Blood of the Innocents

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Authors: Chris Collett

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BOOK: Blood of the Innocents
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Blood of the Innocents
Tom Mariner [2]
Chris Collett
UK (2005)

When two teenagers go missing on the same day on Mariner's patch, it
seems to be nothing more than a coincidence. Leaving aside their age and
disappearance, the two have little in common. Yasmin Akram is the
talented grammar school educated daughter of devout Muslim
professionals. Ricky Skeet disappears after storming out of his council
house after a row with his mother's latest boyfriend. Mariner knows
Ricky's mother from his days in uniform, so he is less than happy when
his superiors - bowing to media pressure - take him the Skeet case and
reassign him to the more politically sensitive investigation. The press -
and his bosses - seem convinced that Yasmin's disappearance is a
racially motivated abduction, especially since the Akram's have found
themselves the target of the far right and a prominent white supremacist
group. Working with Asian liaison officer Jamilla Begum on the more
high profile case, Mariner soon discovers that the picture of Yasmin her
school-friends paint is far different to her parents claim that she is a
total innocent

 
 
 
 
Blood of the Innocents
 
 
CHRIS COLLETT
 
 
Hachette Digital
Table of Contents
 
 
Chris Collett was born in East Anglia and graduated in Liverpool, before moving to Birmingham to teach both children and adults with varying degrees of learning disability. Chris is married with two teenage children.
 
She is the author of
The Worm in the Bud, Blood of the Innocents
and
Written in Blood,
also available from Piatkus.
Also by Chris Collett
The Worm in the Bud
 
 
 
 
Blood of the Innocents
 
 
CHRIS COLLETT
 
 
Hachette Digital
 
Visit the Piatkus website!
 
Piatkus publishes a wide range of bestselling fiction and non-fiction, including books on health, mind, body & spirit, sex, self-help, cookery, biography and the paranormal.
 
 
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VISIT OUR WEBSITE AT:
www.piatkus.co.uk
 
 
 
 
 
 
All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
 
Copyright © Chris Collett 2005
 
 
First published in Great Britain in 2005 by
Piatkus Books Ltd of
5 Windmill Street, London W1T 2JA
email: [email protected]
 
 
This edition published 2006
 
 
The moral right of the author has been asserted
 
 
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
 
eISBN : 978 0 7481 1272 2
 
This ebook produced by JOUVE, FRANCE
 
 
Set in Times by Action Publishing Technology Ltd, Gloucester
 
 
Printed and bound in Denmark by Norhaven Paperback A/S, Viborg
To Richard for your love, support and encouragement
Chapter One
Striding to the window, Tom Mariner pulled shut the metal frame with an irritable bang, before releasing the Venetian blind. It jerked down notch by notch, snagging on its tangled cords as if in the final throes of death. The immediate problem was solved, reducing the hammering and banging from the extension work in progress below to a series of muffled thuds, but neither action did much to reduce the heat or glare from the mid-morning sun that beat in relentlessly through the south-facing window. His was not an office designed for heat waves. It wasn’t designed for cold snaps either, but right now the prospect of a biting frost or a raw wind was as distant as the Outer Hebrides and the sting of icy rain on his face would have been a refreshing relief. He needed a drink.
But the water cooler when he got there was empty and there were no replacement bottles, forcing him to sift through the loose change in his pockets and head for the soft drinks machine on the ground floor. He joined a long queue, then when his turn came the machine greedily swallowed his money then refused to cough the can. He was poised to give it a hefty kick when probationer DC Liam Grady intervened, calling down the stairs to him. ‘There’s a Ms Streep on the phone, sir. Claims she has some new information on a city-centre armed robbery you dealt with back in March. I did ask if she could come to the station, but she insisted that you’d want to go out to talk to her. To be honest, she sounded a bit of a fruitcake. Do you want me to deal with it?’
Mariner slammed his open hand into the side of the machine in frustration. ‘No, it’s OK. I could do with a break. I can get a drink while I’m OUT!’ He glared at the machine. ‘And if she is some kind of head case it won’t take me long.’
‘Right, sir,’ said Grady uncertainly.
 
