Foul Justice (7 page)

“Ma’am, there’s been another one.” John slumped back in his chair as if voicing the words had sapped all his strength.

“Sorry? Another what exactly, John?” She perched on his desk and folded her arms.

“Another robbery. It happened last night, the same time as the Kellys’ crime was being committed.”

“What? Jeez! Is it the same MO? Anyone hurt?” Her heart sank as the thought of dealing with another grieving family entered her head.

Recovering his composure John sat forward and picked up his pad. “Nope, doesn’t appear to be. It’s another footballer, but from a different team.”

“Hmm…‌Which team?”

“Sharlston. Do you think this could be the same gang, ma’am?”

She sighed, taking the pad from his hand she tried to decipher his scrawl. According to his notes, Stacy Kendrickson had been alone with her two kids while husband, footballer Paul Kendrickson, was involved in a match. When he arrived home at approximately eleven p.m., he found his wife lying in the lounge, her hands tied behind her back. Their two children were asleep upstairs in their beds.
Thank God for that!

“Fancy a trip out there, John? Take Molly with you, will you? The experience will be good for her.”

John shot out of his chair and slipped his black jacket over his blue shirt. “Will do, ma’am. We shouldn’t be long.”

“Be as long as you need to be. Have patience when you’re questioning the husband and wife. There’s no rush. Umm…‌Get Molly to ask the wife if she was assaulted at all. Ask her if she’d be willing to come in for a line-up if the need arises.”

“Yes, ma’am. Molly, grab your coat. You’re coming with me.”

At first Molly appeared shocked that she was being set free from the office, but then she hurriedly pulled on her jacket and hoisted her handbag over her shoulder and tucked her chair under the desk.

“I’m ready,” she announced, and Lorne had to suppress a chuckle.

Lorne bid the two detectives farewell and made her way over to Katy’s desk. “Just checking: You’ll be okay with the security firm?”

Katy gave a stern nod, picked up the sheet of paper with the address of the firm on it, and headed for the door. “I’ll be a couple of hours, I guess, provided the Sat Nav doesn’t get me lost,” she called over her shoulder as she exited the incident room.

Lorne continued round the room. Tracy, the young sergeant who had shown so much initiative in Lorne’s last term as DI, was on the phone, urgently scribbling down and adding information to an already extensive list.

“Damn,” Lorne said, shaking her head.

“Ma’am?” Tracy queried.

“Contact DS Fox on his mobile, will you, Tracy? I forgot to tell him to take pictures of the scene. Let’s hope he’s got a camera on that antiquated phone of his.”

Tracy giggled. “Oh, he has, ma’am. I saw the guys comparing photos the other day.”

Frowning and intrigued, she asked, “Oh, do tell?”

The young sergeant’s cheeks flushed when she realised what she’d told her superior. “Hmm…‌Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything, ma’am.”

“Maybe I’ll ask the guys to show me the next time we go to the pub; should make for an entertaining half-hour or so. In the meantime, after you’ve rung John, can you get the number for the director of Borthwick City for me?”

“Ma’am, I’ll put it through to your office.”

“Okay, then ring this number. It’s Mrs. Kelly’s best friend. She should’ve sat with Mrs. Kelly last night but couldn’t make it. Let her know what happened, will you? Also ask her if she knows the name of the designer the Kellys used.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Lorne stopped at the coffee machine outside her office, inserted fifty pence into the slot, and selected a strong black coffee.

The phone on her desk rang the second she stepped inside her office. She answered it.

“Ma’am, I’ve got the director on the line for you. Her name is Deb Brownlee.”

“Thanks, Tracy.” Lorne heard a click and then someone breathing heavily on the line. “Ms. Brownlee?”

“It is, Inspector. What can I help you with?”

The woman’s tone sounded a little off to Lorne’s ear. She cautiously continued, “Ms. Brownlee, first of all, can you tell me why the footballers weren’t told to up their security, in light of what happened to the Dobbs family?”

After a slight pause the woman responded, “Was there really a necessity for that?”

Lorne’s lips pulled into a straight line, and she could feel her blood heat up in her veins. Covering the mouthpiece to the phone, she blew out a breath, then uncovered it again. “You are aware of what happened at the Kellys’ home last night, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” the woman said abruptly.

