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The money hit my bank account as I walked into the house. It was a relief to know I'd bought a few months of security, but the feeling that I was sliding back into my old life also nagged.
My emotions were blasted aside as my mum shot out of the living room. "Max!" Her arms wrapped around me. "You okay, love?"
The soothing response was ingrained. "Of course, Mum."
"Tea and toast?"
"With honey? Yes!"
Walking into the kitchen was like walking into the past. My father had been wild about honey. We'd had it with tea with toast to celebrate his return from various hospital and lockup stints. The first time they had held me over the weekend, suspicion of arson when I was fourteen, I'd been greeted with the same treat. Back then, I'd felt grown up.
Now I wasn't sure what to think, but it was a comfort to watch the familiar ritual of boiling the kettle, warming the pot and popping the bread into the toaster. "Where is everyone?"
"At the hospital for the monthly check-up."
"Everything okay?"
"Of course. Otherwise, I'd be with them."
Put in my place, I took the mug of tea, and attacked the toast that dripped with honey.
Mum waved away my offer to share. From her frown, she had business in mind. "Alex needs political clout and DeVere is in his pocket."
"He's a forward-thinking bloke."
"DeVere is ambitious, he's aiming for Number Ten."
I'd gathered that, but I waited to see where this was going.
"DeVere's a blue blood but you can't run for Prime Minister without money, which is why he married Lara Plaskett."
Ding-ding-ding! "I take it she'll walk if she catches him cheating?"
Mum sipped her tea. "She's the kind that will stand by him, but her father is nicknamed Pilgrim because he's a fire and brimstone type. And he's the one bankrolling DeVere."
So that's why the man had the wind up. He might sweet-talk his wife, but not his father-in-law. "You know the family?"
"Lara goes to Chic for her highlights and I went to the same college as her father."
That's Mum. She's better connected than Heathrow Airport.
"Alex wants DeVere, and he wants you." Mum wasn't done. "And Grimstead hasn't forgotten about the Bridgeton Mob."
"Yes, he's still sore."
"That damn plod! He made a false arrest out of spite."
"All part of the business."
"Percy dragged his feet about that CCTV," Mum was on the warpath. "I went down to the bank and tore a strip off him."
"I appreciate you were worried, love, but it's best you don't get involved."
"I told you: from now on, I'm in."
"There's nothing to be in, Mum."
"Then why did you go straight from lockup to the mayor's office?"
"Do you have a crystal ball?"
"Roxanne Blake was at school with Isa," Mum half smiled. "She called. Twice."
"Oh."
"I take it DeVere threatened us?"
"Don't worry, Mum. It was just a misunderstanding."
"Was it hell. What did he want?"
Damn. I took in the pressed lips and lifted chin. Lying to her was out, as was fobbing her off. "He has a problem. He asked for my input."
"Alex wants you back in and that DeVere too," Mum repeated. "What will you do, Max?"
Like all Cullen women, my mother knew the score. However, she'd spent her marriage pretending that Dad was an ordinary businessman even though he'd been knifed three times, shot once, and been treated for broken bones so many times that all the hospital staff knew him by name.
We keep our women out of business, but it's not because we think less of them. In fact, it's quite the opposite. We're up to our necks in it, and we'll take the punishment if it has to happen, but we don't want our families dragged into our shit. When we're hurt or arrested, both inescapable occupational hazards, we're okay because we know our loved ones are safely out of it.
My heart was telling me to fob Mum off. However, as she does nothing without consideration, I waited for her to make her case.
Mum put her hands around her mug of tea. "I'd rather be in Grimstead's cell than sit here, not knowing if you're in trouble or not."
"I get that, I really do."
"Your dad worked better with me in the dark, but I'm not getting any younger."
"Business is worse. There's more violence and fewer boundaries."
"Childbirth is just as bad as broken bones and being stabbed."
"Not fair, Mum."
"Right back at you." The blue eyes lasered into me. "Leaving me out of it is easier for you, but it kills me."
