Catching the Ice Queen Page 5

  ‘Um, DC Sullivan?’

  ‘Hmm? Oh sorry! I was in a world of my own there.’

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you…’

  Robin realised, to her shame, that she’d seen this kind-faced middle aged lady around the station a hundred times but didn’t know her name.

  ‘It’s no bother. I’m afraid I have forgotten your name –‘

  ‘It’s Marti,’ the woman smiled, ‘anyway, I know you’re all super busy but I’ve had a call from a social worker called Mr Peters, who used to work with Mr Greenway at one time.’ It didn’t surprise Robin that Gary had been under the care of social services. She half-remembered that he’d had the depressingly-familiar life-story of children’s homes alternating with young offenders’ institutions until he was old enough to be given that flat on the Speldhurst estate and left to fend for himself. Robin shook herself from these dismal thoughts and looked back at Marti. ‘The social worker was himself contacted by a lady in the council who is organising the Public Health funeral.’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Robin. ‘He’s having a pauper’s funeral, the poor sod.’

  Marti grimaced and nodded. ‘I know. According to Mr Peters, the council got in touch with him to see if there was any other family, but there isn’t.’

  ‘Doesn’t surprise me. So how can I help?’

  ‘Well, apparently the service is this afternoon. Mr Peters was going to go, but his brother-in-law has had a serious car accident and he and his wife are having to drive up to Birmingham now to visit him in hospital. He won’t be back in time and was concerned that this would mean no-one would be going to the funeral.’ She looked at Robin with big brown appealing eyes.

  Robin sighed. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I’ll go. Tell me the details.’

  Marti’s face beamed with relief. ‘Oh, he will be pleased that somebody’s there! I’ll email you the information now.’

  Perhaps she could pass this off to DCI Goode as a witness-finding exercise she thought as she read the email a few minutes later. He must have had friends, a girl-friend or two. She could see whether the emotion of saying goodbye would unbutton their lips at all.

  She didn’t say anything to anyone else, and at three o’clock grabbed her coat and headed out of the station. It was another clear day, Spring now firmly advanced and visible in the groups of cheery daffodils planted along the grass verges of the sea front road. The council crematorium was in the heart of a sprawling Victorian cemetery on the edge of town; in the sunshine the fresh green of the trees and lawns and the bright colours of the flowers made it look like a park, until the rows of headstones and crosses brought her spirits back to earth with a bump. Why was it always a beautiful day whenever she had to go to a funeral? She couldn’t tell if it was nature being cruel or the opposite.

  She parked the car beside the chapel-like building and noted that there was only one other vehicle there, besides the long black van which passed for a hearse when the tax payers were footing the bill. The men standing alongside it nodded at her politely.

  Robin walked down the aisle and greeted the short dark woman and the vicar who were standing by the altar.

  ‘Oh, hello!’ the woman beamed. ‘I’m Mrs Obasi from the Local Authority. And who might you be? Are you family?’

  They shook hands all round. ‘No, sorry. I’m Detective Constable Robin Sullivan. I was asked to come along by Mr Peters from Social Services.’

  ‘Ah!’ the woman’s kindly face fell. ‘Thank you for coming, though.’ She indicated the empty chapel with a sweep of her hand. ‘I’d hoped that some of Mr Greenway’s friends would be here.’

  ‘So had I,’ said Robin, sadly. The vicar, a thin man with a shaved head, met her eye.

  ‘It seems the circumstances –‘ he said, and left the sentence hanging.

  ‘OK, then, Mr Fanshaw,’ Mrs Obasi nodded, and waved back at the men by the door.

  Robin sat in the front pew next to the council lady. ‘I come to all the pauper’s funerals I arrange,’ the latter whispered as organ music was played loudly through hidden speakers. ‘It’s the best I can do for them.’

  Robin was distracted from replying by somebody slipping into the seat next to her just as the coffin was brought in. She turned and was amazed to see it was Lara Black. Mrs Obasi smiled and waved and the DCC raised a gloved hand in polite reply, and then they were standing and the vicar had begun.

  ‘Thank you so much for coming,’ beamed the little woman, shaking Lara’s hand warmly.

