Devil in the Detail by A.J. Cross (love letters to the dead .TXT) 📗

Seeing the time, she leapt up, dumped her bowl in the sink, went inside the tiny bathroom to brush her teeth. Following a quick rinse-and-spit, she studied her reflection in the small mirror, ran her fingers through her hair and grinned.

‘This is Chloe Judd, ace detective, taking one small step for womankind, and a massive leap as a police officer who doesn’t give a—’

‘Chloe!’ A heavy hammering started up on her door, followed by Reynolds’ voice. ‘Chlo? Come on!’

Grabbing her coat and bag she left her flat, followed him to his car and got inside. He was now staring at her, open-mouthed.

‘Say nothing,’ she advised.

He pointed at the radio. ‘There’s some breaking news involving DI Watts. He’s your boss, right?’

She listened, absorbed the newsreader’s words, her eyes widening. ‘Holy sh—!’

Inside his office, Watts re-started the emergency recording, ignoring Brophy’s mutterings as the two voices drifted around the low-lit room a third time: ‘Go ahead, caller. What’s your emergency? … Caller? Hello?’

Another voice, also female, this one resonating with fear and pain, her words punctuated by sobs.

‘I … I can’t … Oh … somebody, please help us …’

‘Caller, can you hear me?’ A brief pause. ‘What’s the nature of your emergency?’ The silence built. The operator’s voice came again, insistent now. ‘Which emergency service do you need?’

‘Ambulance …’

The ambulance call-taker spoke next. ‘Hello, ambulance, is the patient breathing?’

‘I … I don’t know.’

‘Tell me what’s happened.’

‘… I feel … it hurts.’

‘Can you tell me exactly what’s happened?’

‘… I’m … don’t know … There’s … blood.’ A shaky intake of breath. ‘… Blood all over my … hands.’ Her voice trailed off again.

‘Can you give me your location?’ Another pause, this one of several seconds. ‘Where are you?’

‘… Don’t know … He took our …’ Her voice faded, came again, fearful, gasping. ‘He might come back … A … man. Please. You have to help … please …’ Her last word trailed off to a whimper.

‘Stay on your phone. What’s your name?’

‘Molly.’

‘Can you describe your location, Molly?’

Watts listened to the operator inform a colleague that the caller is on a mobile phone. A deep groan brought her back on to the line.

‘Molly? Who is there with you?’

‘… Lost … an … awful place.’

The words were followed by the sound of weeping. Watts stared at the floor, waiting for the distraught voice to come again. It didn’t.

‘Stay with me, Molly. Molly, are you there? We have your location. Help is on its way.’

The recording ran on, the call-taker continuing to offer reassurance, followed by the first sound of approaching help.

‘Molly? Molly! The ambulance is almost with you. Molly …?’

The room fell silent. Watts took his first full breath in the last two minutes. Brophy looked across at him. ‘This is bad.’

‘It is.’

‘You were at the scene. What do you think?’

‘Probable double shooting in the commission of theft.’

Brophy was at the window, his back to Watts. ‘I’ll tell you what this is. Anarchy of a degree that wouldn’t be tolerated at Thames.’

Watts had heard more than enough about Thames Valley since Brophy’s arrival here. More than enough of his view that in comparison, Birmingham was a lawless zoo. Brophy turned to him.

‘As and when the press gets wind of this, you’ll give the official line: zero tolerance of any offence involving a firearm. Got it?’ He headed for the door. ‘And you and I need to have a clear understanding about this investigation, given that it has all the features of inner-city auto-crime. As I said, the investigative approach is zero tolerance of firearms. Clear?’

Watts tracked him, thinking that Brophy had probably never delivered an original line in his entire career. Reaching the door, Brophy turned. ‘But, there’s still a need for caution.’ Aware of the potential contradictions among Brophy’s words, Watts got to his feet.

‘I’ve seen what was done to the Lawrences. We need to find this shooter as a matter of urgency.’

‘That requires discussion, tight planning. My office in one hour.’

Watts watched the door close on him, knowing that Brophy was hotfooting to confer by phone with the chief constable. He resumed writing his notes on what he had seen of the aftermath of the attack, adding the warning he’d just given to Brophy about dangerousness. After a minute or so, he heard the door open, anticipating it was Brophy, back with more conflicting instructions.

‘Hey, Sarge!’

‘Morning, Judd.’ Looking up at her, he half-rose. ‘What the bloody hell is that?’

Judd ran her hand through spikey, blonde hair, several of its spikes tipped dark blue, others eye-searing pink. ‘Like it? … Yeah, right, you don’t like it.’ She sat opposite him. ‘The Bro ordered me back today, and am I glad! We had three brilliant days on interview techniques, plus role play and then it was hashtag terminal boredom. I was ready to slit a wrist or acquire a disease!’

‘Has Brophy seen it?’

She ran a hand through her hair again. ‘This? Yep, just now. He went on about my “responsibility to the job”. Surprised you didn’t hear him. He went ape—’

‘You choose your moments!’

‘Take it easy, Sarge. It’s temporary.’ She watched him head for the refreshment centre. ‘Great, I’m gasping. Three sugars for me.’

He turned to her, coffee jar in hand. ‘I’ve got enough on, without you turning up looking like your head’s exploding.’

‘I heard it on the radio.’ She waited. ‘Can I be on it?’

Bringing coffee to the table, he put one in front of her, sat opposite, keeping his voice low. ‘You and me need to get some basics re-established. It’s Superintendent Brophy. I’m your senior officer, I’m knackered after working most of the night and I can do without your rattle.’ He watched her dig around in her bag, ‘Just … dial down the volume. Better still, stop with the gabbing altogether while I get my head straight for a meeting with him.’

She put a finger to her lips, the other hand holding out a small box. He sighed, took it, extracted two paracetamols. She nodded to