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A sleek body against mine and my face pressed into a cloud of hair. I opened my eyes. Red hair. The night flooded back. Soft skin. Tender touch. Warm laughter.
"Hmmm." Her rich chuckle went straight to my heart. "Happy?"
"Yes."
It was true. For the first time in years, I felt good about myself and the future. I stroked the soft scarlet tresses. A woman who loved me, all of me, without judgement. It was a miracle.
"Hey, tough guy." She kissed me on the nose. "You're squishing me."
Voluptuous, pink-tipped breasts skimming sweetly against my chest. The urge to dive into her again was sabotaged by the purple bruises on her neck and shoulders. "You okay, sweetheart?"
Arms snaked around me, the wrist cast rough against my back. "Nothing that a good solid morning bonk won't fix."
"You're so romantic."
Her laughter set the delicious curves jiggling against me, sending my joy spilling over into passion. Breaths catching, skin heating, we came together, loving and sweet, rising and wailing together before peaking in frenzied explosion of blissful sensation.
Hot and sweaty, I brushed the stray stresses and kissed her temple. "You're the best."
She smiled. "I know."
"And so modest."
More giggles and laughter to fuel the start of a perfect morning. We showered together; me soaping her up as she held her cast out of the shower curtain. I would have tumbled her straight back into bed again, but Rachel stood firm.
"I have clients waiting." She held on to me a shade nervously. "I've spent a lot of time building my business."
In an hour she'd be brushing her hair, trying on different outfits, and eating breakfast, all while chatting to an audience of drooling men. "Of course you need to go. Want to have dinner?"
She saw right through me. "Hot lava of jealousy?"
"Practically searing, but I'm pretending to be adult about it."
"Well done." She kissed me. "Yes, please, to dinner. I finish at ten."
The absurdly long day is standard for that line of work. "I'll collect you. And wait for me upstairs."
She shuddered. "I still get the creeps. Walk me home?"
"Right to your door."
DeVere's office was open and Roxanne was working industriously at her desk. The gold cross around her neck glinted, and she barely concealed her malicious delight as she handed me a slip of paper. "From social services."
The note was a standard notification; Mandy Owens' records had been destroyed in the same flood that had inundated the pub. All that was left was an electronic file that stated Mandy's age, original address and her caseworker's name. "Intan Sari. That's Indonesian, isn't it?"
"She's Dutch. A clinical social worker with a Masters from Amsterdam University. I got her old address from the files," Roxanne said briskly.
She handed the old address to me because it was useless; that block of flats had been pulled down five years earlier when Alex had expanded the Annexe, adding a shopping centre to the luxury apartments. That meant there were no old neighbours to quiz.
The dark eyes flashed malevolently. "She resigned and moved after Brexit."
"She's in Holland?"
Roxanne delivered the sucker punch. "No, she went to see relatives in Indonesia."
Great. I'd been to Bali on holiday and the Majestic had hosted plenty of guests from Java, so I knew Sari is one of the most common family names there. With Indonesia being eight times bigger than the UK and with a population of 270 million, there was no way in hell I'd find this woman. I'd have better luck looking for a John Smith in England.
I didn't give the PA the satisfaction of seeing my dismay. "Can you ring the head of social services and make an appointment for me?"
She did, but checking in got me nowhere as the woman in charge was a newcomer from London. Her assistant remembered Intan Sari, but from his shrug, swift staff turnover meant he recalled only her name and general description.
That's when Alex rang. "I hear you're looking for Mandy Owens' caseworker."
The smug tone gave it away. He finally got me. "You sod."
"Don't be like that." But the bastard chortled and my phone buzzed. It was a profile, Winston Blandford, the AWOL poker player. "He owes three hundred and fifty thou plus interest."
Stuck. I'd have to hop to it or lose out on finding the caseworker. But I'd make it pay. "Fifty percent."
Alex winced. "Come on, Trigger. It's ten thou."
"It was a ten thou bonus when I worked here. Now it's standard rates. Fifty percent."
Bet your eyes are wide open at that, but it's how it works. Debt collectors charge a fortune because they're hired only after all other methods have failed. As they are considered a last prayer, and they strike out more often than not, they take half of whatever they find. With Blandford's debt racking up interest, I was in for two hundred thou-if I could make the weasel pay.
