the cupboard, she walked into the lounge to see if there were any messages on the phone. Disappointed, she returned to the kitchen and let Henry in.
“Now, what shall we have for dinner?”
Henry barked and started leaping around. Despite the pain in her head, she found herself laughing at his antics.
Looking through the fridge, she found some leftover chicken she’d set aside for him. Adding his quota of biscuits for the day to the dish, she put it on the floor. The dog pounced on it as if he’d been starved for a couple of weeks.
“Hey, slow down. You’ll get an ulcer!”
Returning to the fridge, she explored what else was lurking within its depths and came out with the usual ingredients for a quick meal: eggs, tomatoes, cheese, and bacon. Taking a frying pan from the cupboard, she rustled up an omelette on the stove before flashing it under the grill to fluff up.
At the table, she ate her omelette with one hand while she lazily stroked the dog sitting beside her, waiting in hope for any leftovers.
The phone rang just as she popped the last mouthful in her mouth. Swallowing her food, she answered. “Tony?”
“Sorry, love, it’s me,” her father said quietly. “Not heard from him yet, then, I take it?”
She expelled a long breath and slumped into the leather sofa. “Hi, Dad. No, I haven’t heard from him yet. He’ll probably ring tonight.”
“Probably, love. What’s it like being back in the rat race?”
Lorne switched the TV to the BBC news. “You know, busy. Working a crappy case at the moment that’s frustrating me, but then, what’s new?”
Her father remained silent for a few seconds before asking, “Anything I can help you with?”
Sam Collins had been a DCI in the Met, but retired over seven years ago. He was one of the old-school coppers, the kind who relied on gut instinct and brainpower to solve their cases. With all the different kinds of modern forensics in place, a lot of the guesswork and detective skills had been taken out of police work. That was one of the reasons he’d welcomed his retirement when it had arrived.
“Not really, Dad. The case will be all over the news soon enough, so I might as well tell you. We’ve had a couple of burglaries in the Chelsea area lately. When I say burglaries , there’ve also been a few fatalities involved, too. That’s why my team’s been called in.”
“I see, and you think there might be a connection, love?”
“Looks like it, although another burglary was reported last night, and everything points to a copycat case for that one.” Lorne flicked through a Home and Gardens magazine on the table in front of her.
“What makes you think that?”
“All three cases are linked insofar as the victims are footballers. The first two, the victim’s kids were killed, and the wives were violently attacked.”
“Oh, my God, that’s awful. What’s different about the third case, Lorne?”
She sighed. “The wife was tied up and the kids were left alone in their beds.”
“Hmm…Was the victim married to a footballer, though?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“When did the first case happen?” her father asked.
“The night before last,” she said, pushing the magazine to one side.
“And the second case?”
“Last night,” she replied, wondering where he was going with the line of questions.
“And the third case?”
“That was last night, too. What are you getting at, Dad?” She massaged her temple, hoping to shift the pain that had settled there.
“You say you reckon the third case is a copycat case?”
“That’s right.”
“Think about it, girl. How can it be a copycat case when the details haven’t come out in the press yet?”
“Jesus, you’re right. I never thought of that. Do you think this could be just a coincidence, then, Dad?”
“Hmm…I’ll get back to you on that one. Let me mull things over for a while. Have you rung Charlie today?”
“No, why? Is something wrong?”
Her father laughed, and it
“Now, what shall we have for dinner?”
Henry barked and started leaping around. Despite the pain in her head, she found herself laughing at his antics.
Looking through the fridge, she found some leftover chicken she’d set aside for him. Adding his quota of biscuits for the day to the dish, she put it on the floor. The dog pounced on it as if he’d been starved for a couple of weeks.
“Hey, slow down. You’ll get an ulcer!”
Returning to the fridge, she explored what else was lurking within its depths and came out with the usual ingredients for a quick meal: eggs, tomatoes, cheese, and bacon. Taking a frying pan from the cupboard, she rustled up an omelette on the stove before flashing it under the grill to fluff up.
At the table, she ate her omelette with one hand while she lazily stroked the dog sitting beside her, waiting in hope for any leftovers.
The phone rang just as she popped the last mouthful in her mouth. Swallowing her food, she answered. “Tony?”
“Sorry, love, it’s me,” her father said quietly. “Not heard from him yet, then, I take it?”
She expelled a long breath and slumped into the leather sofa. “Hi, Dad. No, I haven’t heard from him yet. He’ll probably ring tonight.”
“Probably, love. What’s it like being back in the rat race?”
Lorne switched the TV to the BBC news. “You know, busy. Working a crappy case at the moment that’s frustrating me, but then, what’s new?”
Her father remained silent for a few seconds before asking, “Anything I can help you with?”
Sam Collins had been a DCI in the Met, but retired over seven years ago. He was one of the old-school coppers, the kind who relied on gut instinct and brainpower to solve their cases. With all the different kinds of modern forensics in place, a lot of the guesswork and detective skills had been taken out of police work. That was one of the reasons he’d welcomed his retirement when it had arrived.
“Not really, Dad. The case will be all over the news soon enough, so I might as well tell you. We’ve had a couple of burglaries in the Chelsea area lately. When I say burglaries , there’ve also been a few fatalities involved, too. That’s why my team’s been called in.”
“I see, and you think there might be a connection, love?”
“Looks like it, although another burglary was reported last night, and everything points to a copycat case for that one.” Lorne flicked through a Home and Gardens magazine on the table in front of her.
“What makes you think that?”
“All three cases are linked insofar as the victims are footballers. The first two, the victim’s kids were killed, and the wives were violently attacked.”
“Oh, my God, that’s awful. What’s different about the third case, Lorne?”
She sighed. “The wife was tied up and the kids were left alone in their beds.”
“Hmm…Was the victim married to a footballer, though?”
“Yes, Dad.”
“When did the first case happen?” her father asked.
“The night before last,” she said, pushing the magazine to one side.
“And the second case?”
“Last night,” she replied, wondering where he was going with the line of questions.
“And the third case?”
“That was last night, too. What are you getting at, Dad?” She massaged her temple, hoping to shift the pain that had settled there.
“You say you reckon the third case is a copycat case?”
“That’s right.”
“Think about it, girl. How can it be a copycat case when the details haven’t come out in the press yet?”
“Jesus, you’re right. I never thought of that. Do you think this could be just a coincidence, then, Dad?”
“Hmm…I’ll get back to you on that one. Let me mull things over for a while. Have you rung Charlie today?”
“No, why? Is something wrong?”
Her father laughed, and it
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