“So I take it you’ll be making the other footballers at your club aware of the situation and ensuring they up their security, at least for the time being?”

“Inspector, what the footballers get up to when they’re away from this club is up to them. We don’t treat our staff like children.”

Lorne glared out the window and pictured the woman on the other end of the line, no doubt dressed in a designer suit, with pristine manicured fingernails and her hair shaped and coiffed by an exclusive hair stylist in Oxford Street.

“I understand that, Ms. Brownlee. But as with any business, I’d expect work colleagues to be aware of the dangers surrounding them. Especially as this is the second
serious
crime of this nature to have happened within the last forty-eight hours.”

“Things happen.”

Which to Lorne sounded like the phrase ‘Shit happens.’ “Okay, I’m not sure where you’re coming from on this issue, Ms. Brownlee, but I’m
officially
asking you to make sure the other footballers are aware of this situation and to make sure they get adequate security until the criminals are apprehended.”

“Officially? You mean you can
make
people obtain extra security?”

The snootiness in the woman’s voice and her attitude made Lorne shudder. The woman had Lorne by the short and curlies.

“What harm can it do?” Lorne snapped back at her.

“I’m a busy person, Inspector. If that’s all…‌I’ll be going now.” And with that bumptious retort, Ms. Brownlee hung up.

Lorne made a note on her pad to call back and give the heartless woman a piece of her mind when there was a lull in the case.

Tracy entered the room and gave Lorne a sheet of paper with the name of the Kellys’ designer: Danielle Styles of Styles Interiors. Lorne added the sheet to her growing to-do pile.

•     •     •

A few hours later,
John and Molly returned from the Kendricksons’ home at the same time Katy stormed through the door. Lorne pondered whom to tackle first, but after noticing the way Katy’s mouth was twitching in anger, she thought that John and Molly would be quicker to get out of the way. “John, what did you learn? Did you get the photos?”

He handed her his phone, and she scrolled through the pictures. She quickly found what she’d been expecting. “As I thought, the furnishings are different from the other properties.”

“Ma’am?” John queried.

“With that in mind, I think we’re looking at a totally different gang. With the first two houses, the décors were the same. Do we know what security firm the Kendricksons used?”

“Hang on a mo. I wrote it down here somewhere.”

Molly tutted and told her, “It’s ‘Trust Us,’ ma’am.”

“Hmm…‌That’s interesting. It’s the same firm as the other families. And yet the décor is different. I’ll need to check into this further before making any assumptions.” But her gut instinct, the thing she’d always relied heavily upon, was telling her that there was something dodgy about the security firm.

Speaking of which, she walked over to Katy’s desk and perched on the edge of the desk beside it. “Katy?”

“Ma’am?” she replied pensively.

“How did it go? With the security firm, I mean.”

Katy threw her pen across her desk. “Jumped-up little prick wouldn’t tell me anything. Get a warrant, he said.”

“I see, and your response to that was?”

Katy gave her a quizzical look and shrugged. “I left. What else could I do?”

“I see. Well, maybe we’ll both go and see them tomorrow.”

Katy’s frown turned into a scowl. “With a warrant?”

“Not necessary, DS Foster. You’ll see.” Lorne winked.

Lorne smiled, turned, and headed back to her office, but heard the new recruit mutter, “Good luck on that one; you’re gonna need it.”

By the time seven o’clock came around, Lorne had a stinking headache and decided to call it a day. She drove back home in a daze, her thoughts caught up in the complexities of the case and worrying if Tony had arrived safely in Afghanistan.

As usual, Henry met her at the front door, whined, and bolted to the back door to be let out.

“All right, boy. Busting are you?” She ruffled his head and unlocked the back door to let him out.

After putting on the kettle and searching for her painkillers in the cupboard, she walked into the lounge to see if there were any messages on the phone. Disappointed, she returned to the kitchen and let Henry in.

“Now, what shall we have for dinner?”

Henry barked and started leaping around. Despite the pain in her head, she found herself laughing at his antics.

Looking through the fridge, she found some leftover chicken she’d set aside for him. Adding his quota of biscuits for the day to the dish, she put it on the floor. The dog pounced on it as if he’d been starved for a couple of weeks.