Stuck between a rock and a hard place. I could stonewall and have her suffer or share and have her involved in a messy murder, complete with vengeful plods, scummy politicians and the seedy world of adult services.
"I'm not asking you to let me in," Mum frowned. "I'm telling you."
"Now wait a minute!"
"I don't need details, but I want to know if you're in with Alex or out."
I considered.
"Please, Max."
Mums. I caved. "I'm not going back. But he won't be pissed off because I'm helping DeVere."
"Will that get Grimstead off your back?"
"Perhaps."
She pursed her lips. "DeVere's a politician. That sort is on a first-name basis with the bottom of the deck."
I had to laugh. "That's him all right."
Outside, a car door slammed. The door burst open, Isa and Bella tumbling in, Sean behind them.
"All done."
"We have new pics!"
Sonograms are just blurs to me, but I knew better than to say so. "Awesome. Everything all right, Twin?"
"You're holding it upside down, doofus. They're both pointing the same way, for once."
"Both?"
Isa beamed. "Twins. Isn't it brilliant?"
"Sheer genius."
But my twin's eye fell on the honeypot. Instantly, her eyes darkened. "What's going on?"
Behind her shoulder, Sean mouthed a no. I took the hint. "I had a craving. Honey's hard to find in Bagdad."
"Oh." Isa's shoulders were stiff with tension. "I thought there was trouble."
"Don't be silly." Mum spoke briskly. "Now, who else is for tea?"
I saw an opportunity. "I'm moving into the Lion and Unicorn."
"There is trouble!" Isa exclaimed.
"There is." I exercised my brother privilege shamelessly. "And it's you, Twin."
"No way." But the worry had already gone out of her. "I'm the sweet one. You're the evil twin."
I put an arm around her. "This house is full and pretty soon there will be two additions. You need my room. Also, you don't want me coming home at all hours, wakening you all up."
"You won't," Isa protested.
"You never make any noise," Bella agreed.
With a murderous blackmailer on the loose, I wanted to be well away from Bute Court. If he came gunning for me, my family would stay clear.
Mum knew exactly what I was thinking. She struggled with her emotions but then, being the woman she is, she came down on the side of sense. "Max is right. He'll be very comfortable in the flat. We did it up specially, remember?"
I couldn't ignore the concern lurking in her eyes. "You'll see me every day. Promise."
"You will be," Mum said smugly. "I'm starting my shift at six."
Thank God my brain kicked in and shut my mouth on my instinctive protest.
Mum eyed me up pugnaciously. "Well?"
She'd worked all her life. When she met Dad, she was running a catering service with a friend. After their marriage, she worked side by side with Dad in the pub. When he'd passed away, working in the Lion and Unicorn provided continuity and occupation. It was only when the Bridgeton Mob declared war that I'd insisted she stay home.
It had rankled but Mum had agreed purely because she loved me. Knowing she was home and safe from the Bridgeton Mob left me free to do my job.
But although the battle had been short, the message that loved ones are vulnerable had hit home. For a split second, the old fear surfaced. I breathed through it and pushed it away. "Good idea." The war was over. Still. "I'll see you home at closing time."
Her chin was up, but she remembered too. "Thanks, love."
I told myself she had always enjoyed the work, but a part of me wanted to coddle her.
"It's so much easier when the women stay at home." From her quiet murmur and devilish grin, my parent's mind-reading skills were present and correct. "Poor Max."
The burst of laughter and hug brought back my common sense. It was good to have the pub back in business, and with DeVere's payment, I had time and resources to pursue the job at hand.
"The good times are back." Isa was smiling again.
"Mum, what's the family discount?" Bella teased.
Sean quietly followed me upstairs. "We told Isa you were fishing with Quentin. We didn't want her worrying."
"It was the right thing to do."
Sean watched me throw my gear into my backpack. "Max, I'm not interfering-"
"But?"
"Rumour is that you pissed off the Razors. Alex too. And Grimstead has it in for you. Do you need help?"