Alex took it like a Cullen. "Okay, but you add your fee to his tab."
I consoled myself that it would pay off a massive chunk of the debt. "Where is Blandford?"
"The bastard disappeared. He's not in London or Paris. And Macao and Vegas won't let him in because his credit is shit."
"What does his bank say?"
With contactless payments, there is no privacy anymore. Unless you have several identities and work internationally, it takes just a few calls to figure out who's where. And while banks are all pompous about privacy, there's always a teller or clerk who's willing to take a peek at the statements in return for a fee.
Alex made a mouth. "He's with Golden National Bank in the Cayman Islands."
Jesus, Blandford banked with one of the few countries that actually protects its customers. So, not only did I have to recover the debt, but I'd have to find him. Luckily, unlike caseworkers who can vanish easily, high rollers always leave tracks. Still. "I won't forget this."
"I'm quaking in my boots," Alex said cheerfully. "Oh, and here's the woman's address."
Intan Sari wasn't in Indonesia or Holland. She was in Ringmere. In Primrose Gardens, a plush new estate on the north side of the town.
"She came back from Jakarta last week to work for a private homecare company," Alex informed me. "She's nursing an old dear with a broken hip."
"How in God's name did you find her?"
Alex sat back and preened. "LinkedIn."
The air punched out of my lungs. Goddamn social media. It hadn't even occurred to me to search for her on a professional platform. Like DeVere, I had known since I was a kid that social media could track and convict me, so I had stayed off it, as had all the Cullen family. With a few exceptions, our high rollers had no social media presence either. Letting the world know where you are and that you're in a mood to spend a shitload of cash invites scammers, thieves and inconvenient exes to take a bite. As only a damn idiot wants that, the truly loaded keep a low profile.
But I should have realised that Intan Sari would have nothing to hide.
Alex smiled in commiseration. "It's a bugger, isn't it? A few years ago, it wouldn't have occurred to me, either."
My damn cousin, pushing me about. "And now I have her contact. Why should I do your dirty work?"
Alex burst out laughing. "I would walk and leave you to it! But you won't."
"Fucker."
"That streak of righteous honour is a handicap, cousin." Alex was rubbing my nose in the fact that he could predict my every move.
My outrage welled. But I kept silent.
"I know you'll do the right thing." Alex was full of vim. "Good hunting, cousin."
I cursed him upside down - as I made my way to Ringmere Technical College. Bloody Alex was correct. As he trusted me to deliver, I would. But I was kicking myself because I had made the same mistake twice.
I hadn't thought to look for Art King online and I hadn't looked for Intan Sari. Now I went online and looked for Winston Blandford. Old habits dying hard, I bought a burner phone, created a new email account and then went to town, signing up every social media account I could find.
As I wasn't sure how they all worked, I started by searching for a known quantity. I found Rachel looking drop dead gorgeous on every platform, and Intan was on two professional platforms. She'd updated her profile, allowing Alex to call her new employer and find her easily.
But it took a reverse image search to find her on Insta, where she was listed as Snoesje. I eyed the photos of Jakarta and Primrose Gardens with irritation. If I'd not been such a narrowminded muppet, I could have found her easily.
Blandford was old-school. He appeared here and there on the arm of a pretty influencer, but that was all.
Now curious, I checked out DeVere and found perfectly managed social media accounts. They looked good, but a picture of him and Lara in their kitchen had been posted when DeVere was in my flat, offering me a fortune to video her and Masher. Our careful mayor used a pro to manage his online presence. Donovan had a presence, but it was limited to newspaper articles on law and a few memes.
On impulse, I checked out Alex, Tank, and Karma. Alex had a curated profile as CEO of Cullen Enterprises, clearly run by professionals, and the other two were invisible. I found Masher under his real name, Ian Davison. He had a curated account, presenting himself as the manager of a real estate portfolio. Jaffa was connected to him, listed as Albert Chandler, security officer, but he was old-school and there were no posts beyond some footie jokes.
The three years away had brought more changes than I'd realised. I kicked myself up the bum. I'd have to update my thinking. Also, if I were to set up a plumbing business, I'd better get cracking. Luckily, Rachel was an expert. I'd beg for her help.
