Catching the Ice Queen Read online

  ‘No comment.’

  Ignoring the words as if they had not been spoken, DCI Goode went on. ‘A witness has placed you at the scene of the crime and has identified you as the person who shot Mr Barlow. A gun which we believe to have fired the fatal shot has been recovered from your home, and from your private safe which you have yourself admitted is not accessible to anyone other than you.’

  Next door, everyone held their breath.

  ‘Sylvia Michelle Dean,’ intoned DCI Goode, ‘I am arresting you for the murder of Graham Peter Barlow on or about the night of the eighteenth of May. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down and may be given in evidence. You have a right to a solicitor. If you cannot afford a solicitor one will be provided for you…’ On and on went the police caution.

  Sylvie sat back in her chair and laughed. In the next room Robin’s blood ran cold at the sound. The door opened and two huge constables stepped inside.

  ‘Well, this is all very boring,’ the woman remarked as they nervously grasped her by the arms. ‘Call Connor,’ she said to her solicitor as she was removed from the room. ‘Call Connor, he’ll know what to do.’ And then she turned back to the two detectives and smiled a hideous smile. ‘It’ll never come to trial, you do know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Get her moving,’ was Goode’s only response, and she was towed, quiet now, out to the cells. Keith Bolton turned round to the camera and gave a double thumbs up, and everyone in the CCTV room cheered. They’d got her at last!

  ‘Two one! Two one!’ someone began to sing and soon the football chant could be heard all over the station.

  In the jubilation that followed, DCI Goode hammered more nails into Sylvie’s coffin by adding charges of possession of class A drugs with intent to supply, money laundering, and theft – of the illegal handgun itself.

  ‘We need all the weight we can get to stop some smart-arsed QC talking her out on bail,’ he remarked to Robin before disappearing off for a meeting with the Chief Constable. The gun, the brick-sized block of coke, and the fat wad of cash were taken to the evidence room under the watchful eye of DS Bolton and two uniformed sergeants and locked in securely. Of the star witness, all she and anyone else knew was that he was being held in a secret location.

  Over the next two days and with infinite care the Ice Queen inquiry team dotted every ‘i’ and crossed every ‘t’. Then they checked, and re-checked, and checked again. Everyone was roped in to help, to her delight Robin being pulled off the Spreadsheets of Extreme Boredom to lend a hand.

  ‘This must be enough,’ she said to Keith Bolton after they’d gone through the witness statements for the hundredth time.

  ‘I bloody hope so, Tweets,’ he said, running a hand over his thinning hair. ‘But she’s a slippery cow and we know she’s got someone on the inside.’ Then he grinned, ‘but I think we’ve got her this time!’

  With a ping the lift doors opened onto the CID floor and the Chief Constable, DCI Goode, and Lara Black stepped out. Robin’s pulse immediately began to hammer and she busied herself counting the exact number of pages in the bundle in front of her before writing a meaningless note on a post-it. She seemed to be able to tell exactly where Lara was standing even without looking, as if the molecules of air between them were passing on the message like a game of Chinese whispers. Then the Chief Inspector cleared his throat and she was forced to turn round to pretend to pay attention.

  ‘I would like to congratulate you all today on a job very well done,’ he boomed, his weaselly face for once looking pleased. ‘When I put DCI Goode onto this enquiry I knew he was the right man for the job…’ Robin tuned out the self-serving nonsense, her eyes drawn inexorably to the tall blonde figure standing demurely at his side. Lara was on full Valkyrie mode, a marble statue of calm, her beautiful mouth set in a slight smile. Vividly Robin had a flash back to the sea front car park and those lips hot and demanding and… she gulped. Then Lara looked straight at her and she knew the same thoughts were running through her brain too. She blinked, and realised a huge roar had erupted from the assembled coppers.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asked Tony Parker, who was randomly standing next to her. He shot her a look that would have been incredulous if he’d been able to spell it.

  ‘Fuck’s up with you? Going deaf or something?’ His pudgy face split into a grin. ‘Old Mother Williams is standing us all a round down at the Winning Post.’

