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

‘Dying to gawk at me, more like,’ Amy said, grim-faced. ‘All right, you win.’ But she didn’t seem all that happy about it. He couldn’t blame her. She’d been treated like an animal in a zoo since she got here.

‘What do you make of Shaun?’ he said. ‘You were a bit full-on back there.’

‘We needed to know.’ Amy’s face brightened as she slipped back into work mode. ‘Interesting, what she said about those teenagers. There’s bound to be more CCTV of them if we can get the manpower to view it. Or you might find something in that diary of hers.’

Donovan placed his hand on the door. Being in a confined space with Amy was a pleasant distraction, but he had to finish up any loose ends if he wanted to get to Bicks’s house for supper tonight. ‘I’ll let you know.’

A question lay heavy in his mind, one that would not go away. Carla had always been upfront at work. If she was talking to witnesses, why was there no record of it? He remembered what Bicks said, about Donovan’s team making the rest of them look bad. A sick feeling rose in the pit of his gut. He had championed the TV series in which they featured, saying it would be good for police morale. But had he created a monster? Would Carla have taken the same risks if she hadn’t been under pressure to perform? That’s why he was reluctant to read the diary. What if he had driven her to take the risks that ultimately ended her life?

CHAPTER TEN

Standing on the pavement, Molly dragged on her cigarette. She shouldn’t be smoking, but a cigarette break was a good excuse to get out of the office to check her phone. She glared at the numerous missed calls from her mother, Jean. She had almost broken her record – having reached forty-four in one afternoon. Anyone else might react with alarm, but to Molly, it came as no surprise. She had silenced her phone during work hours, so her colleagues weren’t any the wiser. She wasn’t being mean; it was self-preservation, although a tinge of guilt always remained. Jean would ring a hundred times a day if she could.

Exhaling a steady stream of smoke, Molly imagined her mother’s disapproving glare. She had already spoken to her upon waking, and last thing last night before she slept. Some would say she was lucky, not having to fork out for accommodation in London, but Molly felt smothered by her mother, who monitored her with force. Coming to Clacton was a welcome relief. When she complained to Gary about feeling stifled, he told her to get over herself. ‘First-world problems’, he called it. If only he knew. Extinguishing her cigarette, she turned towards the station. You had to completely leave the perimeter because of the smoking ban, and that suited her just fine. The sea-salt fresh air had recharged her batteries, and she had come to love the cries of the gulls overhead. If it were an emergency, her mum would have sent a text – it was an unspoken rule.

Molly slowed as her phone vibrated once more. Her finger hovered over the screen as she prepared to kill the call. But her mum was a persistent soul. Molly swivelled her head from left to right. The street was devoid of pedestrians, with a slow stream of traffic into town. At least things were quieter around here. She slid her finger across her phone to answer. Work could spare her for two minutes.

‘Jean, I told you not to ring me at work,’ Molly admonished, her head bowed.

‘Really, Molly, why must you insist on calling me that?’ Her pitch was high, her words spoken with the brittle impatience of someone dealing with a five-year-old. ‘I’m your mummy.’

Molly closed her eyes as she tried to gather up her strength, welcoming the warmth of sunshine on her skin. ‘What’s wrong?’ she said, refusing to get into that particular argument. She wasn’t a kid, after all. Molly loved Jean but she was clawing for her independence any way she could. Mummy was too babyish a term, and Jean didn’t like it being shortened to Mum.

‘Nothing’s wrong, I’m just seeing how you are. Have you had a healthy breakfast? Taken your medication? How are you feeling, have you checked your blood pressure?’ Jean fired off the questions without pausing for breath.

Molly’s grip tightened on the phone. ‘I’m fine. You know I’m fine. I rang you this morning to tell you I was OK.’

‘But . . .’ Jean began to speak, but Molly cut her off.

‘Porridge for breakfast, the app on my phone reminds me to take my medication, as you know. I feel good. My blood pressure’s perfect. Now can I get back to work?’ Molly hadn’t taken the blood pressure machine her mother had gifted her. It was part of much health-related paraphernalia that she had bought her, not to mention the other presents – honestly, who gets vouchers for counselling on their sixteenth birthday?

Molly rubbed her forehead, feeling her blood pulsate. ‘Why don’t you go for a walk? It’s a lovely day. Or you could do a bit of gardening?’ In times like these, Jean needed an outlet for her anxiety. Molly had no choice but to be her sounding board. After all, she was the cause of it to begin with, something her mother was only too happy to remind her of. She stood at the back entrance to the police station, pulling her security tag from her pocket. Time was marching on.

‘Maybe I’ll do that,’ Jean said. ‘Your father’s so busy, I’ve not spoken to him in two days.’

Molly’s heart felt heavy. She’d really hoped her mum would move forward in her absence. ‘Then join one of those social clubs that I told you about. You need to get out. It’s not doing you any good, being cooped in all day.’

‘Oh no, I don’t fancy