Page 6 of Making a Killing (DI Fawley #7)

‘That’s how things stand,’ says Tate, finishing her announcement and looking round the room. ‘Not my choice, but nothing I can do.’

‘And what happens in the meantime?’ says Holloway. ‘Do we just sit on our bloody hands like a bunch of plonkers until this hotshot DCI from Thames Valley parachutes in to take over? We need to expand the house-to-house, follow up on MissPers –’

Funny, thinks Triona Bradley, how he’s suddenly so keen on doing the hard yards.

She clears her throat. ‘Is he bringing his own team, boss?’

Which – as they all know – is code for ‘Am I off the case?’ Because this Adam Fawley is hardly going to bother hauling a bunch of cannon-fodder DCs all the way up here, but he may well bring his own DS.

Tate turns to her. ‘I don’t know. I’ve told you everything Kearney told me. But until we hear to the contrary, you, Holloway and Bell should assume you will be seconded to that investigation. And if it turns out there is a link to the Ellie Harben case after all, as I just raised with DSU Kearney , well, we’ll all have a lot of fun getting back together and comparing notes, won’t we. And in the meantime, you, Holloway, can do your job .’ She raises an eyebrow. ‘Who knows, you might beat all the odds and actually manage to solve the bloody thing, so DCI Fawley can sod off back to Oxford where he belongs.’

A moment later the door bangs shut behind her, leaving only a vague waft of coffee and the slight depletion of oxygen that always follows in her wake. Most of the officers go back to their desks, leaving Bradley, Holloway and Bell standing awkwardly like an Abba tribute band that’s missing a limb.

‘So what do we do now?’ says Bell.

‘Like she said,’ offers Bradley. ‘Our job.’

‘And you’re the one to tell us what that is, are you?’

Bradley gives him a steady look. ‘Well, the last time I looked neither of you were a DS, so pending the DCI ex machina from Thames Valley, the answer would appear to be yes.’

Holloway’s eyes narrow; he doesn’t even know what language that was, but he knows when he’s beat. ‘OK, then, what do you want us to do?’

‘I have, as it happens, been compiling a small list.’ Which she produces, with perhaps the hint of a flourish. ‘You, Holloway, are going to continue the house-to-house in Hescombe, taking Bell with you. That should keep you out of trouble.’

Bell rolls his eyes. ‘Not again .’

‘Yes, again . I, meanwhile, will follow up on the Crone Oak and any possible connections to occult and/or New Age practice. It’s a right royal P in the A but we need to cover it off.’

‘I don’t know, Sarge,’ quips Holloway, raising his voice and looking round the room for an audience. ‘Sounds like it’s right up your alley. I mean, you’ve already got the cat, right? All you need now is a broomstick.’

‘Careful,’ she says, returning him a long cool stare, ‘or I might just turn you back into a handsome prince.’

It takes him a moment to work that one out and by the time he does it’s too late: everyone else is already laughing.

‘Fine,’ he mutters, stamping back to his desk. ‘Absolutely fucking totally fine .’

Behind him, someone makes a ribbit noise.

***

‘Message for you, sir. You were on the phone so I took it down for you.’

It’s been three months now, and Quinn still hasn’t tired of that ‘sir’. The red-haired PC at the door knows that better than anyone: the new Acting Inspector is known to be a bit touchy on occasion, but slathering on the ‘sirs’ usually puts him in a good mood. Even when he’s being interrupted at one of his ‘surgeries’. It’s Summertown today, so it’s a litany of first-world problems: loud music on Port Meadow, diesel pollution on the canal and, most dearly beloved of all, the new traffic system, dire consequences thereof.

‘What sort of message, Chingford? I’ve got a queue of people waiting outside.’

‘From St Aldate’s. They want you up there as soon as. To see a DCI Fawley?’

Quinn sits back. ‘Fawley? Are you sure?’

‘Definitely. It was Superintendent Harrison’s PA who called. She even spelled it for me.’