“Hey, slow down. You’ll get an ulcer!”

Returning to the fridge, she explored what else was lurking within its depths and came out with the usual ingredients for a quick meal: eggs, tomatoes, cheese, and bacon. Taking a frying pan from the cupboard, she rustled up an omelette on the stove before flashing it under the grill to fluff up.

At the table, she ate her omelette with one hand while she lazily stroked the dog sitting beside her, waiting in hope for any leftovers.

The phone rang just as she popped the last mouthful in her mouth. Swallowing her food, she answered. “Tony?”

“Sorry, love, it’s me,” her father said quietly. “Not heard from him yet, then, I take it?”

She expelled a long breath and slumped into the leather sofa. “Hi, Dad. No, I haven’t heard from him yet. He’ll probably ring tonight.”

“Probably, love. What’s it like being back in the rat race?”

Lorne switched the TV to the BBC news. “You know, busy. Working a crappy case at the moment that’s frustrating me, but then, what’s new?”

Her father remained silent for a few seconds before asking, “Anything I can help you with?”

Sam Collins had been a DCI in the Met, but retired over seven years ago. He was one of the old-school coppers, the kind who relied on gut instinct and brainpower to solve their cases. With all the different kinds of modern forensics in place, a lot of the guesswork and detective skills had been taken out of police work. That was one of the reasons he’d welcomed his retirement when it had arrived.

“Not really, Dad. The case will be all over the news soon enough, so I might as well tell you. We’ve had a couple of burglaries in the Chelsea area lately. When I say
burglaries
, there’ve also been a few fatalities involved, too. That’s why my team’s been called in.”

“I see, and you think there might be a connection, love?”

“Looks like it, although another burglary was reported last night, and everything points to a copycat case for that one.” Lorne flicked through a
Home and Gardens
magazine on the table in front of her.

“What makes you think that?”

“All three cases are linked insofar as the victims are footballers. The first two, the victim’s kids were killed, and the wives were violently attacked.”

“Oh, my God, that’s awful. What’s different about the third case, Lorne?”

She sighed. “The wife was tied up and the kids were left alone in their beds.”

“Hmm…‌Was the victim married to a footballer, though?”

“Yes, Dad.”

“When did the first case happen?” her father asked.

“The night before last,” she said, pushing the magazine to one side.

“And the second case?”

“Last night,” she replied, wondering where he was going with the line of questions.

“And the third case?”

“That was last night, too. What are you getting at, Dad?” She massaged her temple, hoping to shift the pain that had settled there.

“You say you reckon the third case is a copycat case?”

“That’s right.”

“Think about it, girl. How can it be a copycat case when the details haven’t come out in the press yet?”

“Jesus, you’re right. I never thought of that. Do you think this could be just a coincidence, then, Dad?”

“Hmm…‌I’ll get back to you on that one. Let me mull things over for a while. Have you rung Charlie today?”

“No, why? Is something wrong?”

Her father laughed, and it sounded good. He didn’t really smile or laugh a lot since they’d lost her mother to breast cancer a couple of years before.

“Nothing wrong, love. She rang me tonight to say how excited she was about the weekend ahead. Going ice-skating, aren’t you?”

“That’s the plan. That reminds me—any chance you can look after Henry for the day? I wanted to spend the whole day with Charlie. You know, take her ice-skating and then stay in town for a meal. Please, Dad?” She knew her father would kick up a fuss, but she also knew that it wouldn’t last long, because deep down he loved the dog as if he were his own.

He exhaled, pretending to be mad at the request. “If I must.”

Pushing her luck, she added, “Can I pick him up on Sunday morning?”

“Only because I love my granddaughter so much and think she needs to spend more time with her mother. Umm…‌That’d be you!”

“I get your point, Dad. You’re a gem. What about coming to Sunday lunch? Maybe you can bring him back then. I’ll do your favourite: roast pork with all the trimmings,” she added, trying to appease him.

“Hmm…‌You certainly know how to get around me, young lady.”

“I’ll see you Saturday, then, Dad. Love you.”

“You take care, sweetie. I’ll give your case some thought. If I come up with anything, I’ll give you a ring.”