  That explains it, she thought, fighting against the tide of excited bodies shoving their way towards their waiting pints. Craning her neck she kept trying to see whether Lara was still standing with the senior officers, but by the time Robin managed to break free of the crowds there was only Keith Bolton left. To her surprise he was putting his coat on. Next to him on a table sat a cardboard box filled with unmistakeable desk junk.

  ‘Ah Robin,’ he said, ‘glad I caught you.’

  ‘Aren’t you coming to the pub?’

  He half grinned. ‘Nah, not this time, Tweets. Muriel’s waiting at home and I said she could expect me for tea. And as I’m cooking it I’d better get a move on.’

  She felt a lump in her throat as she realised this was him really leaving. ‘So, what’s on the menu, then?’ she said, trying to keep it light.

  ‘Steak and chips. Can’t beat the classics, can you?’ Robin nodded, suddenly not trusting her voice. ‘Ey, steady on there, girlie. Can’t have the troops see you get all female and emotional.’

  ‘What troops?’ she waved at the empty CID room. ‘Everybody’s half way through their second pint by now.’

  He shrugged, and then surprised her by giving her an enormous bear hug.

  ‘You’re a bloody good copper, Robin,’ he said in a choked voice, ‘and it’s been a pleasure working with you.’ He drew quickly back and picked up the box. ‘And for Christ’s sake will you please shag that woman, all the cow eyes you’ve been making at each other has made me sick.’

  ‘Oi!’ She thumped him on the shoulder. ‘Manners!’

  As Bolton stumped off towards the lift she felt her spirits sink. Should she go on to the pub and join the others? They’d all be half drunk by now, she thought, and who would I speak to anyway? Lydia and Tomas? Snorting at the mere thought of it, she picked up her coat and bag and headed home.

  Although, it’s not really home anymore, is it? she asked herself rhetorically as she drew up outside. Sue and Derek had already signed the contracts and their moving date was set, and as Robin let herself into the black and white hallway all she could see in each direction was a sea of cardboard boxes. She herself would have moved into her own new room a few days ago, but her landlady had asked her if she’d stay on until the removal men arrived – she and her fiancé having decamped to his flat to avoid all the mess.

  ‘I just don’t like the thought of it standing there empty with all our stuff in it,’ she’d pleaded, and Robin hadn’t had the heart to refuse her. At least this meant she had the place to herself. Immediately her thoughts flew to Lara and she checked her phone for a message, but there was nothing.

  She’s just having to schmooze the Chief Constable, she said to herself, and rather her than me. That morning on the beach felt like a hundred years ago, and for the millionth time she wondered if the complete radio silence since then meant that Lara Black regretted her impulsiveness. Robin’s fingers hovered over the keyboard… should she send another message? But she knew there was a slippery slope between keen and tragic and so she put her phone back into her pocket and stomped upstairs.

  A loud ringing sound wormed its way into her dream, punctuated by repeated pings. Blearily, Robin sat up in bed and frowned at her phone, which was buzzing and dancing across the floor next to her. It was three thirty nine, she saw, and as the screen ticked over to the forty she woke up enough to realise that the thumping and trilling was somebody banging on the front door downstairs and leaning on the bell.

  Wide awake now and acutely aware that she was alone in the house,
Robin ran down the stairs. Crossing the tiles of the hall in bare feet was another unwelcome shock, and she put her eye to the peephole at the same moment she snapped on the outside light. For a second she couldn’t work out what she was looking at, and then she realised that it was the rounded top of a regulation black felt hat. Then Lara Black straightened up and began hammering on the door with the flat of her hand.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ hissed Robin, flinging it open. Lara grinned and shoved her back inside.

  ‘What took you so long?’ she asked in turn, slamming the door and then slapping her hat down onto the hall table. Robin stared at her in amazement. Was she drunk? ‘I’ve been ringing for ages.’

  ‘I was asleep. It’s gone half three in the morning!’ Then: ‘Have you been in the pub all this time?’

  Lara nodded. ‘Lock in.’ A devilish grin spread slowly across her face. ‘Do you always wear that to bed?’ Robin glanced down at her crumpled vest top and shorts and blushed. ‘It seems a bit, well, overkill.’

