‘How the fuck do you think?’
Another silence.
‘So, you’re a police officer.’
‘No thanks to you.’
‘I remember your mum making you police epaulettes after you sat in that patrol car. How old were you?’
‘If you don’t know, I’m not going to tell you.’
‘You’d just turned seven.’
The year before you left us.
‘You loved listening to the police radio, I remember. You were fascinated.’
‘It’s lost its magic by now, trust me.’ Her voice was like acid.
He chuckled, seemingly unperturbed at her vitriol. ‘I’m not surprised. Did I hear you say you were a DC earlier?’
‘Yes,’ she reluctantly admitted.
‘A detective, no less.’ He whistled. ‘Congratulations.’
A picture of her mum at her passing out parade flashed across her retinas. She’d sat there on her own as usual, beaming. She’d been so proud. Lucy had spent the last twenty years picturing her father on a beach or having a barbecue, doing yoga or whatever the fuck, in the Aussie sunshine, and was having trouble readjusting.
‘Didn’t you go to Australia at all?’
‘I think we should have this conversation face-to-face, don’t you?’
Lucy hesitated, her mind suddenly darting sideways like a startled fish. What would her mother say?
‘I can be wherever you like,’ he added.
The words were out before she could stop them. ‘I want to come to you.’ I want to see what you’ve been up to, if you’re living with anyone, what kind of house you’re living in…
‘When?’
She took a breath. She didn’t want to put it off. She’d go crazy in the meantime. ‘This weekend?’
There was a pause. ‘Hell. I’m sorry. I’m flying out to America tomorrow. Heathrow.’
She was shaken at the strength of her disappointment. ‘For how long?’
‘I’ve got an open return… I do business there a lot. Look, this is such bad timing…’ His voice reverberated with frustration. ‘How about I call you when I’m back and set something up then?’
Suddenly, she had to see him. Look him in the eye. Kick him, slap him, hug him, she had to see him. Now.
‘What time’s your flight?’
‘Eighteen-ten. It means I get in late into New York and can grab some sleep before all the meetings start the next day.’
‘Which terminal?’
‘Three.’
Lucy nibbled her lip. ‘What if I came to Heathrow tomorrow? And we met for a coffee?’
‘You’d do that?’ He sounded surprised.
‘Yes.’
‘Lucy…’ He sounded overcome. ‘That would be seriously great. I would so love to see you.’
Me too, she thought, but didn’t say so.
‘How about if I find the perfect café and text you where?’
‘Okay.’
‘Lucy.’ His voice softened. ‘I can’t tell you how much it means that you contacted me.’
Realising she was beginning to soften, she hung up.
Lucy wandered back into MIR in a fog of disbelief. She was going to see her father tomorrow! Then she remembered her mother. She couldn’t tell her, could she? Wouldn’t it be better if she met with Dad and saw how it went and then… Lucy couldn’t imagine how Mum would react. She’d hit the roof, probably, but Lucy couldn’t not tell her. Could she?
She was gazing unseeingly at the exhibits desk when a gravelly voice permeated the fog.
‘I’ve got the CCTV for you.’
It was the custody sergeant.
She followed him into a side room where four police officers were studying CCTV footage. These were the guys who’d spotted Kaitlyn scoping Ricky’s offices and they were still hard at work, looking for further clues.
The sergeant settled Lucy in front of a computer and screen. Tapped a few times on a keyboard. A grainy picture appeared but it was clear enough to see a slender mixed-race woman, tall, with swishy dark hair scraped into a ponytail. Skirt suit. Whitish ruffled shirt. Briefcase. The woman who’d called herself Chris Malone.
‘She looks the part,’ Lucy commented. ‘But she’s an imposter.’
‘Who gave Ricky a sandwich with peanuts in it.’ The sergeant grimaced. ‘I’m not letting anyone, and I mean anyone, bring any food inside again.’
Lucy ran the tape several times, trying to commit the woman’s face to memory. Chin sharp and narrow. A fine nose. Upper lip fuller than the bottom. She was attractive. Smartly dressed, she wore the suit and heeled brogues as though she was used to them. Perhaps she was a solicitor, just not with Pozo and Partners.
‘Can I have a couple of prints?’
‘Sure. I’ll send them to your phone.’
She was studying the way the woman moved – she seemed to favour her right leg slightly, had she had an accident? – when her phone gave a buzz, telling her a text had come in.
I’m at the King’s Arms. Join me.
Teflon Tom had summoned her.
22
Lucy nipped home to change before she headed to the pub. Her nerves had got the better of her today and she wanted to shower the stress away, brush up before facing Tomas.
‘Hello, love.’ Her mother greeted her. ‘How was your day?’
Weird. I spoke to Dad.
‘Okay, thanks. Yours?’
‘I lost one.’ Her mother’s face lengthened.
‘Oh, Mum.’ Lucy went and gave her a hug. Her mother was a nurse at St Thomas’ Hospital and had been for the past twenty-five years. She was pragmatic, rational, and experienced as hell, but when someone she liked and had cared for died, she really felt it.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘He was only forty-two. He had three children and a lovely wife… It was an aneurysm.’
Lucy held her for a while.
‘You’d think I’d get used to it,’ her mother said, pulling back and wiping her eyes.
‘I hope you never do. It would mean you’d turned into Zombie Nurse, lumbering around the wards groaning unintelligibly.’
‘No change there, then.’
Lucy gave a snort of laughter.
‘Cup of tea?’ her mother asked.
‘Sorry. I’m on a QTA. Quick Turn Around. I’m seeing Teflon at the pub… Mum, can I borrow a shirt or something? I only planned to spend the weekend away and I’m running a bit short.’
‘Sure. You know where my wardrobe is.’
Not for the first time, Lucy was grateful they were the same size and that Mum didn’t dress her age: jeans, shirts, leather jackets, scarves, boots. Lucy filched a Metallica T-shirt and a butter-soft tasselled black suede
