IT WAS ALMOST five-fifteen when their squash game ended. Having a court within the confines of the prison was a wonderful facility, Jo thought. What better way for staff to end a shitty day than by smashing a little green ball around to the point of exhaustion? Especially when it represented Principal Officer Do-As-I-Say Harrison from B-wing who’d upset Emily McCann on her first day back.
‘Good game!’ Stamp said. ‘I see you haven’t lost your touch.’
He was being kind; he was much the better player, the more athletic of the two. Always had been, even at uni. Jo’s cheeks were burning, her clothes so drenched they stuck to her skin, whereas he hadn’t even broken sweat.
Retrieving her sports holdall from the rear of the court, she tucked her racquet inside, slung it over her shoulder and walked towards him extending her right arm. They shook hands awkwardly, a sporting gesture between two old friends that seemed formal and somehow inappropriate.
Jo was so out of breath she could hardly speak. ‘Return match later this week?’
Stamp nodded. ‘Suits me.’
‘I’ll see if the court’s available on my way out and confirm by text.’
‘Actually, I need a word. You up for a quick drink on the way home?’
‘Can’t, sorry. Wish I wasn’t, but I’m tied up.’
What had seemed like a good idea at the time now felt like a chore to Jo. It had been a long day. Much as she liked Ron Naylor, she’d just as soon cancel their arrangement, go home and sink her aching body into a hot bath. She loved the quaint little place she’d rented at the coast. She’d always wanted a traditional Northumbrian cottage overlooking the sea and now she had one. Adorable it was too.
Pity Kate wasn’t there to share it.
Taking in the clock on the wall, Jo missed the rejection on Stamp’s face.
‘Actually,’ she said. ‘I’d better get a wriggle on.’
‘Anyone I know?’ he asked. ‘Or is it a secret?’
Jo shook her head as she made her way off court. ‘Detective Super I used to work with.’
A twinge of regret edged its way into her thoughts. If she was honest, she missed Naylor and the rest of Northumbria Police’s Murder Investigation Team, Kate Daniels in particular. Finding out that her ex had moved on with a local artist – the delectably gorgeous Fiona-bloody-Fielding – Jo had thought it best to cut and run. But had she acted hastily? Not only had she failed to get Kate out of her head, but the research job at the prison was a bloody disaster. It bored the tits off her most of the time.
There: she’d finally admitted she’d made a mistake.
‘Hello?’ Martin Stamp waved a hairy hand in front of her face. ‘Earth to Jo . . . I said it’s a woman’s prerogative to be late.’
Jo gave an emphatic: No! ‘It’s also impolite to keep people waiting.’
‘C’mon,’ he pleaded. ‘Half an hour? It’s about Em.’
Why didn’t that surprise her?
‘Please,’ Stamped begged. ‘I’m seriously worried about her.’
‘Don’t be, Martin. She won’t thank you for it.’ Jo made a move for the door on legs so weak she could hardly stand up, her anger boiling over as she walked past him. ‘And stop playing the bloody hero, why don’t you?’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he yelled after her.
Ignoring the question, Jo entered the eerie corridor. This part of the prison was deserted at night. She didn’t want to talk about Emily behind her back. She was a good mate to both of them. It would feel like a betrayal.
Stamp caught up with her, barring her way as she reached the shower-room door, demanding an explanation for her throwaway remark. His behaviour reminded her of what he was like before he grew up – an immature hothead. It also brought to mind her late ex-husband: easy-going one minute, petulant the next.
Her eyes flew to the door handle on which Stamp had a vice-like grip.
‘Move please, Martin.’
He stood his ground, refusing to budge. ‘Not until you tell me what you meant.’
‘Can your ego stand what I have to say?’
He didn’t answer.
Jo was really pissed now. Bullying was her pet hate. Controlling men a close second. She’d put up with an abusive husband and had vowed never to be a victim again. ‘You want the truth or the toned-down version?’
Still no response.
Her sarcasm wasn’t helping. She calmed herself, tried talking some sense into him. ‘Martin, I know Emily has leaned on you big-style since Robert died, but you’re rushing her. She’s not ready for another relationship. Don’t pressurize her. Keep supporting her by all means but be sensible about it. Do the decent thing. Accept that you can’t take up where you left off two decades ago.’
‘Who said I want to?’
Jo tried not to snigger. ‘I’m a lot of things but blind isn’t one of them. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about. Recapturing a lost love is never that simple. It takes time and patience, only one of which you appear to have. Emily’s not going anywhere, so why the rush?’ She glanced again at the door handle. ‘Now, are you planning to let me in there, or shall I call security?’
But Stamp was sulking, unwilling to let the matter drop.
Jo tried again. ‘Look, all I’m saying is give the woman some space!’
‘We’re talking at cross purposes here . . .’ he insisted. ‘I do have feelings for her, of course I do, but this isn’t about what I stand to gain. It’s more a question of what she might lose.’
‘Meaning?’
He scanned the corridor. ‘Not here—’
‘Oh, for God’s sake! Cut the melodrama.’
Jo fell silent as a group of off-duty prison officers left the gymnasium. Instead of heading towards the two of them, they turned the other way, pulling their coats on as they headed for the main exit, shouting their goodbyes. She felt like calling after them, telling them she would walk out with them, but thought better of it. They would misinterpret her actions. By morning it would be all round the prison that she and Stamp had been fighting.
As they disappeared through a double door, Stamp opened the shower-room door and pushed her inside.
‘Get off me!’ Jo yelled. ‘What the hell is wrong with you?’
‘Shh, keep your bloody voice down!’ Stamp put his ear to the door and listened before continuing: ‘I can explain everything. Please, Jo . . . meet me at the pub and hear me out.’
Jo’s pulse raced.
No point screaming. The officers were long gone.
‘I told you, I’m busy,’ she said. ‘Now get out of here.’
Stamp wouldn’t release the door.
‘Martin, stop it! You’re freaking me out.’
‘I’m sorry . . .’ He let go of the door handle, shifting his hand to her forearm. His touch made a shiver run down her spine. Responding to the fear in her eyes, he spoke again. ‘Jo, don’t be scared. Please . . . accept my apology. I don’t know what came over me. That was totally out of order—’
‘Damn right it was.’
‘I said I’m sorry!’
Jo liked Martin but he was beginning to unnerve her.
Despite his apology, his eyes were like two black pools, devoid of any emotion. Looking down at her arm, she tried to shrug his hand away but he wouldn’t let go. His fingers had closed around her wrist so tightly his knuckles were white. He just stood there, a weird look on his face that made the hair stand up on her neck. She had to get out of there. Fast.