Rush of Blood (25 page)

Marina said that she needed a large glass of wine and Angie had no problem keeping her company. The good weather was holding,
so they sat outside a Pizza Express in Crystal Palace. It was only ten minutes from the practice where Marina worked in South
Norwood and Angie had been happy enough to drive up from Crawley.

‘Diary’s not exactly packed,’ she’d said on the phone.

When she’d got there and they’d ordered, Angie explained that they were going to have company. Marina seemed a little shaken.

‘Sorry, but there wasn’t a lot I could do,’ Angie said. ‘I told her I was meeting you for lunch and she said how much easier
that would be for her. Two birds with one stone sort of thing.’

‘It’s not fair,’ Marina said. She turned her mobile phone over and over in her hand, then laid it on the table. ‘Like it’s
being sprung on us.’

‘She’s already spoken to Barry. So, you know, I think they want to talk to us all again.’

‘Talk to us about what?’

‘No idea,’ Angie said. She seemed perfectly at ease with it, happy even, and, as the waiter laid their pizzas down, Marina
decided that
being spoken to by a police officer was probably as exciting as Angie’s life got. Being married to Barry was hardly going
to be a rollercoaster ride, after all.

‘This is lovely,’ Angie said.

Marina grunted her agreement, mouth full.

‘I mean the two of us having lunch like this. I know you and Sue have been getting together, so …’

‘Just once.’ Marina swallowed fast.

‘It’s fine.’

‘We just met that one time. Just for an hour or something. Sue thought it would be a bit far for you to come.’

Angie smiled. ‘
We
haven’t really had a chance for a proper girlie chat, have we?’

Marina shook her head.

‘I love what you’re wearing, by the way.’

Marina wore a thin white cardigan over a fifties-style, floral-print dress. The tips of her hair were still dyed red, though
most of it had been gathered up beneath an oversized tweed cap.

‘Sue’s got one like that,’ Angie said.

‘Has she?’

‘Don’t you remember? We saw it when we were in her bedroom. I don’t know, maybe it was Ed’s. I’m sure it looks better on you.’

‘Your bracelet’s gorgeous,’ Marina said, reaching towards it.

Angie stretched her arm across the table. ‘Got it from Barry for Christmas.’

‘So, how
is
your old man, anyway?’

For some reason, Marina had asked the question with more than a trace of a cockney accent. If Angie noticed, she didn’t seem
to mind and she told Marina all about the problems Barry had been having with his brother and his ex-wife. Marina made sympathetic
noises and they both agreed that families could be a nightmare.

‘Dave and I are lucky,’ Marina said. ‘Neither of us has anything at all to do with ours, for one reason or another.’

‘Oh, that’s a shame.’

She shook her head. ‘Like Dave says, we’re self-contained. Better off that way.’

Angie cocked her head, considering it. ‘Different things work for different people, I suppose.’ She was about to say something
else, then saw the woman walking towards the table. She leaned towards Marina and whispered, ‘Here we go.’

A few seconds later, Jenny Quinlan was pulling a chair across and joining them without a trace of awkwardness. As though she
were simply a friend who had not been able to make it in time for the main course.

‘God, wine would be nice,’ she said, eyeing their glasses. ‘But I’d better not. Those boys on traffic would love nothing more
than to pull over a female detective with a couple of glasses of Chardonnay inside her. Make their bloody day, that would.
Major
stiffies all round, I promise you.’ She smiled at Angie then turned to Marina. ‘So, how was work this morning?’

‘Same as usual,’ Marina said.

‘I bloody hate the dentist,’ Jenny said. ‘Well, I don’t suppose
anybody
likes it very much, do they?’

‘I’m a receptionist,’ Marina said. ‘Part-time.’

‘Right.’

‘Leaves the afternoons free for auditions. Or to get some writing done.’

‘What are you writing?’ Jenny asked. She appeared to be genuinely interested.

Marina looked embarrassed.

‘Oh, go on,’ Angie said. ‘I was going to ask how all that was going.’

‘Actually, I’m working on a short story about what happened when we were in Florida,’ Marina said. She was more confident
suddenly, cocky almost. ‘That girl.’

‘Ooh, a crime story.’ Angie hunched up her shoulders, excited. ‘I love those.’

‘Me too,’ Jenny said. ‘But they always get things wrong.’

