She checked her watch, torn between work and loyalty to Jean. This was why she didn’t answer her calls at work. It was so hard to hang up when her mum was feeling down. ‘Go down the garden centre, get some of those lovely bee-friendly plants.’
‘Oh no, I couldn’t risk it. What if you got stung?’ Jean paused, her voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. ‘I don’t like you being away from home. You need looking after. You don’t want it going back to . . . you know . . . how it was before.’ The words hung heavy in the air.
For the love of . . . Molly rolled her eyes. She would not justify Jean’s ill-timed words with a response. Why couldn’t she leave the past behind? ‘Why don’t you do a bit of spring cleaning? There’s some new disinfectant I’ve heard about on social media. It smells really nice. That Mrs Hinch is always going on about it . . .’ She spelt out the name as her mother wrote it down. Jean would immediately take to that. Disinfecting the house would definitely appeal.
‘That sounds nice. And it’s not harmful to your lungs?’
Molly wanted to tell her that there was nothing wrong with her lungs, but it would only spark an argument. ‘No, it’s completely natural, and it smells gorgeous. They have it in the Co-op. Maybe treat yourself to a new steam mop too.’
‘Yes . . . maybe I will.’ Molly could hear the smile on her mother’s voice, her concerns fading for now. ‘I was saying to your father this morning, the grouting on the kitchen tiles could do with a good steam.’ A wry smile crossed Molly’s lips as Jean let it slip that she had spoken to her dad today. She pushed open the gate as her security tag clicked to allow her through.
‘OK, well, I’m needed at work. I’m putting my phone on silent, so if there’s any problem, send me a text.’ Her voice echoed down the corridor as she made her way back to her desk. There would be many more missed calls on her phone by the end of the working day. Her mum’s anxiety came in spikes, and she had to ride it out until it passed. She wished she could do more for her. They had been through so much, but Molly desperately needed to escape her past.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Amy’s surroundings may have been unfamiliar, but her sense of purpose was unchanged. She stood in front of her team in the office they had been assigned. This briefing was meant for her team only, but Bicks had asked if his officers could sit in. Perhaps it was more out of morbid curiosity than their involvement in the case. Amy was used to people studying her with interest. Her shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, her trousers sticking to her waist. Even with the windows open, the room was increasingly warm. She took a swig from her stainless-steel water bottle to cool herself down. First on her agenda was a response to their complaints about IT.
‘OK, folks, I know some of us have had teething problems getting on to the system, but it should be sorted today. In the meantime, focus on some old-fashioned policing with paper and pens. If you need anything, ask Sergeant Bickerstaff or his team.’ She glanced at the whiteboard that Donovan had set up. It felt strange, working on someone else’s patch, but it was good they were there. Nobody wanted the lousy publicity these deaths were generating, and clearance had been given in record time.
There were three whiteboards in total, one for each area in which the alleged suicides had occurred. Enquiries were ongoing with forces in other British seaside resorts in case they had missed anything. Amy approached the whiteboard with the ‘Brighton’ header. Next to a picture of the victim were bullet points listing the circumstances of their death. A second column listed possible suspects, and the third column on the right portrayed similarities in each case. The second and third columns were depressingly sparse.
‘You’ve all had time to familiarise yourselves with the case. Don’t be afraid to ask any burning questions, just don’t get under people’s feet.’ She was referring to DS Bickerstaff’s team, who were watching her intently. She returned her attention to the board. ‘If there’s a connection, this began in Brighton, six weeks ago. The first suicide was that of Chesney Collier, a thirty-five-year-old builder with a wife and two kids. Death by drowning.’ They already knew that he was visiting the area with his kids having rented an apartment through Airbnb. Amy glanced at her colleagues. ‘According to his wife, they were in Brighton for an impromptu holiday. It had been a busy day, they were tired, and she’d finally got the kids to bed. Chesney went out for some fresh air and never came back.’
Amy pondered on the picture of a stout, ginger-haired man holding his daughter on his shoulders, a wide grin on his face. When she’d first joined the police, the printed photos provided by the victim’s families were often creased and worn, but these days a sharp digital image could be provided, often taken hours before the victim’s death. This was the case here. The picture of thirty-five-year-old Chesney Collier had been taken by his wife earlier in the day. ‘He was a devoted father to his two daughters, and the holiday was a surprise he’d organised for them.’ Chesney’s daughter couldn’t have been more than three, her expression one of unbridled joy. It was