But first things first: I had to find Blandford. Thankfully, I was on old, familiar ground. Time to stop messing up and fucking up. I'd find the trust fund baby, shake the money out of him, and get my pride back.
So I went to Ringmere College, stopping only to buy a bunch of white roses.
"Look what the cat dragged in." Keisha Henry kicked a spare chair my way. "Trigger Cullen. As big and ugly as ever."
In three years, she hadn't changed a hair. Platform heels, a rainbow head tie, and a husky bark that was pure sex. Add in a brain that makes Tim Berners-Lee seem like a garage mechanic and you'll see why the school let her set her own agenda.
Keisha Henry was a big name in the world of forensic accounting but few people realised she was also a formidable hacker. Or that we had an arrangement.
"White roses." She accepted the tribute with twinkling eyes. "Now what could you want?"
"He's with Golden National Bank. Tell me what ATM he's using and the last three charges to his credit card."
"Usual terms?"
"Ten thou." And because we kept our association secret, "I'll make sure it's paid out as a win at the poker table."
Her grin flashed. "Your cousin won't let me play."
"Because you count cards."
She shrugged. "I can't help it."
I knew it, and so did Alex. There was no malice in her. She couldn't switch off the planet-sized brain. But no casino could afford to host her. Card counters cost casinos a fortune and, with her exceptional skills, we reckoned Keisha Henry would own us in about ten minutes.
She shook her head. "You tough Cullens are scaredy-cats."
"You rumbled us. Sweetheart, I'm on a deadline. How long before you crack on?"
"Let me see." She flexed her fingers, pounded her keyboard and, sixty seconds later, turned to me. "Want a print-out?"
I managed to nod, and the printer bounced into action, giving me Blandford's current account and credit card statements.
It was tempting to exit in silence, but Keisha's suppressed glee demanded a response. "Put me out of my misery. How did you do that?"
"Persistence, insight and hard work." She added smugly, "That's what cracked the backdoor the last time you asked me about this bank. This time, I just walked in."
Good for her, good for me, but I made a note to avoid the Golden National. "I'll see Alex tonight. I'll text you when we make the transfer, okay?"
The head tie dipped. "You're a good man, Trigger."
It was the second time in 24 hours that a woman had said it and it puzzled me.
Keisha laughed. "Anyone else would argue about terms."
Ten thou for a few minutes work. Except, only two or three people in the country had her skills. "You're worth every penny."
She was too. As I walked back down the stairs, I saw I had everything I needed. My target had been banking busily. In the last twenty-four hours, he had received his quarterly income, a sum just over two mil. He had paid for a limo service from London to Bath and had paid a deposit for a hotel suite and then added a spa service at the same country resort.
I recognised the name instantly as my Aunt Fan's favourite spa. She went there twice a year for a luxury weekend away. It puzzled me Blandford was there until I realised it was ten minutes from Lansdown Hill; my target was checking up on the horses he owned and probably planning on some big bets over the weekend.
For a moment, I considered leaving him until the next day. I ached to speak to Mandy's social worker. But that damn ethic kicked in. Intan Sari wasn't going anywhere.
Much later, I would learn this was a mistake. But I continued merrily planning my hunt.
Bath is a four-hour drive away from Ringmere. Normally I'd get behind the wheel, but with the job in Bagdad involving a daily two-hour commute and my recent two-week desert trek, I was fed up to the back teeth with travel.
I checked the file again. My cut and Keisha's fee would come out of Blandford's account. With the new deposit, he was in funds. Good. I would go in style.
Stopping off briefly at home to change, and again at the Majestic to pick up some gear, I was all set. The Scarlet Pavilion had a helipad, so I had a chopper service collect me from Alex's roof and drop me off at the Pavilion forty minutes later.
Blandford had excellent taste. The hotel was a delightful Regency period country house, complete with Greek pillars and its own spa. The concierge smiled as he took in my Saville Row suit and handmade shoes, and beamed as he palmed my generous tip.
Money talks and I'd gone all out, wearing my Diagono Chronograph too. By the time I hit the reception desk, a keen blonde was primed to be helpful. I set down my leather valise, beautifully battered with years of faithful service, and murmured, "Maxwell Cullen. My aunt, Fan Cullen, is a regular guest here. I wonder if you could help me?"