‘Like what?’ Angie asked.

‘Well, they always manage to catch the killer for a start.’ She rummaged in her bag, brought out her notebook. ‘Talking of
which …’

‘So they still haven’t caught him then?’ Angie said.

Jenny looked at her. ‘We’re still working on it.’

She asked the two women what they had been doing nine days earlier, on the eleventh. Then she asked if they knew what their
other halves had been doing, in Angie’s case to confirm what Barry Finnegan had already told her. When she had been given
the information, she asked them if they were going to have pudding, told them she could murder a piece of chocolate fudge
cake. Angie said that she would join her, and when it arrived, Jenny said, ‘So tell me what you make of Ed Dunning?’

Angie and Marina said nothing for the ten seconds or so it took for their expressions to change a number of times. Surprise,
confusion, then contemplation, which Angie at least appeared to find enjoyable. Though clearly both were bursting to do so,
each seemed a little afraid to ask Jenny the obvious question.

‘He’s … nice enough,’ Angie said, finally.

Marina’s pause suggested that she didn’t wholeheartedly agree. ‘I think he’d be thrilled that we were talking about him,’
she said. ‘He likes to be the centre of attention.’

‘Oh, definitely. He’s never short of an opinion.’

‘A very
odd
opinion.’

‘But he’s funny.’

‘Well, he
thinks
he is.’

‘Yeah, I suppose he can be a bit … sick sometimes,’ Angie said.

‘Only because he likes shocking people.’

‘I never really know when he’s taking the mickey, if I’m honest.’

‘He’s just a wind-up merchant,’ Marina said.

‘Really? Sometimes I think it’s a bit nastier than that.’

The dessert arrived. Jenny got stuck in, continued to listen.

‘I suppose you’d have to say he’s quite good-looking.’

‘Oh God, no,’ Angie said.

‘I’m not saying he’s
sexy
though.’

‘Well, I can see what you mean, but not my type at all.’

‘He’s always
talking
about sex for a start. I find all that a bit sleazy, to be honest.’

‘He certainly likes to flirt,’ Angie said.

‘Bit of a bully too, I reckon.’

‘Well, yes, but between you and me, I think Sue quite …
likes
that.’

‘Over-compensating, if you ask me.’

‘Maybe he can’t get it up,’ Angie said.

Walking back to her car, already regretting the chocolate fudge cake, Jenny got a call from the man she had spent the previous
half an hour talking about.

‘About yesterday,’ Ed said. ‘I just wanted to clarify a couple of things.’

‘You want to talk about Annette Bailey?’

‘No, I told you.’

‘And I told you, it might help you if you did.’

‘I said everything that needed saying at the time, told the police everything and it didn’t help when it came to getting an
apology, did it? Not a single word, not a “sorry, we fucked up” after weeks of hell. No charges ever made, not a single one,
but in the end it doesn’t matter, does it, because the shit sticks. Sits there stinking on some computer somewhere until it
gets dragged up years later by the likes of you.’ He said nothing for a few seconds. ‘And you wonder about my attitude towards
the police.’

Jenny pressed the remote on her keyring to open her car. ‘So, if you didn’t call to talk about Annette Bailey, what exactly
do you want to “clarify”, Mr Dunning?’

‘Those bookshops, on the eleventh. I was going to give you a list.’

‘It’s a bit tricky at the moment. Can you email it to me?’

‘It’s not worth it, because I didn’t go to them,’ Ed said. ‘Not all of them anyway.’

‘I see.’

‘Sue doesn’t know, that’s why I didn’t say anything yesterday.’

‘So, what were you doing?’

‘Look, things are a bit stretched at the moment and I don’t make anything like as many calls as I used to. I’m not exactly
… busy.’ He let out a long breath. ‘I sit in car parks and listen to the radio, I go to the pub. Cinema sometimes. All right?’

‘So you lie to your wife.’ Jenny opened the car door and got in.

‘Yes, I lie. It makes things easier for both of us, and although this is none of your bloody business I’d really rather not
have her finding out that I haven’t been able to pay the mortgage for the last few months, so if there’s any way we can avoid
that … you know.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘You’d be doing me a favour.’

Jenny closed the car door and slid the key into the ignition. She said, ‘Thank you for being honest with me.’