Typical. Sean is a Cullen employee, but he's a brewer, a master brewer, actually. He can identify twenty different lagers by smell and taste, but he's an executive. He had stood by me during the war, and he'd done it with courage, but in the world of enforcement, his natural limit was schoolyard fisticuffs.
I clapped him on the back. "Thanks, but I'm out of it. I'm starting my own plumbing business."
"You're moving out to protect us."
It was true, but I didn't want to drag him into it. "I just need a bit of space."
Sean gave up. "If you need me, just ask."
He's a good man. I had trusted him to protect the girls when I left, and it had been the right choice. "Sean, you're the first man I'd call."
Arriving at the Lion and Unicorn, I found Quentin wiping down the bar. "Welcome back. We sold five barrels of Cullen Special last night, and we owe the Bedraggled Duck a case of gin."
"Excellent!"
"You should be arrested more often. They all wanted the gossip."
"If there's a lull in business, I'll consider it."
Quentin eyed my rucksack. "Moving in upstairs?"
"Yes."
"Come bunk with me."
"Thanks, but I'm happy here."
"You're expecting trouble."
"Of course not. Isa is having twins, so she and Sean moved in with Mum for a few months. The family need their space."
Quentin didn't even pretend to believe me. "You're a humble plumber, living over your mum's public house. Got it."
"And don't you forget it."
Then I sat down and told him all about it. That may sound funny, but Quentin and I are like brothers. In some ways, we are complete opposites: he's dead straight and I'm a criminal. But we are in complete agreement about two things: we value friendship and we never lie to each other. Also, Quentin looks like he dresses in the dark and has his hair cut by the Royal Garden Society, but he has a mind like a razor. Bouncing ideas off him is like having your own think tank.
When I finished, Quentin opened the register, counted the cash, checked the kegs and then leaned on the bar and delivered his verdict. "Messy."
"Yes, but I know where I want to start."
"Nathan Menzies."
"Exactly."
"He has a great motive," Quentin agreed. "Whether or not DeVere was in on it, he and his team killed Menzies' career."
"Exactly."
"Best not jump the gun though," Quentin mused. "DeVere is rich. That's always going to attract trouble."
That was right up my alley. When solving problems, I like figuring out How first. "Good point. Let's start by figuring out how it went down."
Quentin broke it down. "Menzies or our Mr X hears DeVere is stepping out with Rachel. He reaches out to Mandy. They set up a sting."
There was a piece missing. "But why would Mandy agree? She was on her way to making her fortune."
Quentin frowned. "She lost her boutique. It was one of those local designs and ethically sourced materials brands."
It explained why Rachel approved. "Mandy was an entrepreneur."
"Yes. Sustainable fashion is a challenge, especially when big companies flood the market with cheap sweatshop products. Mandy was making it. Until the pandemic. The lockdown killed her business." Quentin frowned. "She blamed the government."
"DeVere?"
"Well, no. At least, I never heard her say so. It was just normal chuntering."
"So maybe Mandy wasn't involved. Both girls lived in the flat and they had guests."
Quentin nodded. "It was an open secret that Rachel and the mayor were an item. Anyone might slip in a camera."
"Yes. But you'd be a damn fool to forget where you put it. And the killer hung around looking for it." We were back at Mandy planting it, although her motives were unclear. "Rachel liked her and trusted her. Was it a mistake?"
Quentin shrugged. "She was great cam material. Bouncy personality, heart-shaped face, great bones, and a body that would have had Rubens snap his brush in two." Realising his painter's passion had taken over, he got himself together. "But a bit messed up. She was an orphan. Raised in care."
"Was she straight?"
He hesitated. "There was gossip that she got let off for shoplifting."
"Recently?"
"Nah, from before she started the boutique."
It meant little. Kids do crazy things, and with Mandy being in care, she might have stolen purely to survive. Some foster families are fantastic, but others provide a roof, food and not much else. If Mandy had been unlucky, she'd be short of essentials like shampoo and sanitary products.
