‘Do we have a name for Mr Soaking Wet?’ The sudden breakthrough brought Amy a sense of exhilaration. At least one member of her team was on the ball.
‘Not yet,’ Steve replied. ‘A member of the public called it in after finding him washed up on the beach. He discharged himself without giving his name.’
‘Shame we don’t know who he is,’ Gary said, his frown deepening.
‘But why shouldn’t we?’ Amy said. ‘The hospital has CCTV, hasn’t it? Steve, speak to local officers. I want that CCTV. Then get a detailed description from the nurse. The intelligence and public protection team can cross-check the images. We could be on to something here.’ There could be a reason the man didn’t report his assault to the police. He was either in fear for his life, or he might not want them knowing what he was up to. Could the same be said for the other victims?
‘Sorry.’ Paddy bumbled in, a Gregg’s bag in his hand. ‘But doughnuts for everyone!’
‘I’ll make us some coffees.’ Gary jumped up from his desk.
Sighing, Amy wished she had an office of her own to escape to. She missed Notting Hill. She glared at Paddy for the late intrusion.
‘I’m going to find Donovan. Steve can fill you in.’ But the ring of her desk phone stilled her movements.
‘I’ve got a Rachel Cummings on the line. She’s asked to speak to you,’ Elaine from front office said. ‘She said she’s from social services.’
‘Ah, right. Of course, put her through,’ Amy said as a spark of recognition lit in her brain. She had tasked Molly with contacting social care to ask if they’d had any information on teenagers hanging around in the area.
‘Sorry for the impromptu call, but I was wondering if you could spare the time to meet,’ Rachel said, after introducing herself. ‘I was forwarded an email from an officer in your team asking for information.’
‘That would be Molly,’ Amy said, wondering why she didn’t just respond to it. ‘She’s just come back to her desk. I can transfer the call if you like.’ Amy had the briefing to prepare for. Such a task would be safe in Molly’s hands.
‘I’d prefer to speak to you, if you don’t mind. I’ll be in town at eleven. We could meet at Costa, I won’t take up much of your time.’
Amy sighed. She was trying to delegate, but Rachel sounded insistent and it was just a quick coffee, after all . . . ‘OK, see you then,’ she said, before hanging up. She had forgotten to ask her what she looked like, but she had a feeling Rachel would recognise her. What was so important that she had to meet with a detective inspector?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
MO
Progress was slow, but it was coming. Instead of dreading the counselling sessions, Mo had begun to look forward to them. They provided her with a front-row seat to the past. Most people would find it difficult, reliving their darkest moments, and for a while, that had been the case. But as her life story progressed, she relished reliving the pain. It was fucked up. It was masochistic. But she was developing a new understanding of herself: the satisfaction of being the hunter instead of the hunted. Of course, she didn’t tell her therapist that. She’d have her committed if she did.
Today, Miss Prim and Proper was wearing a pristine white suit. It was a bit John Travolta for Mo’s liking, but she guessed it was the latest designer wear. Her hair had been coloured, the streaks of grey disguised for now. She had a glow, a sparkle. Perhaps she was getting laid. Mo wondered if she was seeing someone. But there was a wedding ring gracing her finger. Maybe she was having an affair.
‘Are you ready?’ Ms Harkness said, catching Mo’s eye. Mo was almost at the end of her journey. She only had a few sessions left. But she had to walk through fire to come out the other side.
‘I’m ready,’ she said, leaning back on the sofa and closing her eyes. Today, Mo was wearing a blouse and corduroy skirt. She had picked them up in the charity shop; they had only been worn once. She needed to portray that she was getting her shit together and that she didn’t harbour any more dark thoughts. It was important to portray a clean image of yourself to the world. Rain tapped the windowpane like tiny insistent fingers, and she allowed herself to relax as Ms Harkness counted down.
Now she was standing on the street, sheltered under an umbrella with Wes. It was raining back then, too. Mum had given her the money to get a chippie tea. She knew she had been struggling since she’d split up with her stepdad, but Mo was glad he had left. Maybe now her mum could meet someone who would treat her with some respect. Someone Mo would be happy to call Dad.
As always, Mo had texted Wes the second she got out. Since the house party, they had been spending more and more time together. Mum thought she was out with friends. She wasn’t to know that her ‘friend’ was fifteen years older than her and they were having sex. It wasn’t that she wanted to do it, but she’d had little choice. Wes had been kind to her, and she depended on him. She couldn’t lose him now. She was in deep – so deep she could not back out. Wes and her circle of friends were the only ones who understood. She was his. Nothing else mattered. It was why it was so important for Wes to have taken her virginity.
‘It shows that you care,’ he’d said. ‘That you’re mine.’ And she was. So why did he want to share her with his friends? At first, his request had come as a shock. She had grown up thinking that when two people loved each other, they didn’t see anyone else. But