In fact it took Mariner less than ten minutes to get from the station to the address given: a house on a small but exclusive, newly built estate in leafy Bournville. Four-and five-bedroom executive homes set in several immaculately landscaped acres, their combinations of red-brick and mock-Tudor fascias rendering each one marginally unique. Number 18 stood towards the end of the winding cul-de-sac. Mariner walked up a block-paved drive, past a gleaming new MG soft top and pressed the doorbell. After a moment the door cracked open a couple of inches and behind it, out of sight of the street, Mariner saw Ms Streep.
Young and pretty, her thigh-length, burnt orange silk shirt complemented the colour of her eyes. As he watched she let it fall open at the front, revealing that underneath she was wearing very little. ‘Please, come in, Inspector,’ she smiled.
Mariner swallowed hard, his professionalism on the line. No contest really. With a furtive glance around to check that he was unobserved, he stepped into the hallway and as the door closed on him, she took hold of his tie, pulling his face down to her level and kissing him full on the mouth, while her other hand grabbed at his already expanding crotch.
‘You have to stop doing this, Anna,’ Mariner said, some time later, lying back on the pillows, his pale skin glistening with perspiration, while she sat astride his abdomen, now wearing only the silk shirt. ‘Someone at the station is going to catch on to these women all specifically asking for me to make house calls when I’m meant to be working. I can’t always just drop everything on a whim.’
Anna was pragmatic. ‘This is only the second time, and you’re entitled to some kind of lunch break, aren’t you?’
‘In theory, but you know how that plays out.’
‘It’s the only time during the week when I can guarantee that Jamie’s out of the way. It seems a shame to waste the opportunity. Besides,’ she added, artfully, ‘you do always have the option of turning me down.’ She slid down over his thighs and started work again.
Mariner’s gaze swept over her exquisite body as he felt the blood flowing back to his groin. She’d put on a little weight since he’d first known her, rounded out a little, but all that had done was add to the perfection. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, as if she’d pointed out something new.
In truth he was a little afraid of what might happen if he did decline these invitations. Anna had saved his life, well, his sex life anyway. Single-handedly, as it were, she had resuscitated his seriously ailing libido and now, to paraphrase Harold Macmillan, he’d never had it so good. Added to which, she was bright, she was great company and he . . . well, he liked her . . . a lot. It was too much to risk. Except at times like this, when he felt guilty knowing that he should be somewhere else, with his mind on other things. Fighting his natural urges, he raised himself reluctantly up on his elbows. ‘I really should go.’
‘OK.’ Anna stopped what she was doing and climbed off him, eliciting another sigh. Her casual acceptance of the demands of his job disconcerted him. His ego would have liked the occasional protest, except that wouldn’t have worked either. It never had with previous girlfriends. And Anna didn’t have time to get hung up on what else may or may not be commanding his attention. Since assuming sole responsibility for Jamie, her autistic younger brother, she’d been presented with a whole raft of needs and demands that had to take precedence. Mariner understood that - most of the time.
Before dressing, he ducked under the shower for a few minutes, putting on Anna’s lacy shower cap to keep his hair dry. He didn’t want the other detectives on the squad thinking he’d developed a sudden fetish for showering in the middle of the day, even during a heat wave.
‘Lovely,’ said Anna when he reappeared still wearing the cap. ‘And there’s a pair of French knickers in the drawer—’ Mariner snatched off the hat and threw it at her, spraying her liberally with water, making her wriggle and shriek and giving him the overwhelming urge to re-join her on the bed. ‘What shall we do on Friday night?’ he asked instead, reaching for his boxer shorts.
The hesitation was answer enough. She wrinkled her nose. ‘Actually I fancy a quiet night to myself. I’ve got stuff to do.’
Mariner curbed his disappointment. ‘Saturday then?’
‘If you fancy coming begging with me.’
‘Begging,’ Mariner repeated, checking that he hadn’t misheard.
‘Look in the back bedroom.’
Mariner walked through, buttoning his shirt as he went. He pushed open the door, or tried to. After a few inches it jammed and when he poked his head through the gap, his eyes lit on an Aladdin’s cave piled high with consumer booty: a wine cellar, electrical store and toy emporium all crammed into the tiny, confined space.
Letting the door close, he went back to Anna. ‘If you’ve started shoplifting I’ll have to turn you in, you know that.’
She ignored him. ‘It’s for the tombola stall at Bournville festival next month, to raise funds for Manor Park,’ she said, proudly. ‘Don’t you think I’ve done well?’
‘Manor Park’s nowhere near Bournville,’ said Mariner. The festival was a local event held in the grounds of the Cadbury factory, not two miles away, whereas Jamie’s respite care facility was located a good six miles out of town, deep in the Worcestershire countryside.
‘It doesn’t matter, apparently. We’re a registered charity, so they’re happy to accommodate us. All we have to do is find a day’s worth of prizes.’
‘We?’
‘Simon’s helping me.’
‘Oh, great.’ A stab of irritation provoked by the mention of Jamie’s care-worker forced out the response with more sarcasm than he’d intended.

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