Quentin shrugged. "I didn't know her well enough to say if she was capable of blackmail or not."
"She had means and opportunity, and he killed her. It's a good probability she planted the camera."
"Okay," Quentin nodded. "But what is her motive?"
It would emerge. Sorting out blackmail troubles for the family had taught me that. "We start with How, which leads to Who. After we find him, I'll beat the Why out of him."
Quentin rolled his eyes. "Come on, Max. Really?"
"She bled out. It's not a good way to go."
He blinked. "I thought it was instant?"
"More like two to five minutes."
"Jesus, poor Mandy."
"Don't tell Rachel. I told her it was quick."
"Quite right," Quentin growled. "And when you find him, knee him in the nuts from me."
That sorted, we moved on.
"So he gets Mandy to set up the camera, and they get the goods on DeVere. But the mayor tells them to get stuffed. They're stymied. But a few weeks later, they trick him into insider trading."
Quentin thought it over. "They waited practically a whole month. Why?"
Like a fool, I thought I had the answer. "If your mark gets one over on you, you back off and let him think you're giving up. Then you come up on him sideways and offer him what looks like an easy out."
"But it's really a trap?"
"Exactly. If the blackmailer had kicked off with a demand for insider knowledge, DeVere would have spotted the problem and told him to get stuffed. But he was so high from believing he was getting away not once but twice that he didn't stop to think."
Quentin thought it over. "I never ever would have expected that."
"Good citizens don't. Our man is definitely in the business. This isn't a rookie."
"Or woman?" Quentin suggested. "Mandy might have been taken by surprise."
"The killer is definitely a man. Rachel said. A gruff voice, and foul-mouthed too."
"Our man has DeVere over a barrel and visits Mandy," Quentin mused. "Why kill her?"
I was all over that. "If she got into it out of temper, she might have come to her senses. Then he killed her to protect himself. Or if she was a bad lot, she might have asked for a bigger share of the money."
"There was a difference of opinion, a fight, and then the partner realised he didn't know where she'd stashed the goods," Quentin suggested.
"The How works." I thought it over. "As for Who, I still think Menzies. If he blames DeVere for killing his career and losing his family, he'll want revenge. And to blackmail and then expose DeVere would be poetic justice."
"It's a possibility."
"Then Menzies realises that if Mandy talks, he's behind bars. So he kills her. In a fit of rage, perhaps."
"Maybe," Quentin sighed. "But Rachel has a temper."
My jaw almost hit the floor. "No way. Rachel didn't kill Mandy."
Quentin shook his head. "Money and motive aren't the only considerations, Max. You need to think big picture. Opportunity is key."
Part of me wanted to yell at him, but I could see it unfold. If Rachel discovered Mandy's game, that famous red temper would flare. A tight slap, a shove, and the glass table would shatter with fatal consequences.
Although it made my gut clench, the icy part of my heart knew it was possible. Rachel could have topped Mandy, run out, considered her options, and come back to 'discover' the body. Anyone can scream and pretend to be attacked.
Then my brain kicked in. "Rachel was injured. That head wound and wrist were serious. So were the bruises." I visualised them. "She has finger marks on her collarbones, a graze on her forehead and a bump on the back of her head. That means she was attacked from behind and then shoved forward." It was a tremendous relief. "It's not her."
Quentin nodded. "I agree." Then he grinned. "Also, Rachel can't lie to save her life. When I ask her what she thinks of my work, she gushes nicely but she blushes beet red."
"Like I said, she's one of the good ones." I ignored the finger Quentin gave me. "I'll check out Menzies."
"He's a possibility, but my guess is that he's one of many who have a grudge. DeVere is not as clean as he pretends," Quentin cautioned. "Politics is a nasty business, Max. Don't forget, Machiavelli worked for a political prince."
"DeVere is definitely different. He was way too cosy talking to Masher. I bet they have history."
Quentin frowned. "Watch your back, Max. The Razors will avoid you if they can, but once it sinks in that you're independent, they'll consider taking you out."
"Then they'd better do it right first time."
