He rinsed plates and glasses, then put them inside the shiny metal dishwasher. ‘Not sure. Maybe something to do with the brutality of this case. Possibly, because we know what happened to Mrs Lawrence. Do you know that she was pregnant?’
‘Yes. Who was with you at the hospital?’
‘Judd.’
‘How did she cope?’
‘Really well. A bit spacey afterwards.’
‘Who did the post-mortem?’
‘Big bloke. Wexler. He sends his regards.’
Chong grinned. ‘He’s a character. We trained together. Did he get you chatting during it?’
‘He did the chatting. Towards the end, I couldn’t remember Adam’s surname when he asked for it and I’m not so sure I knew my own by the time we left.’ He shrugged. ‘I think I was distracted because of Judd being there and how she was doing.’ He gazed down at Connie. ‘I’ve put your bag in the spare room.’
She went to the door and turned, giving him a steady look. ‘Bernard, I’ve just spent several days with my mother who is eighty-one years old, frail, not very well, but when I left she was making plans for a holiday with my brother and contemplating spending some of it, if not hiking, then on her feet.’ She waited. ‘Do you get what I’m saying?’ She watched his eyes move from side to side. Shaking her head, she left the kitchen.
He gave it a quick once-over. Getting on for twenty-five years married until his wife died, and now a year-long relationship with Connie Chong hadn’t made his understanding of women’s thinking any swifter. He listened to the new dishwasher going through its paces. He patted it. One thing he did know: women had most of the good ideas.
‘Bernard?’
‘Coming.’ He headed for the hall and stairs. ‘How about I make mugs of hot—?’
He gazed upwards at small feet, their neat nails a deep rose colour and on, over honeyed skin, the dark triangle, the neat curves and swells and on to the pixie haircut and her face smiling down at him. ‘My bag is in the main bedroom where it belongs.’ The hall clock ticked its way to eight forty-five.
‘You’re not tired from your flight?’
She regarded him, one hand on her hip. ‘Clearly, my reference to my mother was overly oblique, so try this. I’m fifty years old and my job, which I’ll be resuming some time tomorrow and which I love, is also a constant reminder that life can be unpredictable, at times brutal and also unexpectedly short.’ She turned, gazed over one shoulder at him. ‘Now, do you get it?’
Hearing his quick footfalls on the stairs, she laughed.
ELEVEN
Monday 10 December. 7.50 a.m.
The carjacking files were spread on the table close to the still-slim one relating to the Lawrence case, the Smartboard waiting to receive any information additional to that yielded by the post-mortem.
‘What time is Will due in?’ asked Judd.
‘Knowing how prompt he is, in eight point five minutes.’
‘When are we going to see Dr Chong?’
‘About the same.’
She was silent, then: ‘There’s loads of guns in Birmingham, Sarge.’
‘And I need reminding because?’
‘Just saying. The one that’s been found might not be—’
The door opened and Brophy came in. ‘When Dr Traynor arrives, ensure that he knows that I expect, make that demand, due care be taken by all working with this force when interacting with various inner-city residents.’
‘He knows that that’s general policy,’ responded Watts, wondering why Brophy was acting like his pants were on fire. ‘Plus Traynor is sensitive to people’s feelings—’
‘I’ve just had one of the inner-city community leaders on the phone to tell me that concerns are already being raised by residents feeling targeted due to the high police presence in the area.’
Watts was unimpressed. ‘We’ve hardly started and we’re already taking due care but those kinds of concerns come second to my investigation.’
Brophy frowned. ‘The situation still needs careful handling.’
Jonah Budd’s name nudged inside Watts’ head. ‘Whatever leads we get, we follow them, regardless of ethnicity, and whatever we do will be appropriate and subtle. This isn’t the seventies.’ He watched Brophy swivel and disappear.
‘How many days have we been on this case and he’s already getting on my—’
The phone rang as Traynor came inside. Judd reached for it, nodded.
‘We’ll be there.’ She replaced it. ‘Hi, Will.’ To Watts: ‘Dr Chong is ready.’
Inside the PM suite, they watched Chong place copies of the hospital post-mortem report on Mike Lawrence in front of them, plus accompanying photographs, followed by a shorter report relating to Molly Lawrence.
‘Both are concise yet thorough. Details of the injuries to Michael Lawrence you already know.’ She indicated the shorter item. ‘This is the hospital’s overview of Molly Lawrence’s injuries, which basically indicates the bullet entered low on her right side, after which it travelled upwards and, exiting almost instantly, avoided major organs. I’m guessing here when I say that the assailant probably had some difficulty aiming the gun from the rear seat. Her injuries are currently incapacitating but fortunately not life-changing.’ She waited. ‘Any questions?’
‘No,’ said Watts.
Traynor shook his head.
She headed for the door. ‘In which case, a physical demonstration of the shootings should be mere icing on the cake. What I’m about to show you is something Adam and I spent several hours assembling yesterday.’
They followed her from the PM suite, along the corridor, up a flight of stairs to the ground floor and along another corridor towards the rear of the building.
‘Where are we going, Sarge?’
They stopped at a door marked Forensic Test Area. A triangular warning sign bearing a laser symbol was next to it. Chong entered a code into the keypad to one side and they followed her into a vast, light-filled, featureless space.
Judd took several steps inside, looking slowly up and around, her mouth a perfect ‘O’. ‘I’ve never been in here … It’s … it’s like Lidl, without the stuff.’
Chong smiled, pointing ahead. ‘This is where specific types of mock-ups are created.’
They followed her across a wide expanse of pale floor to the Lawrences’ dark Toyota Previa,