  ‘Yes, thank you both.’ The vicar’s solemn face almost smiled. He stepped aside to converse with his colleague as they both headed towards her car and drove away.

  Robin managed a nod. She had been unexpectedly moved by the simple service and the empty chapel. It had been a relief when Gary’s plain coffin had been drawn through the curtains and into the flames, and underneath her professional mask she had been counting down the seconds until this whole thing was over and she could step back outside. She now turned her face up to the sun and closed her eyes.

  ‘Are you alright, DC Sullivan?’ She turned to the woman next to her and found a look of concern on her lovely face. Those piercing eyes burned with sympathy, and Robin looked away, blinking hard.

  ‘Yes, yes, thanks.’

  ‘I hope you didn’t mind me coming,’ Lara went on. ‘DCI Goode told me this was where you were, and I thought you could do with some moral support.’

  Robin looked at DCC Black in surprise. She really couldn’t make her out: she’d been relatively friendly at first, then everything had gone into the deep freeze after the bike accident, she’d been furious last night, and now she was giving moral support to a lowly DC at a pauper’s funeral? Why?

  ‘It’s very kind of you,’ she managed. ‘How’s your knee?’

  ‘Much better.’ She looked down, and Robin realised she was embarrassed. ‘Look, I wanted to say thanks for dropping my bike round. You really didn’t need to get it repaired – can I pay you back?’

  Robin shook her head. ‘Don’t worry, a friend of mine did it for nothing.’

  ‘Well, it was kind, nonetheless. Especially after the way I behaved.’ She hesitated, the breeze tweaking a strand of golden hair out from under her hat and set it tapping against her cheek. She pushed it impatiently away. ‘I’m not very good at accepting help. I tend to bite the hand that feeds me.’ And she smiled.

  Almost against her will Robin’s gaze zeroed in on the wide mouth and the soft, full lips as they stretched into that smile. The word ‘bite’ had set off a cascade of associated thoughts that roared through her mind and body, raising her temperature and making her cheeks flush. She met the other woman’s eye and saw a flicker of amusement, a glimpse of interest like a mermaid turning in icy water and then sinking back to the depths. Is she flirting?

  ‘Oh, have I missed it?’ a mocking voice cut through the moment and they both looked round. Standing in the bright spring sunshine with a beaming smile on her face was Sylvie Dean. ‘I am so bad at keeping appointments.’

  Robin’s first and incongruous thought was that Sylvie’s photos didn’t do her justice. Tall and slim, her blonde hair impeccably groomed and her face perfectly made up, she was stunning. She pulled off a pair of sunglasses to reveal sharp grey eyes, flicking a glance between the two women, and then languorously untied the belt on her designer cream coat to reveal the criminally expensive dress underneath. ‘Ooh, it’s warm, don’t you think?’

  Something about her words made Robin blush, and this seemed to please her greatly.

  ‘What shall I do with this, Miss Dean?’ asked a man in a leather jacket who was standing nearby holding an enormous wreath of red and white roses.

  Sylvie smiled, revealing a perfect set of perfect teeth. ‘Just leave that in the chapel, Connor.’

  ‘I don’t think we’ve met,’ DCC Black now held out a black gloved hand and Sylvie, after a moment’s pause, shook it.

  ‘No, but I know who you are.’ She laughed and again Robin felt an undercurr
ent beneath the words. ‘I must say that if I’d known that the two best looking women in the local police force were going to be here then I would have made more of an effort to be on time.’ She gazed at them in open appreciation, looking one and then the other up and down appraisingly. ‘You two really are the pair, aren’t you? One so blonde, one so dark? Quite beguiling.’

  Robin felt suddenly angry. Who was this creature, turning up to her own victim’s funeral and then practically licking her lips at the sight of them?

  ‘Where were you on the night of the 18th of March, between the hours of six and ten?’ she asked. Lara put her hand on her arm warningly. To her annoyance Dean merely laughed.

  ‘Nice try, Detective Constable. You’d best direct any such questions to my solicitor.’ Her eye drifted to the fingers resting on Robin’s sleeve. ‘Oh dear, it seems your girlfriend isn’t pleased with you. You best see what you can do to make it up to her.’ And she winked, and grinned.