Quentin grinned. "You hammered that message home. Ringmere's not forgotten."
With anyone else that would have gotten under my skin, but there was only acceptance between us. Actually, I felt a surge of energy.
"Back to the hunt," Quentin observed.
It was true. I had enjoyed the simplicity of plain hard work, but after three years, I was ready for a bigger challenge. "Where do I find Nathan Menzies?"
"He has a property agency in Bell Street, but he bunks in a Seaview Towers condo. Do you want me to keep him busy while you check it out?"
That was different. "Thanks, but I'm good."
"Go get the bastard, Max."
"You don't like him?"
Quentin was unusually grim. "If he killed Mandy, I want him off the street, pronto."
"Got it. Do you have anything planned for today?"
His easy grin flashed. "I ordered a second set of pub keys. I reckon I'm back where I belong too."
That tightness around my chest eased. The war was long over but with Jaffa and his ilk around, it was a comfort to know that Quentin would be at Mum's side. "Thanks. Can I borrow your ride?"
"Seeing it's yours, I had copies made for that too." He slid the keys over the bar. "It's parked around the back."
I dumped my kit upstairs, and by the time I got out of the shower, the pub downstairs was filling with the lunchtime crowd. Exiting quietly through the back door, I found my old van, an anonymous black Ford Transit, fully fuelled.
Ten minutes later, I pulled up in front of Seaview Towers. My overalls and plumber's toolkit advertised I was a tradesman, and my baseball cap hid my face from CCTV. The post boxes sent me to the eighth floor. Not only was there nobody around, but the lock was a cheapie. My lock picks had me inside in less than a minute.
Three steps in told me that Menzies had lost it. Dust bunnies floated freely and the coffee table was covered in empty bottles and overflowing ashtrays. Usually when I break in, I have to be careful not to disturb anything. This time, I could have trashed the place and it wouldn't have made a difference.
The fridge was empty, the bathroom was a tip, and the bedsheets were grey with dirt. This wasn't a bachelor pad. It reeked of despair.
There was no laptop, no evidence of a safe, but there was a suitcase. I hesitated before touching it. Then, using a spanner to sweep away the stained shorts on top, I fished through the contents.
I found the envelope in a side pocket. The photos tumbled out. A woman washing her hair in the shower, walking in an underground carpark, and having a coffee in a cafe and a teenage girl asleep in bed, walking to school and playing hockey. Someone had scratched their faces out.
There was also one of Menzies, taken at the rally where he'd declared his candidacy for the mayoral election. On the back there was just one sentence, quit today or they're dead tomorrow.
It made me see red. Only scum threaten women and children. But in a high stakes game like politics, it wasn't unusual for players to target families. Menzies hadn't taken it seriously, and it had cost him his family and his career. Three years before, I'd been in the same spot. I put the envelope back, blessing myself for having lucked out.
The visit pushed suspicion towards certainty. Menzies had opportunity, plenty of motivation and from the state of his flat, rage and hopelessness were driving him over the edge. I let myself out and made for his real estate office.
This time, I went in without the cap and the toolbox. Like the flat, there was dust on every surface. Menzies was slumped behind his desk. His suit was rumpled, his tie askew, and his eyes blank. A full ashtray in front of him held a smouldering cigarette.
I got straight down to business. "I've just come back from abroad. I'm interested in buying a flat."
Menzies barely made eye contact. "Right. What kind of property?"
"I like Ash Row."
It had been his home in his glory days, but there was no reaction. Up close, Menzies smelled stale. His nails were dirty and his hands needed washing.
Curious to see if there was any guilt in him, I slid in the name. "Mandy Owens recommended you."
"Oh." He was dialling in from a million miles away. "Great."
"She said you were the best."
"Lovely."
The man just sat there. He was so detached that I wondered if he was on drugs. But his pupils were fine, and he wasn't agitated or showing any other sign. He wasn't reaching for his files, either. It was as if he'd forgotten there was a client in front of him.
