Blood Loss by Kerena Swan (brene brown rising strong .txt) 📗

‘I agree.’ Lucy says. ‘It’s clear that Jenna can’t cope.’

‘I might if you helped a bit more,’ I say, outwardly calm despite the surge of anger that burns my gut.

‘I do what I can.’ Lucy glances at Ellis who nods.

‘You’re both doing your best,’ Mum says, ‘and I don’t have the energy to do all the things I used to do.’

‘Grace,’ Lucy sounds like she’s talking to one of her minions at work, ‘I think it’s important you tell us what you’re doing or planning to do to check whether we approve of it.’

Of course she does. Anything to control the situation.

‘Just do what’s needed, Grace, and let me know each week how many hours you’ve done,’ Mum says. ‘I trust you and I’ve got savings. Jenna, I’m sure you need some help and you can give Grace some guidance on what you’d like her to do.’

I nod.

‘Jenna can’t organise herself let alone anyone else.’ Lucy is indignant.

‘That’s settled then,’ Mum says.

I’m stunned. Mum has taken the control of the situation away from Lucy and handed it to me. Ellis reaches a hand over and pats Lucy’s hand. She pulls it away and folds her arms. When I see Lucy’s lips purse tight and a frown pucker between her eyes I have to contain a triumphant grin. Blimey, she looks really pissed off!

Chapter 34

The Previous March | DI Paton

Paton approached the motorway exit for Manchester and flicked on his indicator but before he joined the slip road he stared along the carriageway. From Mitchell’s investigations the third silver Fiesta hadn’t left the M6 at this point but it had stopped at the Knutsford service station. Sadly, the cameras hadn’t been able to pick out the driver’s face but from the size of the figure it was most likely a woman.

The Fiesta had joined the M6 again but had got off at a junction a few miles further on. After that it disappeared so where did it go? The ANPR cameras didn’t show the Fiesta going any further on the major A roads or motorways. Did she drive all the way to London via small country roads? That would be too difficult. So, did she swap cars or number plates and drive to one of the major airports? Or did she pick up another road and drive south to Dover and through the tunnel to France? Was she now hiding abroad in a sun-drenched villa or waitressing in a busy holiday resort? The possibilities were endless and the task of finding her overwhelming.

Following the robotic voice of the Sat-Nav, Paton made his way towards the centre of Manchester. There were six cafés in the Bramwells chain and the owner travelled from one to the other as the need arose. Today he was at the Castlefield branch. One of the major players in the business wanted to buy the owner out so he must be doing well.

Twenty minutes later, Paton stopped at a red light and looked around. According to the Sat-Nav he had reached his destination. The café must be here somewhere. He craned his neck to look behind him and saw the distinctive green and gold façade of Bramwells across the road. He checked the time. Perfect. He’d have a spot of lunch while he was in there – after asking the owner a few questions.

It took a frustrating ten minutes of circling around side streets to find a parking space before he decided he had no choice but to pay an exorbitant price up-front in a private multi-storey car park. It was Pay and Display, with options for up to an hour or three hours. Paton chose a three-hour ticket to allow time for his lunch. The boss wouldn’t be happy with the cost but a man had to eat.

The café smelled of warm, vanilla pastries and Paton’s stomach growled in anticipation. He couldn’t think about food until he’d interviewed the owner, though. The tables were full and animated conversations competed with a 90’s song from the sound system. Waitresses in white blouses and long black aprons shimmied and swayed between tables like dancers, holding plates of food aloft with smiles pinned on their faces. The atmosphere was vibrant and welcoming, and for a moment Paton wished he were just meeting a friend for lunch instead of investigating a brutal murder.

Approaching the counter, he introduced himself to a young man with neat, dark hair and a clean-shaven face who was changing the paper receipt roll on the till.

‘Is Mr Bramwell here?’ Paton asked. ‘I have an appointment with him.’

‘I’m Oliver Bramwell. Claire, can you cover the counter, please?’

Paton hid his surprise. He’d been expecting a highly successful business owner to be older. A waitress approached and Mr. Bramwell beckoned Paton to the back room. After a longing look at the custard slices Paton followed and outlined his reasons for being there.

‘I understand you met with Robert Nash to discuss business.’

Bramwell nodded. ‘I can’t believe he’s dead. He was a decent guy. He didn’t deserve that.’

‘Did he mention meeting anyone else? A woman, possibly?’

‘I only saw him a few times and he was always alone. We did meet up twice at the Salford café though, and he didn’t leave when I did. Said he was waiting for someone. You could go there and speak to the waitresses.’

Despite his growing hunger and the unused three-hour parking ticket, Paton decided to go straight to Salford. The Castlefield café was too busy and he didn’t want to waste time. He thought he could wait a bit longer to eat, but after sitting in traffic for fifteen minutes and spending another ten trying to park Paton was so hungry he could happily eat week-old leftovers.

He decided to order lunch first and try to build rapport with the waitress before asking if she knew anything. At least this café was quieter. He sat near the window and requested a ham and cheese toastie and the longed-for custard slice. The waitress was