dot-to-dot. Other names, dates, locations beneath them. Nothing yet linking them. Marina knew there wouldn’t be. She wouldn’t be here if there were.
Fenwick gestured from a table at the side of the room. She crossed to him.
‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘Not much, I’m afraid, but there’s a computer and a phone. And these.’ He tapped a set of files sitting by the keyboard. ‘All yours. Photocopied this morning. If you could keep them on the premises we’d be grateful. But if you can’t, you know, be discreet.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Can I get you anything?’ said Fenwick, a smile playing on his lips as he gestured to the shuttered bar. ‘Gin and tonic? Wine? Beer?’
Marina smiled. ‘Coffee would be good, thanks.’
Fenwick arranged for a junior officer to fetch her a coffee. Marina sat down at the desk, took her notebook and pen from her bag, ready to read.
‘There you go. I’ll leave you to do your . . . whatever it is you do,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘But I should warn you. The photos . . . they’re pretty upsetting. And if I’m saying that, they must be. So be warned.’
She nodded and he left her to it. She opened the first file, marked Lisa King, and began to read. She hadn’t reached the photos before she felt her stomach start to lurch. The uniform placed the coffee down on the desk and she took a mouthful. It tasted bitter. She felt it swirl around in her stomach. She kept reading.
Her head began to swim. She swallowed hard, blinked. Picked up the next file: Susie Evans. Read on. It became harder to breathe. Despite the room being large and open, it felt stuffy and hot. She needed air. Her stomach lurched and a heaving sensation began working its way up her chest. Her hand went to her throat, tried to hold down the rising acid and bile. She looked again at the photos.
And knew she was going to be sick.
12
P hil Brennan pulled the Audi into the car park, switched off the engine.
‘Come on,’ he said to Clayton, unfastening his seat belt and swinging open the door. ‘Report to write. Let’s see if Anni’s back yet.’
Clayton didn’t move. ‘You go on without me, boss. Just got something I need to do.’
‘What, put in a harassment claim because I made you listen to Neil Young? Again?’
Clayton managed a polite smile. It had sounded like the same three-note song all the way back. He had hated it. ‘Just got an idea,’ he said. As he spoke, his eyes darted round, looking anywhere but at Phil. ‘Thought someone in that scrapyard looked familiar.’
‘Who?’
Clayton began to get out of the car. ‘Not sure. Give me a couple of hours.’
‘Don’t take too long,’ said Phil.
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Clayton, turning and walking away. ‘First twenty-four hours and all that.’
Phil bit back the retort, tamped down the irritation he felt at his junior officer. Let him go, he thought. Give him his head. He entered the building, pushing through the doors, swiping his pass. He felt tense, on edge.
Nothing to do with seeing Marina again. All to do with the clock ticking, he said to himself.
He made his way up to his office.
Marina stood outside the bar, trying to pluck up courage to enter once again. She knew what they must be thinking of her.
Civilian. Can’t stand the heat. Can’t take the pressure. Shouldn’t do it, then. And a woman, what can you expect?
She knew. Was sure they were saying it out loud. Normally she would be in there, confronting them, facing down anyone who dared to question her fitness for the job. But not this time. This time she didn’t blame them. This time she even agreed with them.
She put her hand beneath her coat, cradling the baby growing inside her. It might not have been planned, but she didn’t want anything to happen to it. To her. Not like in those reports, those photos. Dead mothers. Dead babies.
Taking a deep breath, she opened the door to the bar, walked back in. A few heads turned in
Fenwick gestured from a table at the side of the room. She crossed to him.
‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘Not much, I’m afraid, but there’s a computer and a phone. And these.’ He tapped a set of files sitting by the keyboard. ‘All yours. Photocopied this morning. If you could keep them on the premises we’d be grateful. But if you can’t, you know, be discreet.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Can I get you anything?’ said Fenwick, a smile playing on his lips as he gestured to the shuttered bar. ‘Gin and tonic? Wine? Beer?’
Marina smiled. ‘Coffee would be good, thanks.’
Fenwick arranged for a junior officer to fetch her a coffee. Marina sat down at the desk, took her notebook and pen from her bag, ready to read.
‘There you go. I’ll leave you to do your . . . whatever it is you do,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘But I should warn you. The photos . . . they’re pretty upsetting. And if I’m saying that, they must be. So be warned.’
She nodded and he left her to it. She opened the first file, marked Lisa King, and began to read. She hadn’t reached the photos before she felt her stomach start to lurch. The uniform placed the coffee down on the desk and she took a mouthful. It tasted bitter. She felt it swirl around in her stomach. She kept reading.
Her head began to swim. She swallowed hard, blinked. Picked up the next file: Susie Evans. Read on. It became harder to breathe. Despite the room being large and open, it felt stuffy and hot. She needed air. Her stomach lurched and a heaving sensation began working its way up her chest. Her hand went to her throat, tried to hold down the rising acid and bile. She looked again at the photos.
And knew she was going to be sick.
12
P hil Brennan pulled the Audi into the car park, switched off the engine.
‘Come on,’ he said to Clayton, unfastening his seat belt and swinging open the door. ‘Report to write. Let’s see if Anni’s back yet.’
Clayton didn’t move. ‘You go on without me, boss. Just got something I need to do.’
‘What, put in a harassment claim because I made you listen to Neil Young? Again?’
Clayton managed a polite smile. It had sounded like the same three-note song all the way back. He had hated it. ‘Just got an idea,’ he said. As he spoke, his eyes darted round, looking anywhere but at Phil. ‘Thought someone in that scrapyard looked familiar.’
‘Who?’
Clayton began to get out of the car. ‘Not sure. Give me a couple of hours.’
‘Don’t take too long,’ said Phil.
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Clayton, turning and walking away. ‘First twenty-four hours and all that.’
Phil bit back the retort, tamped down the irritation he felt at his junior officer. Let him go, he thought. Give him his head. He entered the building, pushing through the doors, swiping his pass. He felt tense, on edge.
Nothing to do with seeing Marina again. All to do with the clock ticking, he said to himself.
He made his way up to his office.
Marina stood outside the bar, trying to pluck up courage to enter once again. She knew what they must be thinking of her.
Civilian. Can’t stand the heat. Can’t take the pressure. Shouldn’t do it, then. And a woman, what can you expect?
She knew. Was sure they were saying it out loud. Normally she would be in there, confronting them, facing down anyone who dared to question her fitness for the job. But not this time. This time she didn’t blame them. This time she even agreed with them.
She put her hand beneath her coat, cradling the baby growing inside her. It might not have been planned, but she didn’t want anything to happen to it. To her. Not like in those reports, those photos. Dead mothers. Dead babies.
Taking a deep breath, she opened the door to the bar, walked back in. A few heads turned in
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