The vacant eyes creeped me out. But sheer habit had me pushing again. "Hey, don't I know you? Aren't you that politician?"
He tensed slightly, as if he expected me to hit him.
"You're DeVere, aren't you?" Even watching him like a hawk, there was no anger at the mention of his old rival, only pain. "Aren't you the mayor?"
At that, tears ran down his face. It was like a punch in the gut. Me and my fucking games. I had seen his flat, known he was at the end of his rope, and yet I'd gone on full steam ahead, taunting him with his failure. I might as well have shoved him off his fucking balcony.
Cursing myself, I watched helplessly as the man disintegrated in front of me. It was only when he collapsed on his desk, sobbing, that I snapped back. "Hey, buddy. You okay?" Of course, he wasn't. He was a wreck.
There was only one thing to do. I got him on his feet and took him straight to hospital. The nurse in Accident and Emergency was new, so she didn't know me. As Menzies wasn't bleeding or missing body parts, she issued us a number.
As it was midweek and mid-afternoon, it was quiet. There were just a handful of people waiting but I couldn’t see any staff. I resigned myself to waiting for the evening shift to arrive, but thankfully, Galen walked past, dressed in scrubs.
Clocking me, he stopped and beamed. "Max? Rachel's fine. The operation was a 100% success."
As he updated me, his eyes turned to Menzies, who was frozen with misery. I took instant advantage. "He's having a breakdown. Can you take a look?"
"I'm not a psychiatrist." But, noting the grey skin, tear-blotched face and shaking hands, "Let me make a call."
The psychiatrist was a pintsized blonde wearing a pink lab coat over a wildly flowered frock. She pushed me briskly out of the way and hunkered down in front of Menzies. "Hello, love. You having a bad time?" When he gulped and broke down, grey laser beams inspected me. "What happened?"
"Uhm, I may have upset him."
The happy dress was designed to soothe; her eyes brimmed with fierce intelligence. "You're Trigger Cullen. I've heard about you."
I swear she looked right into my soul. I was about to defend myself from that powerful gaze when Galen stepped in. "Diana, this is Nathan Menzies."
The two murmured together, and then she pressed a card into my hand. "Diana Oakley. Tell his family to call me."
"But I don't know them."
The lasers blasted me again. "So what? I hear you're a human bloodhound."
"But -"
She dismissed me with the wave of a hand. "Stop wittering and make yourself useful." As she piloted Menzies away, Galen grinned. "Don't tell, but we call her She-Ra."
"I can see why." Because I knew I'd be calling Menzies' ex. "Is she good?"
"No. She's the best."
"Great. Menzies will need it." But I wasn't feeling it because I was at square one again. My primary suspect wasn't filled with burning rage. There was no way that broken man could have held it together enough to run a blackmail scam.
"Rachel's still woozy but you can visit." Galen prattled on. "We'll keep her overnight, but you can pick her up tomorrow. Around lunchtime."
And before I knew it, I was standing by a gurney.
"Max." Rachel was pale as milk, the bruises standing out black. Without thinking about it, I clocked the four fingermarks, all pointing down, on her right collarbone, and the same on her left. He'd grabbed her from behind. His thumbs would be on the back of her neck.
Rachel's eyes were enormous from the anaesthetic, but she smiled. "You came."
"Of course." Knocking her back was impossible. "You're going to be fine, Red. All pretty again in no time. The doc says so."
"He's the best."
"I am." Galen grinned shamelessly. "All right, Rachel. You're to rest, do you hear me? Max will collect you tomorrow."
Thankfully, my brain kicked in before my mouth denied the commitment. I remembered Rachel had no family left. "I'll pick you up, love, and drive you home." Then, because I am a cunning bastard. "Is it okay if I clean up your place?"
"You don't have to." But the tears welled. "You're too busy."
"Don't be daft." I'd go in and hope to find a new line of enquiry. "I'll get the locks changed as well."
"Thanks, Max."
The poor girl. It really wasn't right that she was alone. I ran a fingertip down the soft cheek. "That's what friends do. I'll see you tomorrow."