The truth was, Gardner had been thinking about flying over there for a week or so, ever since he’d received that email about
the girl going missing in Kent. It was only now though, three days since he’d spoken to Jenny Quinlan, that he brought the
subject up at home. Nice and casual, over grilled salmon steaks and salad.

‘Really?’ Michelle asked.

‘Well, there’s nothing definite,’ Gardner said. He knew how much his wife hated him going away unless it was absolutely necessary.
That overnight in Atlanta had led to an atmosphere for a couple of days. ‘I just had a conversation with the lieutenant about
it. That’s all.’

‘It sounds a bit vague,’ she said. ‘This so-called connection.’

‘Well, we’ll see.’

‘Can’t the police over there handle their side of it?’

‘Yeah, I’m sure they can.’

‘So what’s the point? Besides, wouldn’t they be a little pissed, you showing up? Barging in, like they couldn’t do their jobs
properly?’

The point was that rotten tooth and him doing everything he could to get it out. But Gardner just said, ‘It’s only an idea,
that’s all.’

He was getting sick of wading through the paperwork on all the
British tourists they had so far been able to track down. Ticking one off after the other, eliminating them from the investigation.
Every UK passport holder who had been staying on Longboat, Siesta or Casey Key when Amber-Marie was taken. Anywhere as far
as Anna Maria island to the north and Venice to the south. It felt as though his end was now all about the people who
didn’t
do it. There was nothing to get excited about, nothing he would be able to tell Patti Lee Wilson.

A bit vague
…

His wife was probably right.

He never usually talked to her in any great detail about the cases he was working. Michelle’s choice as much as his. She was
not exactly itching to hear about the latest drug deal gone bad in Newtown. Some sixteen-year-old shot dead for selling a
few wraps on the wrong corner. In fact, she wasn’t crazy about any of it and more than once she had tried to get into the
subject of them moving out of Florida altogether. She was originally from the Midwest and once in a while she talked about
a small town somewhere, some three or four-man police department Gardner might be able to head up. He would listen and pretend
he was thinking about it, then remind her that even if Sarasota had its problems – and the homicide rate per head of population
was
way higher than it should have been – at least he wasn’t working in Atlanta or Detroit.

He didn’t tell her that he could not imagine anything worse than running some two-bit department in Bumfuck, Indiana. Spending
his days sorting out disputes between noisy neighbours or whatever it was. What had Patti said? Overdue taxes and parking
tickets. Yeah, maybe he’d sleep a little better, but he’d feel like he was in a coma the rest of the damn time.

‘Make sure you pack sweaters,’ Michelle said, a little snappy.

‘It wouldn’t be for long and it probably won’t happen anyway.’

‘Look, it’s up to you,’ she said.

They might normally have gone outside after they’d eaten, finished the wine off by the pool, but it was way too humid for
that. The late summer months were brutal, you just moved from house to car and
car to air-conditioned building as fast as you could. The temperature might come down once in a while, enough for him to take
a beer out on to the deck maybe, but right now at seven-thirty in the evening it was still pushing 80 degrees. So they took
their glasses across to the couch.

‘Well, it’s not my decision ultimately,’ Gardner said.

‘If you’re pushing for it though.’

‘Who says I’m pushing?’

‘I know you,’ Michelle said.

‘You think?’ Her face told him exactly what she thought. ‘Like I say, it’s only an idea.’

‘Right …’

He leaned across to kiss her. He was thinking about the emails he’d received from London over the last few days, the phone
calls from Jenny Quinlan. He said, ‘I just want to be where the action is.’

On cue their daughter began calling out from upstairs.

‘How about you start with that?’

Gardner sighed and quickly finished what was in his glass. ‘Talking tiger time.’

Thursday morning, the file arrived from General Registry. Jenny opened up the green cardboard folder, sat at her desk with
a coffee. Around her, the office was buzzing – a domestic murder in Catford, a stabbing at a club in New Cross, serious gunshot
wounds following a drive-by in Lewisham – but Jenny had no trouble zoning out; the chatter and the laughter and the ringing
of phones fading into the background as she concentrated on the report.

A white printed sticker, peeling at one corner from the front of the file.

Edward Charles Dunning. Charge of rape. January 17, 2005
.

There was not much of it. The case against Dunning had collapsed at a relatively early stage with all charges dropped well
before pre-trial preparations.