  ‘Look, I –‘ she didn’t get any further. In a swift movement Lara closed the space between them and shoved Robin hard against the wall. Her lips plunged down, and the younger woman was lost in a kiss so deep it left her gasping.

  As they broke away, Lara cocked her head on one side and asked: ‘This ok with you?’ Robin tried to answer but a hand trailing achingly slowly down her body and then reaching round to squeeze her arse drove all words from her mind. The blonde smirked as she managed a nod, and then Lara’s mouth was on hers and her fingers were grasping through the thin material of the vest top.

  Robin gave a twist and now it was Lara who had her back to the wall, making her grin ferociously. One by one, she unhooked the silver buttons from the dress uniform.

  ‘Oh God, I’ve wanted to do this from literally the first moment I saw you,’ she managed to say, her voice hoarse with desire as she slipped her fingers under the dark blue jacket and smoothed her palms across the white blouse beneath. Lara reached up and pulled the elastic out of Robin’s hair, grabbing handfuls to bring their mouths back together only to gasp as a hand worked its way under the hem of her skirt and along the smooth plane of her thigh.

  ‘Oh bloody hell,’ said Robin as she explored the silky skin, ‘you’re wearing stockings!’

  ‘I always wear stockings,’ smiled Lara, teasing an earlobe with her teeth. ‘Do you want to take them off me?’

  Robin stepped back and pulled her up the stairs. ‘Oh no,’ she said, ‘you can keep them on, baby.’

  Robin slowly swam upwards from exhaustion, gradually becoming aware of two things simultaneously: the sound of the shower running and the feeling of a delicious ache in various parts of her body. She rubbed her eyes and sat up. As if jolted loose by the movement, a vivid show-reel of images, sensations, and sounds flashed through her brain. Bloody hell, that was a night. It had been a long time since she’d done most of those things, and some of them she was sure she’d never done before at all. She threw a glance at the empty bed beside her and then at the closed en-suite door. Who knew that Lara Black was such an experienced sex goddess under that chilly exterior? Robin slumped happily back against the pillows and smirked to herself. Well, I’d had a guess, and that wasn’t even nearly right!

  Not wanting to disturb her guest in the shower but busting for the loo Robin threw on a t-shirt and ran quickly to the bathroom on the floor below, and then carried on down to the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. She was just placing two cups on a tray with a half-finished packet of biscuits for emergency energy when Lara stalked into the room. She was immaculate again, a vision in her crisp blue and silver uniform. Robin gaped. Ten minutes ago those clothes were strewn all over my bedroom floor, she thought, so how does she now look so fresh and pressed? And then: Oh, she’s leaving.

  ‘Is one of those for me?’ asked the woman, snagging a mug and swallowing half of the scalding brew in one gulp.

  ‘Got to go?’ asked Robin, trying not to sound disappointed. Don’t be needy!

  Lara smiled and hooked her round the waist, drawing her close for a long kiss. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not the hit and run type.’ Her smile became a sexy grin. ‘And if it were left to me neither of us would be going anywhere today.’ Robin found herself beaming with relief. ‘But I really have to go.’ She stepped back, rummaging in the ugly regulation handbag that every female senior officer was saddled with. ‘You didn’t hear this from me but our star witness is going to be giving evidence against Dean this morning via video link, and apparently there have been some technical problems with the connection up at the safe house in Cliffside so I want to be on hand in case we need to change any arrangements.’

  The younger woman blinked. She could barely remember anything about Sylvie Dean. With a jolt she realised that her world had focused and reset during the night, and the tall, beautiful form standing incongruously amidst the packing boxes in her landlady’s kitchen was now the start and the end of everything.

  Lara, expecting an answer but not hearing one, looked up in surprise. ‘Are you alright? You look – strained.’

  I just realised I am in love with you.

  ‘Um, no, sorry,’ she improvised quickly, ‘I was just remembering various different scenes from the last few hours.’ At least that explanation covers why I’ve gone so red.

  A rich laugh greeted this comment and the moment passed. ‘Have fun with the memories, and once this is safely over we can get to work on making a whole lot more of them.’ She stepped in for one last brush of the lips and then was gone.

