‘So?’ Lucy gestured at the police station.
‘I came in to talk through a murder investigation.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Not Kaitlyn Rogers?’
‘Yes.’
‘Me too!’
It didn’t take long to swap stories.
‘Six degrees of separation,’ Dan muttered. ‘Who’d have thought it?’
He was referring to the idea that all people are on average six or fewer social connections away from each other, so that any two people could be connected via friends or acquaintances in a maximum of six steps.
Lucy mulled this over. ‘If that’s the case, then all we have to do is find the six people in the chain between Kaitlyn and the killer and ta-da! We’ll have the murderer.’
‘You don’t think Ricky Shaw is guilty?’
‘Not really, no.’
Dan was pensive. ‘If we’re two people in the chain, then we only have four more to go. But it’s not going to be easy when I can’t remember.’
Lucy pulled a face in sympathy. She’d first met Dan in an Albanian gang’s junkyard. At first, she’d thought he was part of the gang but it turned out he was ex-MI5 and a bit of a hero. He’d saved her life that day. A gang member had been strangling her to death when Dan had loomed silently behind her attacker and belted him on his head. One blow, that’s all it had taken. Her attacker’s eyes rolled upwards and he crumpled into a heap.
Holding her throat, gasping, she’d looked at her saviour. He was covered in blood, a wreck. He held a small rock cupped in his hand.
For a second neither of them spoke. Then she said, ‘Who the hell are you?’
Together, they uncovered the truth behind his son’s death. Their friendship had been forged in the flames of survival and tempered by working together on two more cases. Both had been personal to Dan and both times Dan had called on Lucy to help him, the first when Jenny was kidnapped, the second when his godson died. He may be ex-MI5 but he couldn’t go where Lucy could, or get the information she could either. He drove her crazy, pushing her to stretch legal boundaries when she was investigating on his behalf, half scaring her to death sometimes, but she trusted him with her life.
Now, agreeing to share information on the murder case, they moved aside for two uniformed PCs striding for the station.
‘Do me a favour?’ Dan said. ‘Ask your friend Karen Milton to tell you where to find Kaitlyn’s brother. He’s in a home for the disabled.’
‘Sure.’
He bent to kiss her cheek. ‘Good to see you.’
With that, he was gone.
9
Isla had swapped her uniform for a little black dress and a pair of leopard knee-high boots she’d bought in the autumn. Sexy as hell. Mussed hair, hooped earrings and a mini velvet bag containing a miniature toothbrush and a pair of lace undies – you never knew your luck – a swift spray of Opium, and she was good to go.
As she walked through reception, she saw people look her way. She was used to being stared at in her charcoal-grey Egret Air uniform, her cap always perfectly placed, and now she was in casual wear, it felt gratifying that she could still grab everyone’s attention. Outside, she stumbled a little, her vision blurring at the edges.
Boy, she hated jet lag.
It had been getting worse over the last few weeks, but even though she’d nearly dropped a passenger’s wine glass in their lap thanks to her vision suddenly blacking out, she still refused to consider it. Yes, her headaches were getting more intense at the end of each long-haul flight, but she persuaded herself that suffering the odd migraine wasn’t cause to panic.
She called a cab. Watched the glittering streets of London slide past for a few moments before she turned to her phone. Posed with her boots up and pouting, she took a selfie and posted it.
London! I’m ready to party!
It was 11am in LA, her home base, and her best friend Emily responded with a photo of herself in her jogging kit on the beach. It was sunny and bright and Isla knew Em would go back and shower before heading out for brunch with a gang of their friends.
Missing youuuu babe!
Isla felt a stab of envy, and rolled her eyes at herself, recognising that she was a walking hypocrisy. When she was grounded, all she could think about was going back to her hectic, fun-filled flying life. On the flip side, when she flew, she craved routine, to wake up at a normal hour and to have normal eating and social habits. And to see her friends. And her parents. And not to have to keep waving goodbye, again. And again. Not that she was complaining. She wouldn’t have her life any other way. But she had her moments, especially when she’d had such a good time hanging out with Em last week. She missed her friend. Simple. As the taxi began to slow to drop her off, she sent Em an emoji of a heart.
The cocktail bar was faux alpine with neon blue photos of ski slopes on the walls and sheepskin-covered stools. It had only opened a couple of months ago and was considered the place to be. Needless to say, it was packed, everyone drinking, chatting and laughing, having fun. Her gaze flicked across the room to see three of the crew were already there, waving at her to join them.
She knocked back a caipirinha and then another. The alcohol hit her system like a train, helped by the huge amount of sugar pounded into the fresh limes. She downed another couple of cocktails and she was just finishing her story about an emergency landing they’d made last month when the landing gear on both wings failed mid-air – even the most hardened air crew loved the odd scare story – when her phone rang. Her eyebrows lifted when she saw it was Captain Bob Brown from the Miami