‘
Didn’t help when it came to getting an apology, did it?
’

Despite the distinctly unfunny nature of the subject matter, Jenny found herself smiling as she read, picturing the outrage
on Dunning’s face, enjoying the memory of his self-righteous ranting the day before.

‘
The shit sticks
…’

Dunning had been charged with the rape of Annette Bailey, a
thirty-seven-year-old woman who worked as a bookseller at her own premises in Wokingham, a shop on Ed Dunning’s patch. He
had invited her for a drink, having called at her shop at the end of the day. After a couple of hours in the pub, they had
gone back to the small flat above the shop. They had opened another bottle, ended up in Annette Bailey’s bed.

It was at this point that their versions of events began to diverge.

Jenny read the initial statements made the following morning by Dunning and by the woman accusing him. She looked through
the results of the rape kit that had been run earlier the same day. These confirmed that sexual intercourse had taken place
and detailed the multiple injuries consistent with a serious sexual assault. She read the results of the subsequent DNA test,
which left no doubt whatsoever that Ed Dunning had been responsible, then she read – and reread – Dunning’s interview following
his arrest, five days after the alleged offence.

Then, it was just admin.

Back and forth between the senior investigating officer and a lawyer from the Crown Prosecution Service. A second round of
interviews requested along with ‘background information’ on Annette Bailey. The growing list of ‘concerns’ on the part of
the CPS.

Miss Bailey had invited Mr Dunning to her flat.

She admitted that she had been drinking and smoking marijuana.

She admitted to finding Mr Dunning ‘fanciable’.

She willingly climbed into bed with him.

The assault was not reported until the following morning.

Then, finally, the CPS’s conclusion that having considered the evidence carefully, it was not in anyone’s interest, including
Miss Bailey’s – Jenny had to read that line twice – to take this case to trial.

All wrapped up nicely in a dozen pages, plus a few unpleasant pictures.

The sounds of the office faded up again as Jenny noted down the salient points. Then, together with her own thoughts as to
how she should proceed, she transferred them into an email, which she sent to
Jeff Gardner. Well aware that any kudos coming her way was dependent on following the necessary chains of command, she took
care to copy in the relevant SIOs from both Kent and the Met.

She took down the contact details she needed from the file. Checked again to make sure there was nothing else she should do,
no procedure she had neglected to follow.

Job done.

Half an hour later she was perched on the edge of a desk, sharing a joke with Andy Simmons, when the call came through to
say that a visitor was waiting downstairs.

She watched Dave Cullen stand up when he caught sight of her through the window. A nod of recognition. He reached into a pocket
for his inhaler and took a swift puff as she opened the door into the reception area and walked across to join him.

‘Mr Cullen?’ She shook his outstretched hand. ‘I was going to call you.’

‘I thought I’d save you the trouble,’ he said.

‘You’re obviously getting fond of this place.’

He laughed. ‘Well, it’s exciting to see where it all happens, isn’t it?’

‘Shall we talk here?’ He hesitated, as though waiting for a better suggestion. ‘Or I could try and find us a nice quiet room
somewhere?’

‘That would be great,’ he said.

She swiped him through the security door and he followed her up the stairs. Walking along a corridor towards the suite of
rooms occupied by CID, she was aware of him glancing into offices as they passed, scrutinising noticeboards.

‘Can I see the Incident Room?’ he asked.

‘I’m afraid not,’ Jenny said. She did not bother to point out that as far as the case he had presumably come here to talk
about went, the Incident Room amounted to little more than a single drawer in her desk. She glanced over her shoulder at him
as they walked. ‘I didn’t think you were here for a tour anyway.’

He managed a tight smile. ‘They’re just like ordinary offices,’ he
said, peering through another small window in another plain wooden door. ‘I bet you’ve got stationery cupboards and everything
…’

Jenny found an unoccupied interview room. Before that, she’d tried one of the briefing rooms, but the large whiteboard at
one end was still decorated with photos of the targets in a forthcoming drugs operation. She had quickly closed the door again.
‘Not allowed to see those,’ she said. ‘Sorry.’ His disappointment had been obvious.

