Blood of the Innocents Read online

  Blood of the Innocents

  CHRIS COLLETT

  Hachette Digital

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  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

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  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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  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 bro
ther, 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.

  Anna chattered on, oblivious. ‘That might look like loads in there, but it’ll be nowhere near enough to keep us going for a whole day. This Saturday we’re targeting Harborne and Bearwood, asking all the shops if they’ve got anything to donate.’

  ‘I’m not sure if that’s legal.’

  ‘We’re only asking them. They’re at liberty to say no.’ She smiled one of her most persuasive smiles.

  ‘Same as me then; Hobson’s choice.’ Mariner sat on the edge of the bed to tie his laces.

  ‘You could donate something,’ she said suddenly as the thought occurred. ‘Granville Lane, I mean.’

  ‘What, like a CS canister signed by the chief superintendent? That would be a coup for an adventurous five-year-old.’

  ‘A weekend for two in the cell block? Or a set of hand-cuffs. I can think of a few couples who’d go for that.’ Her smile was pure mischief. ‘There must be something. What about a tour of the nick?’

  ‘I’ll give it some thought,’ said Mariner. ‘In all the spare time I’ll have on Saturday.’

  ‘Poor old you. Look, this is the least I can do. Manor Park has been a lifeline for me.’

  ‘I know.’ God, she was gorgeous, even with a face like that on her. And she was right. Manor Park had made a huge difference to her life, and his.

  ‘Shall I give you a call when we’ve finished?’ she said. ‘We could go out somewhere to eat.’

  He sighed. ‘I suppose it’ll have to do.’ Fully dressed, he leaned over and gave her a slow parting kiss. ‘I’ll talk to you soon.’

  But driving back to the station Mariner couldn’t shake off the creeping sense of dissatisfaction. He hadn’t meant to sound so aggrieved. His reaction was especially ironic given that Anna’s independence had been, for him, one of the big attractions in the first place. It had been liberating to be with a woman who had more obligations than he did, and who wasn’t constantly checking up on him. But somewhere recently the balance had shifted and increasingly the relationship seemed to be only on her terms.

  In the beginning her commitment to Jamie had made it inevitable, and Mariner had waited patiently while Anna did what she felt was right by her younger brother. But now with regular respite care Jamie was becoming more independent, and Mariner had always assumed that in consequence they’d get more time together. Instead, she just seemed to find other things to occupy her, such as this round of frenetic fundraising. The fact that she was completely open and honest about her intentions, giving him absolutely no reason to feel threatened, nor casting him as the selfish one, only salted the wound. This was a new experience. Having always been used to being more needed than needy, he found that the reversal wasn’t a comfortable one.

  The air conditioning had made his car just about tolerable by the time he pulled into the station car park, and he’d have liked to have languished a while in the relative cool. But, glancing up, he caught sight of a familiar figure pacing the pavement outside the main doors, dragging anxiously on a cigarette. He got out and walked over to her.

  ‘Colleen?’

  The young woman turned to flick ash on to the pavement. ‘You took your time.’

  ‘I was out on a call.’ Shagging my girlfriend, but we won’t go into that. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘It’s my Ricky,’ she said. ‘He didn’t come home last night.’

  Here we go again, thought Mariner, but he said nothing and hoped that his face had stayed in neutral. Mariner had known Colleen Skeet for more than ten years, back when he was in uniform and her husband used her as a punch bag on a regular basis. She must be in her mid-thirties now, though she still looked little more than a kid herself, small and painfully thin, her mousy hair pulled back from a pale, freckled face into a tight ponytail. Today, only the dark circles beneath her eyes betrayed her age and the degree of her anxiety.

  ‘Have you reported it in there?’ Mariner nodded towards the station.

  ‘They said I could talk to someone. But I wanted to wait for you.’

  ‘Well, here I am. Let’s go inside. It’s cooler.’

  ‘I can’t smoke in there.’

  ‘You can smoke in an interview room.’

  ‘You don’t like it though.’

  ‘Christ, Colleen, when did you start considering my sensibilities?’ It raised a weak smile and Mariner pushed open the door. ‘Come on.’

  ‘So tell me what’s happened.’ The interview room was eight feet square, with a tiny window, no air and Colleen was putting a flame to her third Marlboro Light. She was right. Mariner didn’t like it. But for her sake he put up with it. Doing his public duty.

  ‘Ronnie turned up,’ she said, blowing out smoke. She was sitting back in her seat, one hand cupped beneath an elbow. ‘He was there Saturday afternoon when I got home from work.’

  Mariner shook his head in despair. ‘Why do you let him in?’

  ‘He’s the father of my kids.’ Her eye contact was fleeting, defensive. ‘Whatever he might have done, he’s still their dad. He’d brought Ricky the new Man U shirt, when I’d already said he couldn’t have another one.’

  ‘All the options round here and he still supports Man U?’ Mariner shook his head sadly. ‘That lad’s got no sense of loyalty.’

  ‘Ronnie was spinning all sorts of yarns, you know, all the usual crap about how he’d sort things out and one day he’d come home and we could be a real family.’

  ‘I hope you didn’t fall for it.’

  ‘What do you think? He’d already had a drink. Ricky knows it’s all rubbish too, but underneath it all he really wants to believe him. Ronnie might not ha
ve been the best husband but he was good with Ricky; taking him fishing and to the football. Ricky would love to have his dad back and us be a happy family again.’

  ‘Wasn’t all that happy as I remember it,’ said Mariner.

  ‘You know what I mean. Anyway, Ronnie stayed all day Sunday, took Ricky down the social club with him, stopped the night. On the sofa.’ She emphasised those words. ‘When we got up Monday morning, Ronnie had done his disappearing act. Ricky was disappointed but I thought he’d get over it. I mean, it’s not the first time, is it? When he was little it didn’t seem to matter so much; he had me. But now he’s growing up. He sees his mates going off to the match or down the pub with their dads and he knows he’s missing out.’

  ‘How old is he now?’

  ‘Fifteen, the kind of age where he needs a man about.’ She looked up at Mariner, catching him off guard. ‘You must remember that.’

  Mariner had forgotten how well Colleen knew him. A moment of indiscretion in the dead of night, when she was going through a bad patch; her second beating within a fortnight. ‘My dad used to hit me too,’ she’d blurted out, through swollen lips, as they’d sat beside each other in A&E. ‘I must deserve it.’

  ‘That’s rubbish,’ he said. ‘Nobody deserves this.’

  She’d laughed, a short bitter laugh. ‘Yeah, I don’t suppose your old man ever laid a finger on you.’

  ‘No,’ he admitted. ‘But that’s only because I’ve no idea who or where he is.’