Quinn starts tapping his fingers on the table, which PC Chingford is not alone in realizing doesn’t always bode well.

‘And she didn’t say what it was about?’

‘No, sir. Just that you were to clear your diary for today and get back to St Aldate’s.’

Which doesn’t bode well either.

Quinn gets to his feet and smooths the front of his uniform. If there’s shit in the offing he might as well find out sooner rather than later.

‘OK, Chingford, can you hold the fort here? Explain I’ve been called away on urgent business and just take down details of what the issue is. Tell them we’ll be in touch.’

‘Righty-o, sir.’

Quinn stops in the doorway. ‘How many more times – stop using that bloody phrase. Makes you sound like a halfwit.’

Chingford’s face is as red as his hair.

‘And fuck you too. Sir ,’ he says under his breath as the door bangs shut.

***

Adam Fawley 25 July 2024 12.57

I tell the front desk that I’ll be in the coffee shop up the road and to send Quinn to meet me there. I’m still trying to stay under the radar, and talking off-site is a bit more discreet. At least for now.

I grab an espresso and a sandwich and the last table in the window. Though I’m not sure I need it: I’m hardly likely to miss Quinn.

And ten minutes later I’m wondering if the window was such a good idea after all: it’s even hotter behind glass than it was outside. Out on the street, summer is at it full throttle: flip-flops, ice cream, men going topless (don’t get me started) and little kids in sun hats. There’s a toddler on the other side of the street wearing a pink bonnet exactly like the one we bought Lily when she was that age. She looked adorable in it, even though she always tore it off the minute our backs were turned.

It’s as hot today as it was that summer, the summer when Daisy disappeared. I remember the lines of uniforms picking through the dead grass on Port Meadow, the ancient fan in the incident room that did nothing but push hot air around, the sweat running down my back at the TV appeal –

I don’t notice Quinn till his shadow falls over the table.

I have to say he’s looking good. I thought he’d be in the standard summer-issue black T-shirt and trousers, and I wouldn’t blame him on a day like this, but he’s in the full monty. Shirt and tie, cap under one arm, uniform jacket (and he’s got himself one with Inspector pips, like that’s a surprise). And needless to say, he wears it well – upright, straight back, not round-shouldered like it’s something to be ashamed of. And, for once, the hair is under control, which I rather suspect we have Maisie to thank for.

‘I was at a surgery,’ he says, reading my mind. He was always better than most of them at doing that. One reason, among many, that he so often rubbed me up the wrong way.

‘Have a seat.’

He pulls out a chair and one of the girls at the counter hurries over to take his order. That’s the first time I’ve seen table service in here, I can tell you. But like I said, it’s a uniform and he looks good in it.

‘How’s it been, North Oxford?’

‘Pretty good. Learning a lot. Good stopgap while I wait for something to come up.’

He was on the brink of saying ‘something better’ but stopped himself just in time.

‘What about yourself? Specialist Ops, must be all go.’

I smile drily – how like him to make it sound as dull as possible. ‘Something like that. Though it’s hardly a laugh a minute.’

He nods and waits. He wants to know what he’s doing here and, more to the point, what I’m doing here.

I take a deep breath, ‘OK, so, let me fill you in.’

***

‘This is a poxy wild goose chase, and Bradley bloody knows it.’

DC Bell takes his eyes off the road for a moment to glance at Holloway. He’s clearly pissed off, but something about his face has Bell suspecting he’s also really enjoying the rant.

‘Come on, mate,’ Bell says, ‘there are worse things than poodling round country lanes on a hot day. No Tate on your back, for a start.’

Holloway makes a face. ‘The only good thing about this Fawley bloke turning up is that he ain’t Tate.’

Bell checks his mirror and pulls over. ‘According to the satnav, this is the place.’

He picks up his phone. ‘Tichborne Farm. Owners are a Mr and Mrs Stirling.’

He looks up towards the house, but the hedging is so thick he can barely see much more than a distant hint of brickwork. He opens the car door. ‘You coming? Or would you prefer to stew here?’

