His faith in Amy had paid off. She had come to terms with her parentage and used it to her advantage. Her intuitions were laser-sharp. He worked through his mental rolodex of the officers in his team. Paddy was a decent sergeant who had a history with Amy; her ex-mentor, he knew her better than anyone. DC Steve Moss had been demoted after a sexual harassment scandal that was not at all clear-cut. There were rumours he’d been set up, and from what Donovan had heard about their former DCI, Ma’am Pike, he would not have been at all surprised. He had tried digging into the complaint, but the officer who’d made it had since quit their job. All he could do was to take him at face value, and so far, he was proving his worth. Steve was confident in his decision-making and unafraid to point out investigative flaws. Occasionally he would push things beyond his remit, but Amy could rein him in.
He thought about DC Molly Baxter, a breath of fresh air. With her glittery pens and jokey manner, it would be easy to underestimate her. But she was destined to rise in the ranks – if her mouth didn’t get her into trouble first. She would mature with age. He knew she idolised Amy and would go anywhere she asked. But would DC Gary Wilkes? The young man completed his tasks on time but rarely thought outside the box. He’d passed his first level of sergeant’s exams but lacked the experience required to cover for the likes of Paddy, should they find themselves running short. Perhaps a trip to Clacton would be good for him, push him outside his comfort zone.
Donovan’s gaze fell to the table next to him. Beneath it, a guide dog patiently waited for his owner to finish his breakfast. Donovan had an affinity for dogs, who asked little of their owners and gave so much in return. The retriever’s tail thumped against the floor as his elderly owner slipped him a slice of bacon. The simple act of kindness infused some much-needed warmth into Donovan’s day. It was easy to fall into the trap of becoming hardened and cynical, working in the dark corners of life as all coppers did. He pushed his empty mug away. At least now he knew what to say to the superintendent. He could not bring Carla back, but he could damn well ensure that the truth about her death was uncovered and the person responsible brought to justice. He owed her, and her family, that.
CHAPTER THREE
MO
Mo used to imagine a therapist’s office to be a cold and clinical place. She had also envisioned a hard-edged counsellor with beady, judgemental eyes. But the building she visited was not clinical at all, and her therapist, Ms Harkness, had a kind face. Her chair was missing a few stitches, a leather wingback that was worn with use. The sofa looked new, the glass table before it holding a scattering of lifestyle magazines. The colourful sofa cushions and thick fluffy rug made it almost homely. But someone else’s home. Certainly not the one Mo had spent her youth in. There were no such comforts there.
Taking a deep breath, Mo inhaled warm, stuffy air. The sash windows in the room were layered with paint so thick they seemed sealed shut. Maybe it’s better if they are, she thought. Her mind tended to wander to dark places. Right now, she was considering the impact of a body hitting concrete from such a height. They were only on the second floor. Enough to maim but not to kill, should a patient jump. She reined in her thoughts, feeling her therapist’s gaze burn. The woman had asked her a question and was patiently awaiting a response.
‘Jacob called me Momo.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘It was easier for him to say than Mummy, which is what he saw me as.’ She pulled on a strand of hair, picking at a split end. ‘I remember the day Mum came home from the hospital after having him. She handed him to me and took to her bed.’ The memory invoked another sigh. People used to say that it was ‘good to talk’ because it ‘unburdened you’ and ‘took a load off’. But with her, it felt like extra weight being added each time she opened up. She could never make them understand.
‘And the name stuck ever since?’ The therapist’s pen was pressed against her notepad. Mo nodded, conscious of the words being committed to the stark white page. She had spent years building walls around herself. Thoughts of Jacob brought an ache to her chest. A need to purge. She could not move on with her life until she got it all out. Her throat clicked as she swallowed, her mouth a dry passage for the words yet to come. A harrowing tale that led her down a path known to very few. Silence stretched between them as a clock on the mantelpiece ticked away the seconds. It had a steady beat, a calming effect that helped ground her to the present world. Her past was full of ghosts. It was easy to get lost in her thoughts. Her eyes flicked to a print on the wall. All great changes are preceded by chaos – Deepak Chopra. Mo’s lips thinned at the sentiment. Words uttered by someone who could never begin to understand the depths of her pain. It was a little too late for her.
The therapist watched her intently, her black hair streaked with delicate slivers of premature grey. Mo saw it catch the light, like silken threads winding around the antique clip neatly pinned at the back of her head. The sound of sirens blared from the streets below, making Mo involuntarily stiffen. She had been here half an hour and barely spoken more than a sentence. But the fact she had turned up for her appointment had been progress. ‘Call me