She beamed. "Yes, Mr Cullen. Of course."
"I don't have a booking." I leaned in and whispered, "I want to surprise my partner, but his family are rather conservative. Could you keep this hush-hush?"
The blonde was a dead keen ally. "Your secret is safe with us, sir."
"My aunt said you would." I gave her my best smile. "Winston has a suite, I think. Could I book a room or a suite on the same floor? And could the chef send up a private supper for two tonight? Oysters and champagne? With red roses? They're his favourite."
The blonde was busy. "Mr. Blandford has booked a spa package. Would you like to join him?"
Bingo. "I'll surprise him afterwards." Handing fat tips to all the staff had them happy, smiling and silent, all determined to help me plan my 'surprise'.
Ten minutes later, I was installed in the Rose Room, directly opposite his wildly extravagant Diamond Suite. I was scoping out the thickness of the walls and the general layout when my phone rang: it was a very surly Roxanne, announcing the care company had just listed Intan Sari as an employee.
As the PA dictated the address, I reflected that if she'd been handier, I wouldn't have been running around Bath, doing Alex's bidding. But I sucked it up and thanked her. What's done was done.
When I rang off, the champagne arrived. I was all set to go to work.
Waving off the grinning staff, I liberated the electronic master key machine I had borrowed from Tank. The second the corridor was clear, I was at the door opposite. Ears on alert for the slightest sound, I plugged in the machine.
There are many companies who create electronic key systems, but with limited competition, there was a fair chance that the Majestic and the Pavilion had similar systems. I was gambling, thinking that if it didn't work, I could rush my target as he returned from his spa and hustle him inside the old-fashioned way.
Thankfully, the machine whirred busily. Twenty long seconds later, the lock clicked open. I was in. It was a beautiful suite, with thick walls, solid oak doors, and a terrific bathroom with a sunken tub.
His phone was on a charger on the desk. The battery was almost fully charged. I set it in the bathroom on the sink.
Wedging the suite door open, I nipped back to my room, brought along the wine and settled in to wait.
The lock clicked again halfway through my second glass. I set it down, stood behind the door and as he walked in and stopped, staring at the Moët, I stepped up and kicked him in the balls.
He collapsed with a squeal. Slamming the door shut and flipping the security bolt ensured privacy. I booted him again and flipped him on his side. "Alex sent me." A kick to the gut prevented him from replying.
I left him curled up in agony and picked up my glass. Sipping my champagne, I watched his eyes. He was raging. That would not work.
"What the fuck?" He got his voice back. Squeaky but furious. "Who the hell are you?"
I contemplated the options. He was a trust fund baby, elite, entitled, and that would help me get to him.
"I'll have you for this. You'll do years."
Yes, he really thought he was immune. I kicked him again. "You're a damn fool, getting yourself offed for a miserly half a mil." As his eyes widened, I looked around, murmuring, "No point in messing up the carpet." Then I socked him on the jaw.
Dragging his unconscious body to the bathroom was a bitch. The bugger weighed a tonne. By the time I heaved him into the sunken bath, my ribs were aching.
He came to as I whipped out my flick knife. I aimed for his heart and for a second it seemed he might stay frozen. Thankfully, he twisted away at the last moment. "Stop! What are you doing?"
I stabbed him in the in the arm, swearing artistically. "Fuck, stay still you bugger." I pretended the sunken bath made it hard to reach. "Hell."
He rolled again, and the steel sank into his shoulder. "Do you know who I am?"
"Shut up." A third cut went across his ribs, leading to lots of surface damage and a beautiful spray of gore.
"You can't do this!" He was gasping, too frightened to scream. "Stop!"
I grabbed his shirt. "It's too late. Alex says you're to be an example." Then I paused. "Hang on. I should cut off your balls first. That will send a message."
Before he could protest, I bashed him again.
He was half conscious as I ripped open his shirt. He was bleeding nicely, and I smeared blood about as I tugged at his zipper. He wore blue boxers and as they were silk, they slid off easily.
"W-wait!" He roared back into consciousness as my knife pricked his tackle. "No! Jesus, no!"
He rolled about, bashing his head on the taps, sliding on the enamel and planting his face in his own gore. He touched his face, saw the blood on his hands, and screamed. "Help me!" And then he threw up and peed himself.
