reading Crimes by DR TONY HILL
Steve Nisbet hadn’t imagined his first assignment with the Regional Major Incident Team would be talking to a social worker about a bunch of nuns. He’d applied to join ReMIT when Carol Jordan had first set it up and been bitterly disappointed when he’d failed to make the cut. He’d followed their every step from a distance, longing to be part of what he believed was the absolute pinnacle of modern coppering. His mum was always singing a song by some Irish bloke, Pierce something or other, ‘I am the boy to be with’. And for Steve, ReMIT were definitely the boys to be with.
Until the day when the all wheels came careening off so catastrophically. But even then, even as his mates were telling him he’d dodged a bullet, he secretly regretted not being one of the shattered team left licking their wounds and picking up the pieces.
When the news got out that a revamped ReMIT was to be launched, the word in the locker room had been that signing up was most likely to be career suicide. None of his crew could understand why Steve, tipped as ‘most likely to succeed’, would want to leave a well-set billet for such a precarious berth. But Steve knew this was where he wanted to be. It might no longer be led by the legendary Carol Jordan, but he couldn’t believe her DNA wasn’t still running through the squad.
His eagerness had taken a bit of a dent on the supposed team-building day. And during the briefing, the old hands – Paula, Stacey, Alvin and Karim – had stuck together, constantly sharing glances, checking each other out before they expressed an opinion, clearly not quite sure which of their new colleagues they could afford to trust yet. He’d hoped his collaboration with Alvin had done enough to break down some of those barriers but he recognised there was a way to go yet. He’d win them over in time,