  To Robin’s consternation, Black whipped her hand away as if stung.

  ‘Where can we find you if our investigations bring up other questions for you to answer?’ she asked, her voice icy. The two women stared at each other, two Ice Queens sizing each other up.

  ‘Oh, my darlings,’ laughed Sylvie, popping her sunglasses on and turning towards her sleek black car. ‘To you two, I’m always at home.’ Connor held the door open for her and she slid elegantly onto the cream leather seat, crossing her legs provocatively. Then she blew them a kiss, the door was shut, and in seconds the vehicle was gone.

  Robin turned to Lara but stopped short, arrested by the frozen fury on the woman’s face. The sexy smile, the warmth, the humanity, had all gone, retracted into her icy carapace, re-interred under the permafrost.

  ‘Well, you could have handled that a lot better,’ she said sharply.

  ‘What?’

  DCC Black wasn’t listening. She marched back towards her car, still talking angrily. Robin jogged to catch up. ‘By asking about her whereabouts you’ve handed her another harassment suit on a plate.’ Robin went pink and stopped dead. Is that what she really thinks?

  ‘It’s perfectly legitimate to question a suspect,’ she retorted angrily. Black wheeled round, her face full of rage. Despite herself, Robin took a step back.

  ‘Oh really, Detective Constable?’ she snapped, witheringly. ‘In your vast experience of the police service, that is what you believe?’

  ‘I’m not some rookie, you know. I know what I’m doing.’

  Lara’s lips were white with fury. ‘Do you? Is that why you get the worst jobs, and all the typing and filing? Hmm? Because you know what you’re doing?’

  Robin ground her teeth at this sarcasm. ‘You know perfectly well that the reason I get the crap assignments is because the older men don’t like a woman doing their job.’

  ‘Right. Play the sexism card.’ Black adjusted her gloves and reached into her bag for her car keys. ‘Always a good move. After all, everybody loves a minority, don’t they?’

  The younger woman’s mind was whirling: what on earth was going on? Suddenly her competence as a police officer was being questioned? And what was all this stuff about minorities? The penny abruptly dropped in her mind and a boiling temper raced into her brain, bearing all before it.

  ‘I see. I see it now.’ She laughed, and DCC Black stopped with a hand on her car door and looked at her. ‘Everything was fine until Sylvie Dean made that crack about us being girlfriends.’ And at the hospital, she now remembered, there had been a few looks at the pair of them sitting there even before the doctor had made her faux pas. ‘Well, I do apologise, ma’am, obviously God forbid you be associated in any way with a queer old skank like me.’ She bit her lip as bitter tears prickled in her eyes. Lara looked taken aback.

  ‘No, that’s not –‘ she began, but Robin couldn’t stop herself now.

  ‘It’s fine, your reputation is absolutely pristine. And do you know why? Because I’m in the closet, ok? There are no rumours about me that could endanger you. In fact, DS Bolton thinks I’m after Paul Austin!’ She laughed humourlessly and turned to storm back up to her car.

  ‘Robin!’

  ‘I mean, nobody’d want to be a minority, would they?’ she shouted back, and slammed into the driver’s seat. She threw the car into gear and raced off down the road, leaving DCC Lara Black standing, watching her go.

  Chapter 6

  Robin spent the best part of the next few days in a fug of anger and humiliation. Her face burned with embarrassment every time she remembered that Lara Black had been so absolutely mortified by anyone thinking they were an item. She’d seen the tall DCC a few times around the office and at first the woman had looked like she’d wanted to speak, but Robin had sailed past without even throwing her a glance. After a while they’d settled into a routine of politely ignoring each other.

  'Everything ok, Detective Constable?' asked Paul Austin one afternoon, after watching the two women stamp frostily past each other in the corridor.

  'Absolutely peachy, sir,' she responded, and he sighed but didn't say any more.