Job done. He had broken nicely. Now all I had to do was collect.
My disgust was patent. "Be a man, for Chrissake!"
He gripped my wrist, eyes wide. "I'll pay you."
"Alex already paid me."
"I'll pay double!"
I let him see my greed and hesitation. "You're broke."
He didn't hesitate. "I'm fucking loaded. I've got a mil in the bank. It's yours! A transfer. My bank to yours. Right now."
I'd done a great job of breaking him. He was paying me off and not even thinking of his debt. Luckily for him, I was thinking straight. "Show me." I handed him his phone.
His hands shook so much that he dropped it twice. Finally, covered in spew and blood, he got his bank app open.
"Give it to me." I punched in the Majestic bank account number and set up a transfer, adding regular interest and Keisha's free to the original debt, piling on my fifty percent, and topping it all off by taking a stab at what the chopper would cost. Then I rounded it up. It came to an impressive number that took almost two thirds of his float. I handed him the phone. "Make it happen."
He didn't even look at the amount. He just tapped in his code.
"Show me." The transfer was complete. "Good." Then I socked him on the jaw again.
Checking myself in the mirror, there was a tiny smear of blood on my wrist and shirt sleeve and a splash on my cheekbone. As my shirt was purple, it was easy enough to rinse out.
As I took off my shirt and ran cold water over the silk, his eyes fluttered open. "Call a doctor."
"Grow up, you prick." Bloody drama queen. With sore balls and belly, and a handful of scratches, he got much less than he deserved. Alex had not asked me to give him a punishment beating. Frankly, my cousin was slipping. Still, not my business.
Blandford sat up, tears running down his face and chin bruising rapidly. "Why?" he wailed.
"Seriously? You walk out on a debt and you ask why?"
"I was broke! My money only came in yesterday. I was going to pay this week."
He meant it, the plonker. "You should have told Alex, mate."
"It's none of his business."
"It is when you owe him money."
The trust fund baby really didn't get it. His lip wobbled, and it was obvious he felt hard done by. "But I'm Winston Blandford. Everyone knows me." Then he put his finger on his problem. "You can't do this to me!"
God save us all from entitled idiots who think they can do what they want, no consequences. I didn't bother replying. I patted the silk dry. There wouldn't be a stain. Good. The shirt was one of my favourites.
"You stabbed me." He tried to stand and almost went arse over tit. "I'm bleeding."
What a whiner. "Consider yourself lucky I didn't geld you." I did up the last buttons and tucked the shirt in. "Goodbye. Oh, and the oyster supper is on me."
The blonde was devastated when I left. "Is there something wrong, sir?"
"An urgent business meeting, I'm afraid." I put a wad of cash on the marble desk. "This is a splendid hotel."
I was waiting at the helipad when Alex called. "Trigger, you're a genius!"
"Drop my fee into the bank, please. The loan repayment account."
"Done!" Alex rubbed it in. "Your mum will be pleased."
"You owe Keisha Henry ten thou, and she wants to win it at poker."
"What? No! She's banned."
"Suck it up, cousin."
Alex took it on the chin. "Fucker. Anyway, I'm calling because even with your stonking fifty percent and Keisha's fee, you sent too much."
"He's paying for a chopper."
"You're using our service? Okay. It's still a bit too much."
"I went ballpark and rounded up."
"No worries. I'll figure it out and arrange a credit tab for the balance."
That's my cousin all over. Alex would put it into the accounts, noting me as a debt collector, and if Blandford ever squealed extortion, the police would point out that he made the transfer from his own phone and came out of it with a running tab to boot at the casino.
In reality, it was unlikely the plods would get involved. He said, he said cases are a bitch to prosecute and almost certainly guaranteed to fail. My bet was that the spoilt man-brat would weep for an hour, work himself into a temper tantrum and eventually pitch up and play again. "Cousin, if he welches again, you're on your own."
Alex just laughed. "Come to my office when you land."
"I've business of my own. I'll be in the pub tonight, though."
On the flight home, my spirits lifted. Alex would do his numbers and within a day or two, the payment would drop into the bank. As we flew over London, I totalled it all up: my thirty thou, plus the thirty from DeVere, plus the two hundred thousand quid I'd earned meant we were clear. There would be the usual fees and penalties that come from paying a debt early, banks are bigger thieves than us Cullens, but there should be enough to take care of those. If not, pub takings cover them easily.
