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There was a knock at the door. Charlie clicked the screen to black, his heart beating overtime as he did so. It was ridiculous. The porn wasn’t his, it was part of the investigation, but no way did he want anyone else to see it on his computer. Not that he was embarrassed to say that he watched porn, sometimes, in private, but …
“Come in,” he jumped up and opened the door, telling his insides to behave. “PC Jellicoe.”
“Mags, please, Sarge.”
“Mags. What’s up?”
“We just got back from the college and there was a call from some police station in England.” Mags, said England in the way most British people would have said Outer Mongolia or Uzbekistan. “One of your missing students, the Kaylan guy, just walked in, and said he’d been kidnapped. He escaped, but he says his friend didn’t. He thinks his friend may be dead.”
“Kidnapped. Shit. OK, let’s have what you’ve got.”
She gave Charlie a post-it with a telephone number and the words Brocklehurst, Gtr Manchester.
“The sergeant said Kaylan was in a bit of a state. They’ve taken him to A and E. Just dehydrated according to the docs.”
“Thanks, Mags.”
Charlie’s head was buzzing. If the second student was still missing, possibly injured or worse, one of them needed to talk to Kaylan. But there would be a jurisdiction problem. He picked up his phone and called Mal Kent.
“Sir, we’ve located one of the students…” he began to explain, but Kent interrupted.
“Listen, Charlie, I’ve been called into see the Chief Constable. I’m expecting to be put on gardening leave. For now, you’re on your own. You’ll have a couple of days before they work out where you are and what you’re doing. Sorry, I have to go.” There was a pause, but Charlie heard the sound of quiet voices at the other end. Then, “I will be fine. But you may not be, and if they come for you, they’ll come for Edwards and Hargreaves too. Keep an eye out for Jared Brody. He was the sergeant at Llanfair, and our techies think his prints are all over that fake email from me. There are people who don’t want any more light shining on Llanfair police. Get as much as you can out into the open. Two days, Charlie and the clock is ticking.” Then he was gone.
The spike of panic in Charlie’s chest was back, and it had brought friends. He couldn’t breathe. He wanted to throw up. Fuck, he was going to throw up. He ran for the toilet, leaving Mags staring after him in confusion.
Charlie washed his face, and told himself to get a grip. The clothes he was forced to wear, the dreadful night, the headache, the endlessly ringing phone, the fate of the missing students, and now Kent’s call. Panic was waiting to engulf him, and no amount of deep breathing or counting to ten was having any effect. If he got it wrong four people would be out of a job, but the chances of him getting it right seemed less than zero.
“You alright, Sarge,” Mags called through the door.
“No,” he answered, honestly.
He threw some more cold water on his face, and mopped it up with a handful of cardboard-like paper towels. The door opened, and Mags burst in, took one look at his face and threw her arms round him. Her body was soft, and the contact was comforting. It was enough that this time the deep breaths worked. He stepped backwards, and so did Mags.
“Thanks,” he said. “Really, thanks.”
The banging of doors and a call of “Hello?” announced that Eddy was back from his house-to-house.
Charlie had to make a choice, and he made it.
“Stick a notice on the front door saying we’ll open again at two, and meet me in the break room,” he said to Mags. “I need to tell you all what’s going on.”
Triple Chocolate Cookie
Monday 1pm
Exclusive: Gay Cop slept as his lover murdered sexy lifeguard in the next room! See pages 15 and 16 for the full story.
Five minutes later, Charlie had a coffee in front of him, and was trying to decide whether eating a triple chocolate cookie would settle his stomach or sending him running back to the gents. He decided to risk it. Eddy was munching his way through his second cookie and lining up his third. Patsy Hargreaves was close behind in the cookie-eating stakes. Mags was nibbling hers, very, very slowly. Eddy raised his eyebrows at her. “Cousin’s wedding coming up,” she said. “I’m a matron of honour, and my dress is already too small.”
“What’s a matron of honour?” Eddy asked, between bites.
“God knows,” Mags said.
“It is a married woman who supports the bride,” Patsy said. “A largely redundant role, in the modern world, but often given to friends of the bride who are unable to be bridesmaids.”
“Thank you, Wikipedia,” said Eddy.
Patsy looked faintly puzzled.
