‘And who is that?’
‘Sergeant Milton.’
‘Not Karen Milton?’ She felt a surge of dismay.
The receptionist blinked. ‘Yes.’
Oh, shit. She used to work with Karen. She’d actually quite liked her but the sentiment obviously hadn’t been returned since Karen had been one of the officers who’d stabbed her in the back, telling Magellan that Lucy was abrasive, temperamental and difficult to work with, which had ultimately given him the ammunition needed to kick her out.
‘Great.’ Lucy smiled weakly. She decided against sitting down while she waited. She didn’t want to start off feeling disadvantaged.
‘Lucy!’ Karen swept into reception, hand outstretched. ‘It really is you!’
‘Yep, it’s me all right.’ She shook hands, hoping her dismay didn’t show. It had only been a couple of years but Karen seemed to have aged a decade. Her waist had thickened and her hair turned wiry. She had lines around her mouth and eyes that were new. She looked closer to forty than the twenty-nine years Lucy knew she was.
‘It’s really good to see you.’ Karen was positively beaming. ‘I gather Stockton’s treating you well. You’ve done great things up there.’ She began ushering Lucy out of reception and into a corridor. ‘I think leaving the Met was probably the best thing you could have done. Look at your last case! Global attention, or what?’
Not wanting to talk about it, Lucy desperately cast around for something personal to refer to as Karen ushered her into a corridor.
‘How’s your, er…’ She couldn’t remember any of Karen’s family’s names. Another of her failings, apparently. ‘Little one? And your hubby?’
The lines seemed to deepen across the sergeant’s face. ‘We got divorced just after Christmas.’
Lucy’s heart squeezed. No wonder she looked knackered. ‘Oh, Karen. I’m sorry.’
Karen pulled a face. ‘Yeah. You get married and although you know the divorce statistics, you never think it’s going to happen to you.’
Lucy thought of Mac and getting married, having a baby, and abruptly a surge of panic washed over her. Dear God. Did she want a child? What if they had more than one? A boy and a girl? Twins? What if she and Mac split up? Would she end up having a pair of latchkey kids who resented her? Would they turn to drugs, become drug dealers, die of heroin abuse?
‘Lucy?’
She hurriedly lassoed her stampeding thoughts as she realised Karen had opened a door and was waiting for her to step inside. Don’t panic, she told herself. You can think about the kids thing another time. You’re only twenty-six, after all.
‘I was asking why you want to see Ricky? Is it connected to another case? If so, then I’ll be–’
‘No, nothing like that.’ Lucy was curt. ‘I went to school with him.’
Karen looked at her, startled. ‘Really?’
‘Yup.’
Karen closed the door behind them. She gestured for her to sit. ‘Tea? Coffee?’
‘No, thanks.’ Lucy went to the window. A street sweeper was leaning against a lamp post, leg kicked out, smoking a cigarette. He was eyeing a woman walking her small white dog. She had high heels and fur on her collar. When he said something to her, she said something back. He smiled, showing gaps in his teeth. She scurried away.
Lucy turned to face Karen. ‘What’s this about someone trying to kill Ricky?’
A guarded look crossed the sergeant’s face. ‘I wouldn’t say it was a murder attempt.’
‘What was it, then?’
‘His solicitor brought him a sandwich.’
‘Aren’t meals provided?’
‘Well, yes.’ Karen’s mouth twisted. ‘I know it’s rare for a custody officer to allow food to be taken in, but it was professionally prepared by a supermarket and still sealed. The sergeant didn’t think it would be a problem, but it had peanut butter in it.’
‘Ricky’s allergic?’
‘Yep. Luckily, he only had a bite but it was enough to trigger a reaction. His mouth swelled up a bit, but he’s okay. He’d brought an EpiPen with him, thank God.’ She fixed Lucy with a cool stare. ‘Who told you?’
‘His mother.’
‘I see.’ Karen dropped the chilly demeanour and rubbed her eyes. ‘Between you and me, Mrs Shaw has been, ah… somewhat vocal.’
Which meant Jaya was being a pain in the arse, no doubt hassling the police every minute of every day, but Lucy couldn’t blame her. Not when her son had been accused of murder.
‘And the vic?’
‘Kaitlyn Rogers. Thirty-two years old, from Wiltshire, and–’
‘Not that bloodbath in the Airbnb?’ Lucy was aghast.
‘The one and the same.’
Lucy couldn’t help it. She had to sit down. ‘Fuck.’ No wonder Jaya hadn’t said anything when Lucy had asked.
‘It’s gone ballistic,’ Karen confessed. ‘We’ve got every media outlet on our backs and even the Home Office has started shouting.’
‘Why was she in an Airbnb?’
‘She’d hired it for a week. Cheaper than a hotel in the same area. Nicer, too, in my view.’
‘What was she doing in London?’
Karen looked at her as though weighing up whether to tell her something or not. Lucy held her breath, but then the sergeant blew out a breath and turned away. ‘What can you tell me about Ricky?’
Lucy could picture the boy he used to be, sitting at the front of the class, the fat rolling over his too-tight waistband, his earnest expression, his eagerness to learn.
‘He was good at maths. Sciences. Used to dress like Rambo. You know, bandana, combats, army boots. Glasses, acne. Shy. Polite. Helpful. The teachers and parents loved him.’
‘But not the kids.’
Lucy thought back. ‘We used to tease him about his weight, but when he started dressing up we teased him about being Rambo. I guess it was a clever move to switch the attention from his scoffing doughnuts to dressing up as a super-hero… I can’t say for sure if he was bullied or not. Personally, I never saw anything but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. How come you arrested him?’
‘He was caught on CCTV, parking outside her property. We have him walking towards her place with a bottle of