Stepping out, I realised the day had gotten away from me. By the time I got to Rachel's, shops were closing up. It had been a long day, and I trotted up the stairs, hoping I'd find a clue that would point to a new suspect.
The door was shut tight, but it had splintered where my boot had hit it and the hinges were fucked. I whipped out my phone and texted Tank. Then I put my shoulder to the wood and gave it a good shove.
The flat was trashed, but as the love seat was front and centre, it hadn't been stripped. The stream of coppers and forensics had put Ringmere's casual thieves off. The authorities had left their signature mess; drawers were upended and cupboards stood open, their contents tossed.
The footage had come from the bedroom. I found the cameras straight away. Two digital picture frames, each with a secret pinpoint camera, hung on the wall, one above the bed and one above the cam centre, facing the bed.
Grimstead had missed them because these were state-of-the-art with no visible lenses, not even pinpoint ones. The cameras are tiny, placed behind a specially thinned area of the display, invisible by the naked eye. Forensics had even dusted them for prints, not realising what they were.
I knew because I'd used them. I would gift them to my target, knowing they'd set them up on their desk or mantelpiece, allowing me to see them easily. As the display changed, the feed would upload to a website I owned. Even better, the target would refresh the batteries themselves.
I picked one up and slid it into my pocket. A technician in Moscow made them. He sold them over dark web, the shady bit of the internet where crooks like me hang out.
The discovery meant that Mandy had been involved, and deeply. The average person doesn't know how to access the dark web. Mandy hadn't just cruised in; she'd made a deal. That made her a player. Rachel would not like that. I filed away the information; I'd deal with it later.
My own search was fruitless. No documents, no computers, and no records of any kind. I had interrupted the killer, preventing him from removing the photo frames. But someone had taken the computers. My money was on Grimstead.
Given a chance, the police will document your entire life. Police always claim they're generating leads, but the fact is that they're nosy. Given an excuse to look into Rachel's business, they'd be cracking into her records, desperate for an opportunity to see who her clients were.
Right now, Grimstead's tech team were probably sitting around checking out Rachel's private shows. It would be wood and blue balls all round at the Ringmere cop shop.
There were two small bedrooms. I spotted which was Rachel's straight away as one was loaded with books. She always was a reader. The other was packed with soft toys and a closet stuffed with expensive dresses and shoes. Neither told me anything about the case.
When I finished snooping, I remembered my promise to Rachel. The plods had taken the blood-soaked rug, but there was glass and mess everywhere. Sheer habit had me searching my contacts for Cousin Jessie who was in charge of housekeeping for the Majestic. But I stopped myself from calling. Tank had an independent security company, so when he worked, I'd pay an invoice. But Jessie was a Cullen employee. She would help, Alex would insist, but I'd be indebted.
With a curse, I put my phone away. I'd do the job without involving the family.
On impulse, I nipped down to the greengrocer. "Tatty, love, Rachel's place is a mess. Do you think your sanitation crew can take on an extra job?"
Tatty grinned. "I'm the sanitation crew."
"Which of the neighbours needs a quick bit of quiet cash?"
"Lou Barker. The flat directly above Rachel's."
Grey curls streaked with violet, a rainbow smock and a cigarette in a long holder. I recognised her straight off. "You used to work in the brewery."
"Trigger Cullen." But the grin was warm as she stepped back and puffed a smoke ring. "You look just like your dad, except you're a foot taller."
"Mum used to sprinkle Miracle-Gro on my cornflakes."
"She's a regular hoot, your mum. Always a sweetheart, even though she was the boss's missus and me just a cleaner." Another smoke ring. "Now, what can I do for you, love?"
From there, it took less than a minute to get the deal done. "I'll drop off keys as soon as we've put in the new door."
I was back at Rachel's, checking she had cleaning products, when I heard a whisper of sound.
"Trigger Cullen! That's breaking and entering." Grimstead stood in the doorway, glowering. "Caught you red-handed."