For now, the office phones were silent and fingers softly pressed keyboards as reports were completed and emails responded to. In the corridor, the tannoy requested the presence of an officer at the front desk. For once, Amy’s team was being left in peace. After a bumpy start, they were tight, accepting of each other’s little ways. They were a police family – with her and Donovan at the helm. Amy’s relationship with her DCI had blossomed, before settling like a fine dusting of snow. It cast beauty over the ugliness that preceded it, and she was grateful to Donovan for his support. He’d given her a lifeline, just when she’d felt ready to give up. If he hadn’t been there during her last big case . . . She suppressed a shudder as Paddy approached with the day’s post in his hand.
Amy’s team had their own cubbyhole in the station reception, and every morning one of them took the short walk to pick up the mail. It was usually accompanied by a piss-take from officers on other teams: a jokey request for an autograph or a jibe about the camera adding extra pounds. Her team had encountered them all. But being on television had not smartened Paddy’s appearance. His baggy suit trousers still needed ironing, and there was usually a food stain of some kind on his novelty tie. Amy didn’t mind. He could be relied upon to keep the team running, and that was all that mattered.
‘Mmm, perfumed. Fan mail, I’m guessing.’ Paddy sniffed the pink envelope in his hand.
‘Don’t sniff too hard.’ Amy arched an eyebrow. ‘There could be ricin in there.’
‘Good point, it’s all yours.’ Paddy dropped the letter into the palm of Amy’s hand. It was one of many she had received since their fly-on-the-wall documentary aired on TV.
‘What about me?’ Steve Moss peered from over his computer monitor. His shirt was fitted to his form; his short gelled hair was swept into a style more suited to a younger man. Today he had been tasked with sorting his outstanding emails, many of them from witnesses requesting the return of seized property now the court cases were over.
‘You’ve had five this week already,’ Amy said. Not that she was keeping tally. Such letters were unimportant to her. The public was fickle and would soon move on.
But it seemed that Molly did not feel the same way. ‘I can’t believe you lot are getting fan mail and I’ve had nothing.’ She rammed the paper tray back into the photocopier, which had jammed for the third time that day.
‘That’s cos all your best bits were cut out.’ Steve snorted a laugh. ‘All that brown-nosing got you nowhere.’ He paused to straighten his tie. ‘I’m wasted in the police. I could be a Crimewatch presenter.’
Paddy rolled his eyes as he settled down at his desk. ‘Never praise a bubble because it’s sure to burst.’ It was one of his gems of Irish wisdom, often gifted but rarely appreciated.
Amy smiled. Her team had a right to be jubilant. The police documentary had raised their profile no end. For once, the command team were happy with them, although that could change in the blink of an eye. For now, their workload was manageable. They hadn’t dealt with a high-profile murder since the Love Heart Killer, and it was a novelty to have time on their hands. But as Donovan strode past, the thunderous look on his face told Amy their free time was coming to an end.
Ignoring the laughter, Donovan disappeared into the office he shared with Amy, his mobile phone jammed against his ear. The blood visibly drained from his face as he spoke in low tones. Amy felt a pang of worry. Was it his daughter? She hovered outside the open door. It was her space too, but still, she wondered . . . should she go in, or was this a call that should be taken alone? Her question was answered as he waved her inside.
‘Something wrong?’ she said, her unease growing as he rested his phone on his desk.
‘That was Bicks – he replaced me as sergeant after I left Clacton CID.’ A heavy sigh left Donovan’s lips. ‘He rang to tell me that Carla killed herself last night. She was a DC on my team.’
‘Suicide?’ The word bounced off the walls of their office. A word that invoked dread, particularly when it came to one of their own. ‘Who?’ Amy was not known for her bedside manner, preferring to get to the point.
‘Carla. Carla Burke. She was a good detective.’ Donovan’s eyes grew moist. ‘I need to get to the bottom of this.’
‘That’s awful . . . I’m so sorry.’ Amy had lost colleagues in the past. One of her fellow trainees had been stabbed during a raid when she was a PC. But this was suicide . . . She immediately joined the dots as she remembered what she had just read. Was her demise connected to the string of seaside suicides reported in the press? She shook the thought away. It was too soon to bring it up. It pained her to see Donovan this upset. The sense of foreboding she had earlier experienced left her feeling unsettled. Had it been a premonition?
She rested a hand on Donovan’s shoulder for a moment to offer comfort, drawing it away when she realised Paddy’s gaze was upon them. He raised his eyebrows in concern. Amy returned a tight smile.
‘CCTV picked her up heading towards the pier in Clacton.’ Donovan’s words were weighted with grief. ‘They said she must have thrown herself off the edge.’ He paused to clear his throat. ‘But they’re wrong.’
‘Where are you off to?’ Amy watched him pocket his mobile phone before rising from his chair.
‘To speak to the command team. I’m getting us attached