As they sat down on opposite sides of the metal desk, Cullen said, ‘I wasn’t far wrong with sixty-five per cent, by the way.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Your chance of catching the killer. I’ve done a bit of checking and it’s actually a bit less than that in the US. Closer
to sixty per cent according to the most recent set of figures, but that’s nationwide of course. Obviously it’s way lower than
that in some places.’

Jenny nodded. Obviously.

‘We really need to factor in the UK figures though, don’t we?’

‘Do we?’

‘Well, the investigation has obviously widened out to include the disappearance of Samantha Gold.’ Cullen smiled. ‘Bearing
in mind the questions you’ve already asked the others.’

‘So?’

‘Oh, it’s way higher over here,’ he said. ‘Closer to ninety per cent, but that’s based on figures from Scotland Yard, so,
you know, pinch of salt and all that. Also, that applies to what they call “detected” murders. Problem is, that can mean murders
where someone is convicted, but it also applies to anyone who’s been charged and cleared later. So, it’s a bit … muddy.’

‘All the same.’ Jenny did her best to look pleased. ‘Higher’s good, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, definitely. There are only a thousand or so unsolved murders in the whole country, going right back. That’s pretty
impressive, I reckon.’

‘I’ll pass that on,’ Jenny said. ‘It’s nice to be appreciated.’

Cullen nodded and looked around. He sat back in his chair, his
hands thrust into the pockets of his hoodie. ‘So, how’s it going, anyway?’

‘Early days,’ Jenny said.

‘That’s the important bit, isn’t it? Those first few days, that’s when they say you’ve got the best chance to find someone
who’s missing.’

‘Most of the time, yes.’

‘After that it’s always a murder inquiry, isn’t it? I mean I know you don’t say that to the family or anything, but that’s
what you’re thinking, right?’ He shook his head. ‘Way past that already for Samantha Gold, I would have thought …’

He stretched his legs and Jenny shifted hers back beneath her chair when Cullen’s feet nudged her own. She glanced down and
saw a pair of orange and white New Balance trainers. They looked familiar and she remembered that Ed Dunning had worn a pair
exactly the same.

‘I need to ask you some questions,’ Jenny said.

‘Course. That’s why I’m here. Fire away.’

She’d always thought Dave Cullen was weird – had noted that down after the first interview – but now she was struck by just
how arrogant he was. It was interesting, as it was not how others had described him. The day before in Crystal Palace, once
they had finished discussing Ed Dunning, Jenny had taken advantage of Marina’s visit to the ladies to ask Angie Finnegan what
she thought of him.

‘Dave’s lovely,’ Angie had said, her voice low even though Marina was no longer with them. ‘He’s quiet and I think he’s a
bit shy really … even though he’s clearly a right brainbox. Lovely to Marina as well.
Attentive
. I wish Barry was a bit more like that, tell you the truth …’

‘The eleventh,’ Jenny said to Cullen. ‘In the afternoon.’

‘I know Marina already told you that we were both at home, but I’m guessing you need to hear it from me as well.’

‘Please.’

‘Like she told you, I was off work for a few days because my asthma was bad. Still is, actually. Smog levels have gone through
the bloody roof in London. There’s plenty of work I can do on the computer at home. So …’

‘So Marina came back when?’

‘Same time she always does when she’s on mornings. Half one, something like that. We had lunch, a sandwich or whatever and
we sat and watched a film.’ He looked at her. ‘
The Romantic Englishwoman
. It’s a Joe Losey movie … Michael Caine and Glenda Jackson. Not exactly one of Caine’s best, but he
has
made a lot of rubbish.’ He smiled. ‘Now obviously I could have just found out what was on by looking at the
Radio Times
or something. But I didn’t. I think it was Channel 5 if you’re interested.’

Jenny scribbled it down. ‘I won’t bother looking out for that one.’

‘Just out of interest, why
do
you think the Samantha Gold case has got anything to do with what happened to Amber-Marie Wilson?’ As Jenny was about to
trot out the usual line about being ‘unable to divulge that information’, Cullen held up his hand, knowing what was coming.
He said, ‘Fine,’ and shrugged, like it didn’t matter. Or like he knew the answer anyway.

‘Right then …’

‘Should be interesting on Saturday,’ he said.

‘What’s happening on Saturday?’

‘Dinner round at our place. Ed and Sue and the others.’ He smiled. ‘The Sarasota Six …’

‘I’m sure you’ll have plenty to talk about,’ Jenny said.