  From the hall Robin heard the door open and close, leaving her alone with the packing boxes, the empty house, and the frightening recognition that her heart was no longer her own to control.

  Chapter 13

  Walking into work that morning Robin had a very strange presentiment that something, somewhere, was very wrong. It was one of those annoying feelings that nag and nag at the back of your mind, and she could neither put her finger on what had triggered it nor shake it off.

  Lack of sleep, low blood sugar, bombshell that I’m in love with my boss, she thought grimly, any of those might do it.

  She grabbed a coffee and a bacon sandwich from the canteen to tackle the first two on her list; the third one she recognised that she was just going to have to learn to live with. Of Lara Black herself there was no sign, which was a relief in a way, as Robin wasn’t sure she would have been able to get her game face on – or certainly not convincingly enough to fool those blue laser beam eyes.

  It also didn’t help that because Sylvie Dean was due in front of the magistrate that morning everyone in the station was like a cat on hot bricks with nerves. She walked past the corridor to the cells, where the force’s burliest and surliest had been lined up to escort the prisoner to the court, and noticed a new face behind the booking desk.

  ‘Where’s Mac?’ she asked.

  The bloke looked up from puzzling over something on a clipboard and shrugged. ‘Phoned in sick, didn’t he?’

  ‘You don’t sound convinced.’

  ‘He said it was nerves, I say it was bollocks. But our boss said ‘Oh yes, Elvis, oh no, Elvis, oh do lie down and have the vapours, Elvis.’ And so here I am.’

  Despite everything Robin had to suppress a smile. ‘Elvis?’

  ‘He loves Las Vegas, doesn’t he? All the gambling and that. Always been a betting man, has our Mac.’

  Robin frowned. That was ringing a faint bell in her addled brain, but all thoughts of it were chased out by the appearance of DCI Goode, flanked by senior CID officers, to go and give their evidence. A ripple of half-hearted applause sounded, before petering to a stop as if the heavy atmosphere of tension had stamped it out.

  On his way through the door Lionel Goode stopped, and turned to Robin.

  ‘Come on, then, Tweetie. What are you waiting for? Come and see the wheels of justice grinding exceeding small.’

  ‘Seriously?’ She couldn’t believe it, excitement driving e
verything else from her mind. Goode quirked a grin.

  ‘Seriously. Now get in the bloody car.’

  This wasn’t her first visit to the Crown Court but the importance of today’s hearing cast a new significance over its Victorian frontage of stone columns and carved swags, topped with the usual statue of the blindfolded figure with the scales in her hand. A crowd had gathered, drawn by the dubious celebrity of a genuine (and glamorous) local gangster and Robin could see several Outside Broadcast vans parked up, their presenters hunting for the right angle to convey the excitement of the scene. She shivered. Despite the thrill of bringing Sylvie to book, she wasn’t in gaol yet.

  ‘We’ve got a good case, Sullivan,’ said Richardson, the replacement DS drafted in from a neighbouring force.

  ‘I hope it’s enough, Sarge,’ she said, and immediately wondered whether Keith Bolton, newly minted member of the civilian population, was watching the local news and wishing he was with them. She wished he had been here too, perhaps that would have allayed the anxiety she was feeling.

  For the next half an hour there was no time to think, as she went through the familiar rigamarole of security and identity checks. Then she was filing into the courtroom, acutely aware that she and the other officers were being scrutinised by a hundred pairs of eyes, and before she’d even had a chance to sit down the bailiffs were calling that everyone should rise.

  The magistrate was a harassed-looking man in his fifties, his face beet red as if he’d been running. Perhaps he doesn’t like all the attention either, she thought, but then Sylvie Dean stepped into the court, drawing all eyes and all thoughts like a magnet. She smiled regally at the assembled crowd and sat down on the accused’s battered wooden stool as if settling onto a throne. The nagging disquiet that had been clattering for attention in Robin’s brain all morning began to clamour more loudly.

  She’s not worried. She’s not worried at all.

  Something was horribly wrong.

  At that moment the magistrate nodded to Sylvie’s barrister. ‘Mr Henderson, I believe you have a statement to put to the court concerning these charges.’