The late morning sun slanted into the hospital room as Christa gathered up the last of her mother’s things on Monday. “Don’t forget my shawl,” Deepa instructed her from the wheelchair the nurse had brought in earlier.
“I’ve got it.” Christa plucked the length of embroidered silk from her mother’s overnight bag and held it up. “See?”
“That was a wedding present from Bal. She embroidered it herself. It means a great deal to me.”
Someone rapped briefly on the doorjamb.
Christa looked up to see DS Matthews standing in the doorway. “Oh…hello, detective. Come in.”
“Devon, please. I’m not here on official business; I stopped by to have a look in on Mrs Shaw. They tell me she’s going home today.”
“Yes, I am,” Deepa said, and smiled up at him from her wheelchair. “I’m very happy about that. But this one,” she said darkly as she glanced at her daughter, “refuses to let me go back to my own house. She insists I stay with her.”
“Just for a while,” Christa said as she gripped the wheelchair and moved it towards the door, “until you’re strong enough to go home and stay on your own.”
“I think that’s a very good idea,” Devon agreed. “Can I offer you a ride home?”
Christa shook her head. “I have a car waiting outside. But thank you.”
“Pah! You just told me you needed to call us a taxi,” her mother remonstrated. She turned to the detective and said firmly, “Yes, we would very much appreciate your most kind offer of a ride home.” She cast a triumphant glance at her daughter and settled back in the wheelchair.
Christa pressed her lips together but said nothing.
“Where to?” Devon asked once they were settled in the Mondeo, with Mrs Shaw’s chair folded next to her on the rear passenger seat and Christa sitting beside him in front.
“St Mark’s Square.”
He let out a low whistle when they slowed, fifteen minutes later, and came to a stop before a white stucco townhouse Christa indicated. “Nice digs.”
“Thanks.” Christa didn’t wait for a reply, but got out of the car and went round to let her mother out. Devon retrieved the wheelchair and helped her lower Mrs Shaw into the seat.
When his hand accidentally brushed hers, Christa flinched.
“I can take it from here,” she said, her words polite but firm.
“I want Detective Matthews to bring me inside,” her mother insisted, her face set. “And I want you to make him a nice cup of chai to repay him for his trouble.”
“That’s not necessary, Mrs Shaw,” Devon said. “And it’s no trouble. Besides, I really should be going—”
“You will stay,” Deepa said, and her tone brooked no argument. “You have time enough for one cup of tea, surely. Christa!” she called out as he relented and took control of the wheelchair from her daughter, “Don’t forget to fetch my things from the car.”
“Right,” Christa said, and brushed past the detective.
“I like lots of milk in my chai,” he murmured.
Christa turned to glare at him, but he’d already turned away to wheel her mother up the walkway to the house.
Jack scanned the report Devon had faxed him. The trace he’d run on the white Transit – the van used to abduct Jools and Adesh – had turned up precisely nothing.
The owner was a retired mechanic and his van had been stolen. “Had that van since I were nineteen,” he groused as he arrived that morning to retrieve it from the impound yard and pay the fee. “God knows what this lot’s done wiv it, out joyriding and kidnapping and fuck knows what all.”
“Any idea who might’ve taken it?” Jack had asked.
The man snorted. “If I knew that, they’d have a lead pipe up their arses, and no mistake. They’ve got no respect, these kids nowadays…”
Jack smiled politely, excused himself, and got in his car and left. Twenty minutes later, he parked and took out his mobile to call Devon. “Your license trace on the Transit led to a dead end,” he said without preamble. “The van was stolen.”
“No surprise. Most of the vehicles we recover are stolen. I’ve questioned Adesh and the neighbours, but if anyone saw anything the night your niece was grabbed, they’re not talking.”
“No surprise there, either.” Jack paused. “Where’ve you been lately, mate? Haven’t seen you around much.”
“I’ve been busy. You know how it is.”
As the front door to Christa’s house opened and Devon emerged, mobile phone held to his ear, Jack leaned back in the driver’s seat. “Yeah. I know how it is.” His voice hardened. “Why didn’t you tell me you were personally involved with Christa Shaw?”
He watched as Devon glanced around him, eyes narrowed, and waited until he saw the battered Land Rover parked just across the street. “Jack. What the hell are you doing here?”
“I asked first. What’s going on, Dev? Why are you hanging out at Christa’s place on your day off?”
Over falafel pittas and bottles of Red Stripe – Jack’s favourite – Devon filled him in. “I questioned Christa at the hospital after her mother was shot. She couldn’t tell me much; she was out of the country when it happened. But the DI thinks there might be a connection between the two cases.”
“The robbery of the cash and carry and the kidnapping? And is there a connection?”
Devon shook his head. “Not that we’ve found so far. But Christa said her mum heard the men talking after they shot her.
She thinks they were speaking Turkish. Which might mean something…”
“…or nothing,” Jack finished, and took a swallow of his beer. “I need a real lead, Dev. I want to find whoever took those kids just as much as you lot. But I keep coming up empty-handed.”
“Not all cases get solved, Jack.”
“No.” He pushed his plate aside with an angry motion. “But I’m damned if this’ll be one of them. How’s Mrs Shaw doing?”
“She’s in a wheelchair at the moment. But she’s expected to regain full use of her legs.”
“Good, glad to hear it. And how’s Christa?”
“Worried about her mum.” He finished his Red Stripe. “She’s afraid, Jack. Skittish. Something’s got her scared.”
“What?”
“I’m not sure.” He took out his wallet and pulled out a couple of twenty-pound notes. “I think she’s been beaten up, and recently. I accidentally brushed my hand against hers this morning and she nearly jumped out of her skin. And I noticed a bruise – very faint – on her neck.”
“Sounds like you’re starting to take a personal interest, Dev. You know that’s never a good idea, right?” He thought of Gemma, and wondered what she was doing.
“I know, Jack. And you’re wrong. You’ve no worries on that score. Christa Shaw’s a nice girl…but she’s celebrity – and she’s way out of my league.”