Holloway gives him a withering look and yanks open his own door, muttering, ‘I need a piss anyway.’

Another long gravel drive, leading to a perfectly re-painted and -pointed farmhouse set among a scatter of black-slatted outbuildings that can’t have seen livestock in a good thirty years. At least there’s no labrador this time, but there are no other signs of life either. They knock at the door and hang about for a few minutes, then Holloway says, ‘Come on, like I said, it’s a waste of bloody time.’

But Bell’s a stubborn sod when the mood takes him. He goes to the side of the house and spots a wooden gate leading to the garden.

‘We might as well check it properly while we’re here. Don’t want Bradley sending us back out here a second time like a couple of amateurs. Wouldn’t she just love that.’

Holloway heaves a theatrical sigh, then looks around. ‘Suit yourself – I’m going over the back there for a slash.’

Bell makes a devastating retort but only in the privacy of his own head, and pushes open the gate. On the far side of the immaculate lawn, a man in a short-sleeved floral shirt and shorts is reading a newspaper by a swimming-pool. There’s a silver cafetière on the table next to him. He’s wearing sunglasses and headphones, but he’s facing towards Bell so can see him coming all the way across the grass. By the time Bell gets there the man is on his feet.

‘Who are you?’

Bell whips out his warrant card. ‘DC Bell, South Mercia Police. Are you Mr Alistair Stirling?’

The man’s eyes widen, just a little. ‘What’s this about? Some sort of break-in?’

Bell tucks his card back in his jacket. ‘Nothing to be alarmed about, sir, we’re just making general enquiries. Were you aware that a shallow grave has been discovered in the woods not far from here?’

The man takes off his sunglasses. ‘A grave ?’

‘’Fraid so, sir. A woman’s remains. Been there about a month, we think. As at now, we haven’t been able to identify her.’

The man looks genuinely wrong-footed. ‘I’m not sure how I can help –’

‘You’re not aware of anyone who’s dropped out of sight unexpectedly – a woman, maybe in her twenties?’

He shakes his head, ‘No, no one.’

‘Do you remember seeing anything or anyone unusual around that time, Mr Stirling? As I said, we’re talking mid to late June. Maybe something that didn’t strike you at the time?’

Stirling shakes his head slowly. ‘We weren’t even here then. We were staying with friends in Cornwall for three weeks from May 27th. My sister-in-law was staying here on her own for the last few days before we got back but she never mentioned anything out of the ordinary.’

‘Could we speak to her, sir?’

‘I’m afraid she’s not here – she had to go back home. But I can give her a call and ask her to contact you?’

‘Thank you,’ says Bell, handing him a card, ‘the number’s on there and if I’m not in the office someone else can take a message.’

Stirling is now looking past Bell’s shoulder and Bell turns to see Holloway emerging from behind the house, still doing up his flies and then doing a pantomime start when he sees the two of them watching. Bell turns back to Stirling. ‘Sorry about that, sir – just can’t get quality recruits these days.’

Back in the car and Holloway is acting as if nothing happened, which is exactly what Bell’s mother’s cat does when he’s caught out too.

He winds down the window to its maximum extent and starts loosening his tie. ‘It’s bloody sweltering in here, you should’ve parked in the shade.’

Bell shoots him a look he doesn’t see, then starts the engine.

‘OK,’ he says, ‘fancy stopping at a pub for a Coke or something before we do the next one? Apparently the one in the next village is pretty good. I know we shouldn’t but –’

Holloway reaches for his seat belt. ‘Sod that. Has my bloody name on it.’

Bell smiles to himself, savouring the anticipation. ‘Funny you should say that, cos it’s called the Beetle and Frog.’

Holloway turns to look at him. ‘Ha-fucking-ha. Fancy yourself a bloody comedian, do you? Well, don’t give up the day job. Which you’re also shit at, by the way.’

Bell grins happily and sticks the car in gear.

***