Flesh and Blood (A DI Amy Winter Thriller) by Caroline Mitchell (best love novels of all time .TXT) 📗

the pace they were working at, it was hard to find two seconds alone. He missed their shared office, but it was a case of making do while they were here. He rubbed his stubbled chin. Amy’s ability to pick up on his concerns was uncanny. Shaun, Carla’s husband, was attending the station to speak to them about events leading up to his wife’s death, and they were debating whether or not he should hear Carla’s voicemail.

‘I don’t know if this is a good idea.’ He spoke in a low voice as a couple of probationers passed them in the hall. ‘He’s been through enough.’

‘We need him to hear it,’ Amy said, closing the gap between them. ‘If only to verify that it’s her. What if he hears something in Carla’s tone that we don’t pick up?’ They had not recovered Carla’s phone, which was most likely somewhere on the seabed.

‘It’s a ten-second message asking for my help. There’s nothing more to it than that.’ Donovan didn’t mean to be glib, but he dealt in cold, hard facts while Amy looked at everything else: feelings, intuitions, behaviours, everything that he struggled to decipher. His world was black and white, while Amy’s went beyond the spectrum.

‘Carla knew who she was meeting,’ Amy said. ‘Or at least, she’d spoken to them before.’ She gazed into Donovan’s eyes with a fiery intensity that preceded every case. ‘We need Shaun’s input; however painful it is for him.’

But she would never have forced their meeting. Shaun had suggested it from the start. He had already provided the police with an account, but Amy had a thing for meeting people in the flesh, and Donovan did his best to accommodate her. It was a fine line, balancing the investigation while respecting his grief.

Shaun was already in the VIPER room, having been collected from his home by Bicks. The Video Identification Parade Electronic Recording was a significant improvement on the old physical identity parades, when officers would pull in volunteers who resembled the suspect to stand in line. Now, they used pre-recorded video clips of similar people unrelated to the case. Today, the room was chosen because it was one of the very few available, and they had managed to get a fifteen-minute slot. It was also close to reception, and Shaun had asked to slip in and out of the building as quietly as he could. Donovan imagined that seeing Carla’s grief-stricken colleagues might be too much for him to take, so soon after her death.

He pulled the ‘occupied’ slider across the door and, composing himself, opened it for Amy and waved her through. The room was boxy, with just enough room for two chairs, a computer monitor, a filing cabinet and shelves. Like many rooms in the police station, it was windowless and functional. The air in the room was uncomfortably warm, with the stench of cigarette smoke emanating from Shaun’s clothes.

‘All right?’ Bicks said, rising from his chair. Across from him, Shaun’s large frame was squeezed into a chair next to the door. He rubbed a hand over his bald head, his unshaven face reflecting bewilderment. There was a button missing on his shirt, but he didn’t seem to have noticed. Clothes were the least of his worries now. He looked from Amy to Donovan, the hollows beneath his eyes suggesting that sleep had been a stranger too. As Bicks left, he said he would return in fifteen minutes to drive Shaun home. Such small gestures of kindness were typical of him.

Amy took Bicks’s seat as she explained what Shaun was about to hear. Her grey eyes reflected compassion, but there was a veneer of professionalism there too. She wanted as much as anyone to catch the person behind Carla’s death.

‘Is there anything I can get you?’ Donovan said. ‘A drink? Have you any questions before we begin?’ Donovan had met Shaun a couple of times previously, but they weren’t what you’d call friends.

‘I just want this meeting over with.’ Shaun eyed the computer monitor as he shifted in his chair. ‘I need to get back for the kids. Mum’s looking after them, but I don’t like leaving them for long.’ By the tone of his voice, Shaun could not endure any more pleasantries. Donovan understood. His grief weighed heavy, was almost stifling in the small room. Donovan wished he could turn back the clock for Carla. But right now, he could only right a wrong.

He exchanged a look with Amy before activating the CCTV. Soon, the clip of Carla’s last moments was brought to life. A grainy grey image showed her walking with purpose towards the pier. When the short clip finished, Donovan played back Carla’s voicemail on his phone. He could sense Shaun’s turmoil as he listened to her speak.

Amy was watching his expression intently. Perhaps she was looking for a flicker of guilt. Had they argued? Had Carla stormed out of their home that night? But all Donovan saw was grief. Shaun’s hand froze mid-air at the paused CCTV image of his wife. It was as if he wanted to reach out to save her from what lay ahead. Donovan sighed as the voicemail came to an end. Shaun’s hand fell back on to his lap, and he blinked away the tears forming in his eyes.

‘I’m sorry for your loss . . .’ Donovan began to say, but Shaun stiffened in his chair.

‘Why didn’t you answer her call?’ A flash of anger rose in Shaun’s words. ‘You know she idolised you, don’t you? Why couldn’t you give her five minutes of your time?’

Donovan was taken aback by the sudden reproach. ‘It was late. I’d gone to bed. If I’d known . . .’

‘You mentioned in your statement that Carla said she was meeting teenagers,’ Amy interrupted. ‘Had she spoken about them before?’

Shaun heaved a sigh. ‘I’d been on to her all week to spend some time with her own kids. She’d been putting in long hours at work, always coming home and going out again.’

‘And she didn’t