  Keith Bolton, who might have winkled out of Robin some information about the source of her temper, had gone on emergency leave – Muriel had contracted an infection and had been admitted to hospital as a precaution. Robin sent him a few texts to let him know that she was thinking of them, and his lack of replies didn’t surprise her, but his silence just added to the tightness in her chest. I don’t have any other friends in this station, she thought. Maybe I should just chuck it all in.

  She was deep in these miserable thoughts one afternoon when she realised the second highest ranking detective, DCI Chatterjee, was standing next to her.

  ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, sir.’ As ever, Chatterjee’s long, sad face was unreadable. He handed her a thick manila file, which she took automatically.

  ‘There’s been a spate of violent muggings down in the Gallery Quarter. Uniform haven’t had much luck so you’re taking a look.’

  Her face registered dismay. ‘But what about the Ice Queen investigation?’

  He shrugged. ‘You’re off it. DCI Goode’s loaned you to this until it’s resolved.’

  Robin stared at his back as he turned and disappeared back into the milling crowd of detectives. Taken off the murder investigation? Her face burned as if it had been slapped. She glared at the front cover of the file in her hand. Operation Passport, it read.

  Her phone beeped in her pocket. It was a message from Keith.

  How do. What’s the latest?

  For the first time in days she felt herself smile.

  Dunno. Been taken off the case! How’s Muriel?

  Feeling better and back home. What doing then?

  She smiled at his lack of texting finesse.

  Museum mugger. Annoyed.

  Newest DC gets the shittest jobs. Make sure you catch the bastard. See you soon, Tweetie.

  Despite herself, she smiled. He’s right, of course he’s right, I’m just junior. Still, as she sat at her desk and made herself look carefully through the file she couldn’t help but think that there was going to be no glory in this case.

  And so it proved to be. Over the next few days Robin trudged around the city, interviewing and re-interviewing the six women and two men who’d be unlucky enough to attract the attentions of the man the local paper was calling the Museum Mugger. In each case, his MO had been simple, effective, and brutal: he’d waited for a single person to leave one of the big galleries and museums lining Montague Street and then hit them in the face with a big, gloved fist. No threats, no talk, just an immediate stunning blow, leaving him all the time in the world to get their purses and wallets whilst his victims were lying dazed on the pavement.

  Knowing uniform had already been over this ground she asked her questions as gently as she could, but her heart squeezed to see the fear and shame on the witnesses’ faces.

  ‘I should have done something,’ one young man said, ‘fought back, someth
ing. Not just get knocked down like some pathetic loser.’

  She pretended not to see the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. ‘I don’t think there’s anything you could have done, sir. He’s clearly very confident that he can take on women or men without any problems. Possibly he’s had some kind of training – boxing, or MMA.’

  The man’s expression brightened. ‘Yeah, yeah, I reckon you’re right. He did look really handy, you know, like he was used to a fight.’ And congratulations for leading the witness. Still, if the idea made the memories of the experience more bearable, then that was probably a good thing. She got back into her car and sighed. Maybe that was going to be the only good thing to come out of this investigation.

  On impulse she dug her phone out and Googled martial arts clubs and boxing gyms in the city, raising her eyebrows at the astonishing number that came up. It was a long shot, but she had a very rough sketch of the assailant and she could do worse than start showing it round these places. You never knew, it might lead somewhere.

  She spent the following day and a half trying to ignore cat calls and the smell of stale sweat at a series of depressing halls and gyms. At each one she showed the photofit, and a bit of CCTV that had captured part of one of the muggings, to bored blokes who were much more interested in staring at her chest, flexing their muscles, or demonstrating they could break a block of concrete with their heads. Still, having started, she was loathe to pack it in until every fight club she could conceivably find had been visited.

  It was dark by the time she finally finished and dragged herself back to the station. Now in the second week of the murder investigation, the powers that be had started sending people home at nights rather than run up pointless overtime, and the CID room was empty. Robin didn’t mind; Derek was visiting Sue tonight and frankly she’d rather be a sad old fart at work than a gooseberry at home. She fetched herself a coffee and a tired pastry from the canteen, spread all her notes out across the desk, and sat and munched. Investigation by osmosis, she thought, if I sit here long enough perhaps something will occur to me.