Blandford had wept, and it had irritated me because the fool might have saved himself if he'd talked to Alex. But flying over London, I was conscious of my relief. Because the moron had kept his trap shut, my family was safe again. And I was free.
Soaring above the city, I dared dream. The years of darkness and despair were over. I could make a new start. The opportunity was there. All I had to do was take it.
I almost called Mum, I had my phone in my hand, but then native caution kicked in. Money earned is not money in the bank; if there was a problem, she would be devastated. I put my phone away. Until it hit the account, I'd be patient.
But I allowed myself to think positive. The money meant I could tell DeVere to shove it if he or Donovan got difficult. I'd rather keep them on my side because it would be easier to catch Mandy's killer with official help, but knowing I could walk would make having them moan a lot more bearable. Alex would sulk and threaten, but he'd not stitch me up. He wouldn't dare because he still hoped I'd come back to him. The invisible yoke that had choked me, lifted and vanished.
Burgeoning anticipation washed through me. I'd find justice for Mandy and then settle down to a life filled with ordinary pleasures: a business of my own, and a woman I could love. There'd be kids, maybe.
For the first time in my life, I tried out the idea. A brood of sprogs, redheads, and a pack of dogs and cats to go with them. Messy, rowdy, and fun. Yes, I wanted it. We'd live life to the full, savouring each day.
As the chopper floated through the sky, I bathed in a newfound sense of hope and future. It was barely six in the evening when we landed on the Majestic's roof. It was way too early to pick Rachel up. She'd be deep in chat with the after-office crowd.
Fizzing with energy, I dropped the electronic key machine off in Tank's office, and hightailed it off to the estate where Intan Sari's elderly client lived.
I'd not been there before. The estate had been built while I was in Iraq, but it was well signposted. By the time I arrived, the sun was going down and people were coming home from work.
The streets were spacious and lined with trees, while the houses were attractive semi-detached homes with family-sized gardens. I found the street easily enough and with a sinking heart, I spotted a knot of neighbours standing by an ambulance and a cherry-top in front of a little garden lined with begonias.
This was no coincidence. Cursing, I parked and approached the crowd. With heart attacks and broken bones, everyone is chatty and offering advice. This lot were silent and some women were in tears.
As I got close, Grimstead popped up, scowling furiously. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"What happened?"
He ground his teeth. "They're dead, aren't they."
"They? Fuck, the old dear and Intan Sari?"
To my surprise, Grimstead motioned me in. The first body lay in the hall, just a few steps from the front door. Intan Sari, dressed in blue scrubs topped with a cheery hibiscus patterned headscarf. She lay face down, but from the pool of blood and the spray on the walls, her throat had been slashed.
Standing back, I replayed the scene. "She let him in, turned her back to him, and he grabbed her from behind."
"Yeah. Sharp blade." Grimstead growled. "It was quick."
We stepped around her carefully. The hall opened up into a cheery, light-filled living room stuffed with chintz furniture, potted plants and dressers loaded with photo frames.
The elderly lady with the mended hip had sat in state in a big comfy chair commanding a view of the front and back garden. Her head lolled back, the blood that had run from a gash in her head drying black on her cheek.
Approaching her, I noted the deep cut that ran from her temple to the top of her head. "Poker?"
"Yeah. He dropped it and it rolled under the chair."
Contemplating the poor old soul, I spotted the tell-tale grey shimmer in the dulled eyes. "Cataracts. She was blind?"
"Pretty much," Grimstead agreed.
He was beyond rage. The piggy eyes were tired and the tight mouth stern. Even more unusually, he wasn't accusing me. "The mayor's office located them this morning. A neighbour saw them out in the garden at lunchtime. An hour ago, someone spotted the aunt through the window and raised the alarm." Grimstead sighed. "He struck while you were in Bath."
That explained the lack of accusations. "You've got tabs on me?"
"The pilot filed a flight path and passenger list." He sneered. "Lunch at the Scarlet Pavilion. It's alright for some."
"I should have come here this morning. It might have saved them."
Grimstead shrugged. "You didn't do this. Put the blame where it belongs." But he couldn't help adding, "On a bastard who's just like you."
