“Not really. We can head back to the gardens once we’re squared away with the daughter, take a look at what exactly she was working on. See if our killer, or attempted one at least, left anything behind.”
“A syringe would be useful,” Mills pointed out dryly, and I grinned.
One day hopefully, we’d get a criminal careless enough to leave weapons and fingerprints lying all over the place. It would make life that little bit easier, really. Criminals were getting too good these days, but at least this one had failed. Abbie Whelan might be in a coma, lying in the hospital, but there was every chance she would wake up knowing full well who had attacked her. It was wishful thinking, the kind I hadn’t entertained since I was a young sergeant like Mills, but until I had an actual dead body before me, it didn’t really seem all that unreasonable.
When we got back to the station, Sharp was waiting. I jogged up the stairs to where she stood, arms folded, foot tapping the ground.
“Update?” she asked, following us as we walked across to our office.
“Whelan’s alive, in a coma. The hospital is still working on isolating what exactly she’s been drugged with.”
“If it’s an unfamiliar substance that could take a while,” Sharp pointed out.
I nodded. “Once everything’s sorted with her daughter and we’ve spoken to the sitter, we’ll head back out to the gardens, take a proper look around, maybe speak to some of the staff members.”
Sharp gave me an approving nod, relaxing her arms. “I’ve got officers on rotation working with the hospital security,” she told us, leaning against the doorframe as I slung my coat over the back of my chair, rolling my sleeves up to my elbow.
“Thank you, ma’am.” She flashed us a tight-lipped smile, striding away back to her own office. Smith dodged past her, glancing in at us.
“Family liaison’s here,” she called before hurrying off to wherever she was due. I looked at Mills, rolling my shoulders back.
“Ready?”
“Let’s go,” he answered, following me from our office. In the hallway on the few plastic chairs that lined the wall, a very familiar blonde-haired woman sat, her face breaking into a smile as we approached.
“Susanne,” Mills stepped forward, taking her hand as she stood. “What are you doing here?”
Susanne frowned at him and readjusted the bag on her shoulder. “Working,” she said pointedly, tapping him on the arm with a folder that she carried. I grinned at the confused look on Mills’s face before everything clicked together, and he shook her hand.
“Thank you for coming, Miss.”
“Happy to help,” she answered, throwing me a little wave. “Inspector Thatcher.”
“Susanne.”
She looked around. “Girl not here yet?”
“Not yet. Should be soon,” I told her. We walked her inside to the kitchen, where Mills flicked the kettle on and snatched three mugs. Susanne sighed and leant against the cupboards.
“Poor thing. How’s her mum? If I’m allowed to know, that is.”
“She’s in a coma, but she’s stable,” I told her as Mills set about fixing the tea.
Susanne nodded, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Well, that’s a relief. And it’s her aunt who’s coming in to fetch her?”
“Paige Whelan,” I confirmed.
“I’m assuming you’ll have a few questions for her,” Susanne added.
“Paige or Grace?” I asked, passing Mills the milk from the fridge I leant against.
“Both,” Susanne said. “But I mean Grace.”
“One or two. We’ll let you take the wheel on that, I think,” I told her, taking the mug that Mills handed me. “See what sort of state she’s in first.”
Susanne took her mug and her nose crinkled in thought. “You’d be better waiting for her aunt if you want to ask her anything,” she pointed out. “In case she gets emotional, it’s better to have someone she knows there.”
“You’re good with emotions,” Mills told her, his eyes fixed on her face as she blew on her tea, the steam rolling off and fogging her glasses.
“I know,” she said proudly. “But four-year-olds aren’t.”
“What’s welfare’s stance on this at the moment?” I asked as we walked over to an empty desk and sat around. Susanne dumped her bag on the floor, Mills kindly taking her coat, and she settled down, swamped in a chunky pink cardigan.
“At the moment, with the aunt in the picture, there’s not much need for us. Abbie had full custody, and there’s no contact with the father at all, so he shouldn’t be an issue.”
“What about child support?” I asked.
Susanne shook her head. “Nothing. Not a penny,” she added in a disapproving tone.
“What happens if he does show up?” I asked her, unfamiliar with the complexities of family law.
“Call us,” she answered quickly and firmly. “He has no custodial rights, but he is her father, and that can make things difficult. The sooner we get everything sorted with the aunt, make sure that Grace is somewhere safe and stable, we’ll be out of your hair.”
“I guess we’ll have to wait and see what sort of aunt she is,” Mills mused.
“What and see if she’s anything like yours?” Susanne asked him with a grin. I looked up; my eyebrows raised.
“What’s this? Have you got an interesting aunt, Mills?” I asked, taking a long sip of tea.
He glared at Susanne and reached up to scratch the back of his head. “She’s unique.”
“Mad,” Susanne supplied.
“Eccentric.”
Susanne rolled her eyes and looked up at me. “She breeds ferrets and has a laugh like Barbara Windsor.”
I chuckled at the thought of someone like that hanging around with Mills and his parents. Especially from all the tales I’d heard of his pants-ironing mother and historian father.
“She’s great,” Mills said after a moment, his face brightening. “Makes the absolute lemon drizzle cake in the country and,” he held up a finger, “has never once lost money in a horse race.”
“That is impressive,” I acknowledged.
“Inspector,” a constable in uniform ran up the stairs from the front desk, and I looked over at him. “The little girl’s here, sir.”
I nodded,
