‘I’ve heard about those seaside deaths, and I have my theories.’
The playfulness had left Mama Danielle’s voice, raising Amy’s concerns. She’d rung Danielle to talk about the teenagers. She hadn’t mentioned any suicides. ‘Care to elaborate?’ A spark of excitement grew as another connection was made.
‘Sure, I’ll help you’ – Danielle’s voice dripped with sarcasm – ‘if I want to get myself killed.’
‘Off the record,’ Amy whispered urgently. ‘I’ll keep you out of it.’ But as the silence between them stretched, Amy sensed reluctance on Mama Danielle’s part. ‘It can’t be good for business if punters are dying,’ she added, as an afterthought.
Mama Danielle sucked a sharp breath between her teeth. ‘Bitch, please. We don’t deal with low-lifes like that.’
‘So, our drowning victims were clients?’ Amy tried to prise out the information Mama Danielle was keeping close to her chest. She slipped her feet into her shoes, conscious of the time. Soon she would have to leave for work.
‘You’re good, I’ll give you that. But don’t go putting words in my mouth.’
‘You know more, don’t you? Please. I’m grasping at straws here. Give me a dig out.’
Danielle exhaled a sharp sigh. ‘Look. I’ve heard wind of some sex workers being moved around. The people doing it are not the sort of folks I’d want to tangle with.’
Her head bowed, Amy gripped her phone tight to her ear. ‘So, who’s killing the tourists? Other sex workers? Vigilantes? Or are the girls themselves turning on them?’
But Mama Danielle’s voice took on a warning tone. ‘Even if I knew, I couldn’t tell you. And you’re not to connect me to any of this, you hear? You didn’t get this from me.’
‘You know you can trust me.’ Amy’s pulse picked up pace at the prospect of progressing the case. ‘I’ll come to London to meet you. Take a quick account.’
‘Are you trying to finish me off?’ Danielle shrieked. ‘Is that it? Because if you put my name to that little operation my days are numbered.’
‘Don’t be such a drama queen.’ Amy’s jaw tightened. She was beginning to lose patience now. ‘You’re in your room, aren’t you? I take it you’re alone. Because so am I. Nobody’s going to hear you. What aren’t you telling me? What’s the problem?’
‘Can’t you see? YOU are the problem. Just talking to you about this is putting my neck on the line. I’m sorry, Winter, but I can’t help you. Not this time. Drinks I can do, but try to rope me in as informer on some crazy-ass operation? Uh-huh, no way.’
Amy stared at her phone in disbelief as a dead tone rang out. Are you trying to finish me off? Mama Danielle had asked, her voice brittle with fear. She had never cut her off like this before. Danielle had zero sympathy for the victims, so in contrast with Amy’s last big case. And what did she mean, saying she was the problem? Was it something to do with her past?
Danielle managed high-end escorts and lucrative clients – a world away from teenagers being sex-trafficked around seaside resorts. Amy’s frustration grew as she pressed redial and was rewarded with a voice asking her to leave a message after the beep. At least Mama Danielle had pointed her in the right direction. But was it possible? The victims had no previous convictions. A doting dad, a Santa lookalike and a nursery worker hardly fitted the bill as sex pests. The most frightening monsters are made of flesh and bone. The thought that lingered in Amy’s consciousness originated from a dark place in her soul. All at once, she knew that their ‘innocent victims’ were not so innocent after all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
‘Have you seen this?’ The question came from Julie O Toole, Martin O Toole’s sister and next of kin. Julie was a stern woman, thin and sharp and not much taller than Molly. She was wearing a duffel coat, despite the warm weather, and a woolly jumper and skirt that could explain the sheen of sweat breaking out on her skin.
Molly fixed her gaze on the newspaper as Julie slammed it on the table before her. ‘WHO KILLED SANTA CLAUS? DI Winter murder enquiry team leads investigation into suspicious deaths.’
Damn, Molly thought. The press has got a hold of it. She gazed at the picture of Martin O Toole in his Santa costume. The story went on to mention Chesney and Darius too. Of how their deaths had been deemed suspicious and that police had discovered further evidence that they were holding back. Molly sighed in exasperation. This was a major pain in the backside.
‘And I don’t mean to be rude,’ Julie continued. ‘But are you old enough to be a detective?’
‘Of course,’ Molly answered. It was her most appropriate response. She had encountered such discrimination many times before. It was as if her youth was a disability, holding her back from doing her job. She knew the Julies of this world would find more reassurance with a man like Paddy, who would tower over her, or Steve Moss, who had more muscles than sense. But Molly had been assigned to speak to Julie. Her brother had been victim number two. Martin O Toole had been sixty years and three days old when his body was washed up from the sea.
‘I don’t know how the press got hold of this information,’ Molly said apologetically. ‘But you need to take what they say with a pinch of salt.’
‘So you don’t have any evidence that you’re holding back?’ Julie peered at Molly through narrowed eyes. Molly wasn’t sure how to answer that. You’re damned if you do and you’re damned if you don’t, her inner voice warned. ‘Full details of the investigation will be released in due course.’ Avoidance was the safest option. DI Winter had told them the pathologist had requested a second tox report. Who knew what that would throw up?
‘It’s just that . . .’ Julie piped up as Molly pulled her chair into the desk. ‘I