I took in the crime scene again. "He might have killed the social worker and left the old dear alone. From this chair, she might have seen him walk up to the house, but the second he entered the room, he would have seen she was blind."
"He's taking no chances," Grimstead agreed. "Whatever Intan Sari knew, it's gone to the grave with her."
"Maybe not. Have you been through her things? She might have a diary."
A tech lounged in, camera in hand. "Hi, John. A double kill, huh? That's unusual. Shall I do the honours?"
As she and Grimstead talked, I looked around. Nothing had been disturbed. All the photos were lined up neatly, no plants were knocked over. I backed up carefully, avoiding touching or stepping on anything.
The kitchen was untouched, too. I wondered if he'd been in and out in a hurry, or if he'd known there was nothing here.
Grimstead touched me on the arm. "Her room's upstairs."
It was also undisturbed. It was obviously a guest room, with a neatly made bed, a built-in cupboard and a bedside cabinet set. There was a bible, a novel, toiletries and a change of uniform in the wardrobe.
"She just brought a few things," Grimstead observed. "No diaries or anything here."
"Also, no passport or suitcase." I looked under the bed. "She's just back from Indonesia. He may have taken the passport, but nobody would steal an empty suitcase. And she must have had some personal gear."
Grimstead was a step ahead of me. "The care company says she signed a lease for a cottage in Pagan Cove yesterday."
His sudden keen interest in including me in the investigation now made sense. Pagan Cove lay ten miles away, a five-minute sail from the casino. It was also in the next county and out of Grimstead's jurisdiction.
I'm a nasty bugger. "You'd better put in a joint operations request."
Grimstead bit. "We can't wait for that!"
"But Inspector, what are you suggesting?"
A scarlet flush washed over his neck and he grit his teeth. "Must you force me to say it?"
"Of course not. I'm already on my way."
It was the nastiest response possible because now he owed me. It would bug the hell out of him, which was excellent payback. I'd not forgotten the Disciples.
"She had a keyring in her bag." Grimstead acted as if he had a flaming rod up his arse and he glanced over his shoulder as he handed it to me. "The owner is in Scotland."
"Terrific. I'll turn the place over thoroughly."
"For God's sake, have a little respect!" He bit his tongue, realising it was a wind-up. "Bastard."
"Can you blame me?"
Grimstead lowered his voice. "If you see anything, don't touch it. Take a photo, send it to me. I'm arranging for a warrant but it will take a few hours."
He was thinking about evidence for a prosecution. "Okay."
The inspector glanced at the dead woman, still lying in a congealed pool of gore. He straightened his shoulders. "If he turns up, don't kill him, Trigger. A life sentence is worse than a quick death."
It was weird to be on the same page. The banter was automatic. "Beers are on you tonight."
But my needling missed the mark because his phone buzzed, vibrated and then rang. Recognising trouble, I waited instinctively.
Grimstead picked up, his frustration bubbling over immediately. "It's totally burnt down? You're certain? Shit. Yeah, okay."
He'd gotten to Pagan Cove before me. Well before, from Grimstead's scowl.
"Intan Sari's cottage burned down three hours ago. Definitely arson. The place reeks of petrol."
I looked at the body. "How the fuck did he know about the rental?"
We didn't have to talk it over; the facts were obvious.
"He's watching you," Grimstead sighed.
"And he's one step ahead."
Knowing I had eyes on me wasn't too helpful as it might be anyone. Rachel had let the pub know I was after Mandy's killer the night before and that day, DeVere's staff, the social services department, and the private care company had all known I was looking for Intan Sari.
If only I'd had my head screwed on straight, I would have been on her doorstep that morning.
It just came out. "It's my fault she's dead."
For a moment, Grimstead was quiet. Then his mouth twisted. "You didn't cut her throat. This is not on you."
Will wonders never cease? I admit, I goggled.
Where that might have gone, I'll never know because Grimstead's phone rang again. He answered, brow furrowing as he shot a glance at me. "Yes, he's here."
Not good. I waited, wondering what else had happened.
Grimstead put away his phone, his face stony. "I take it the trip to Bath was a business lunch."
Definitely trouble. "What of it?"
"Winston Blandford just took a dive out of the window."