‘True. He must have seriously pissed off someone to land Peppy Grove. Never mind, if it does turn out there’s a homicide behind this case, it might end up on my desk at SCS, which means Peppy Grove can be ousted.’

‘You’re not on active duty,’ she reminded him.

‘But at least I’ll be able to find out what’s going on and you won’t have to rely on gathering information by devious means.’

The conversation faded; they lay in silence. He rolled over and she spooned into his solid back once more. His pragmatism, though sometimes an irritant, was a comfort tonight. She wondered again why it had taken her so long to agree to set up house with him, wondered how she’d ever thought she could do without him.

But then her thoughts drifted to the negative, the dialogue in her mind of ‘what ifs’ that refused to shut down. Monty’s upcoming heart procedure was a dangerous operation. The blockage was in the left anterior descending artery, the one the doctors called ‘the widow maker’. What if the operation was a failure? He could become an invalid or die under the anaesthetic; which was something he’d probably prefer, she contemplated morbidly. And they weren’t married, even though they were engaged and they lived together—would she still qualify as a widow? She wondered if she’d ever be able to revert back to the old Stevie, the one who didn’t need him or any other man in her life. The thought of being without Monty grabbed hold of her and shook her like a pitbull.

His muscles began to relax, his breathing to deepen. She breathed with him. Images of neglected babies, lonely old women, letters of dismissal and flatlining heart monitors faded. Finally she began to drift off.

Then Monty started awake with a sharp intake of breath. ‘Stevie, I’m so scared,’ he said. (Image 5.1)

Imgae 5.1

WEDNESDAY

CHAPTER SIX

Like any member of the public, Stevie followed the Pavel case through newspaper articles and the TV news, bolstered by the occasional reports from Skye on the baby’s condition. After an official complaint from Fowler, Inspector Veitch—her boss at Sex Crimes—told her in no uncertain terms to lay off, and, as Monty had predicted, disciplinary action was taken no further. As Stevie’s own cases and the courtroom finale were dominating her every working hour, she backed down with little reluctance.

A couple of days had passed since their disturbing discovery and Skye’s calls became less frequent. But then Stevie received a call from Skye just as court was adjourning for lunch. The impeccable timing was soon explained by Skye’s appearance in the anteroom, phone still clamped to her ear, resplendent in full body armour: nose stud, eyebrow ring and multiple ear piercings.

Well prepared for battle, she would not take Stevie’s no for an answer. ‘Skye, I can’t, I’ve been warned off.’

‘C’mon, girlfriend, I’ll buy you lunch,’ Skye said, linking her arm through Stevie’s.

Stevie cringed at the loudness of her friend’s voice amongst the muffled whisperings of those leaving the court. ‘Skye, what the hell are you doing here?’ she shot back in a stage whisper.

‘Like I just said, I want to buy you lunch.’

‘I don’t have time for lunch. I have to go back to Central and grab some notes in time for the next session.’

‘You so do have time for lunch. I asked one of the bailiffs while I was waiting and he said you have an hour and a half. Are cops sub-human, don’t they need to eat? I have my Vespa—I can scoot you over to Central for your notes after we’ve had a snack and a talk.’

When Stevie continued to make noises of protest, Skye lowered her voice. ‘I’ve just come back from the hospital, went to see the kid. There’s still no sign of his parents and the police haven’t been able to trace any relatives. The ward social worker says at this rate he’ll have to be fostered out when he’s discharged. There’s some other stuff too, stuff we need to talk about in private.’ The way her eyes slid toward a group of bewigged lawyers waiting for the lifts, suggested something furtive.

Soon Stevie would be commencing three weeks of leave and she had more than enough to do than get involved in a case she’d been warned to step away from. This was to be an important family time for them. Monty needed her; Izzy needed her even more. She would be the perfect mother: school runs, excursions, sitting through assemblies, helping with reading classes...

When she didn’t get the desired response, Skye raised her voice to an unnaturally loud pitch. ‘Okay, Stevie, it’s like this, the police are handling this case like DICKheads...’ The lawyers at the lift ceased their murmurings, all heads turned. ‘Did you get that? D—I—’

A bailiff caught Stevie’s eye and frowned.

‘Okay, you win.’ Seemed there was no choice. If she didn’t want to be evicted from the building, she’d have to hear Skye out. Stevie took Skye’s arm and guided her firmly toward the stairwell. A tall, fair-haired man stepped out in front of them as they were about to make their way down, deliberately bumping her on the shoulder. ‘Watch where you’re going, Stevie Hooper,’ he said, disappearing into the crowd outside the courtroom before she could get a good look at him.

Did she hear him correctly?

‘Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?’ Stevie started after him, only to find herself held back by Skye.

‘Stevie, we don’t have much time.’

Stevie pulled against her friend’s hand, but not enough to dislodge her grip.

‘Who was that guy?’ Skye said. ‘Hey, are you okay? You’re white as a sheet.’

Stevie absently touched her cheek, stared back into the whirlpool of people and shook her head in disbelief. ‘I’m not sure; I think the case is getting to me. I must be imagining things.’

Stevie hitched her skirt and climbed onto the pillion behind Skye. Dodging traffic and parked cars, they caught more than a few gaping stares and whistles as they sped down the terrace, to which Skye laughed and raised her middle finger. They arrived at the wine bar more than a little out of breath, Stevie laughing despite the annoyance at allowing herself to be so easily manipulated. The incident with the man on the stairs was forgotten. They ordered cheeseburgers and settled into a corner table, Stevie nursing an orange juice, Skye a vodka and Red Bull—it was her day off, after all.

‘How’s Monty? Do you think he’ll go through with the op this time?’ Skye asked.

From anyone else, the question might have been contrived, something off-topic to ease into the intended subject matter. But Skye had shown genuine concern for Monty’s health problems when they’d first come to a head last year, even offering to come over and talk to him about the operation if it would help.

‘Maybe he’ll go through with it if Wayne—he’s a guy Mont works with in Serious Crime—keeps his mouth shut this time,’ Stevie said. ‘He insisted on showing Monty his own scar, said the operation was like boning a duck with a pair of poultry scissors.’ She scissored her fingers. ‘I mean, it used to be dick length, now it’s bypass scars. What is it with guys growing older?’

Skye laughed. ‘Jeez, no wonder he’s been put off. But it’s really not that bad these days. Cook me dinner and I’ll come over and explain it a bit more gently. Better not make it poultry, though, just to be safe.’

‘Or rare beef.’

Skye took a swallow of her drink, smacked her lips. ‘That’s hitting the spot.’ Then she casually said, ‘I guess he’s also worried about sex.’

Stevie put her glass down. ‘What?’

‘Don’t be coy, he’s a man; sex is never far from his mind.’

Stevie broke into a smile, ‘Well, now you mention it...’

‘When he gets home from hospital, he’s got to find some stairs to start practising on.’