When I Wasn't Watching. Michelle KellyЧитать онлайн книгу.
preyed on prostitutes in Hillfields, Coventry’s once notorious red light district. When he had helped bring that particular guy in he had been hailed a local hero and even the Met had tried to snap him up. It had been just after, in fact, that Carla started pursuing him, and more than once he had wondered if his minor celebrity status hadn't been a big part of the attraction for her.
‘No one ever forgets their first murder,’ Dailey said softly, ‘especially a child’s. And it was such a high-profile case.’
‘Does the mother know?’
‘She will have been told, yes. I believe the father spoke at the parole hearing.’
Matt remembered the stricken face of Lucy Randall when he had to tell her that her baby was dead. Remembered the way the light had seemed to fade out of her eyes as if she was dying herself, right there in front of him. She had been attractive, he recalled, all caramel waves and big blue eyes. Not stunning like Carla but pretty, soft. Yet the grief had carved lines into her face before his eyes. He wondered what she looked like now; if she had had more children. He had a vague image of a skinny lad of about six or seven clinging to her legs, asking where his brother was.
‘Matt?’
Matt started, realised Dailey was peering at him with concern, and shrugged.
‘Look, I’m okay. I don’t understand why he hasn’t been left to rot, but that’s not our job is it? We just bring them in.’
Dailey looked at him for a little while longer, then nodded as if satisfied.
‘Okay, Matt. But if you need to talk…’
Matt got up before Dailey could finish, cutting him off.
‘Did you read the witness reports from Saturday? I’ve got a feeling they won’t hold weight with the CPS.’
Dailey blinked at the abrupt change of subject but went along with it, knowing it was pointless to push further. Matthew Winston was his best officer, but he could also be quick to fly off the handle and Dailey would know better than anyone how much the Randall boy’s murder had affected the younger man. Had been there when Matt had cradled the slight body in his arms. It had been a horrible case, not least because the perpetrator had been barely more than a child himself.
And would only be a young man now, capable of God knows what other atrocities.
‘Eight years.’ An edge of disgust showed through Dailey’s usual restraint. ‘What kind of justice is that?’
Matt inclined his head in agreement. Eight years for taking an innocent life. It wouldn’t be the first time Chief Superintendent Dailey had wondered if justice was now an old-fashioned concept. One that had no meaning any more. Although Matt was used to the old-school opinions of his superior, this time he was inclined to agree with him.
‘Call This Justice?’ screamed the tabloid headlines that confronted Matt when he popped out for a sandwich at lunchtime. He never used the canteen, he preferred to eat alone. He picked up a paper, then thought better of it and put it back on the stand. Reading the crass media attempts to inflame the outrage most of the country would already be feeling would do nothing to improve his mood or his appetite.
As he left the shop his phone rang and he hesitated, expecting it to be Carla and hoping it wasn’t. When he saw it was Scott, a Local CID colleague over at Willenhall, he pressed the answer key and lifted it to his ear.
‘Mate; I just saw the papers. What a load of bullshit. So I was thinking, fancy a pint later? I’ll meet you at the Stag about seven.’
Matt agreed and hung up before he remembered his promise to Carla about the Chinese. He would go and see her first, he decided, and cry off until tomorrow. As much as he could use some female comfort he doubted Carla would be in a very comforting mood after his dismissal of her this morning, and right now a pint with Scott sounded like manna from heaven. After the news he had just had, Matt was sure she would understand.
Of course, Matt was wrong. When he turned up on Carla’s door step earlier than expected she greeted him with a cool smile that turned into a scowl when she realised he wasn’t early but was, in fact, standing her up.
‘I don’t need this right now,’ he began, only to be interrupted. There was a note of hysteria in her voice that he knew meant she was about to launch into full-blown screeching if he didn’t calm her down.
‘You don’t need this? You? It’s all about you isn’t it; what you want, what you need. Do you ever think about me?’
He felt ready to snap and raised a hand as if to ward off her words. When he spoke his voice sounded surprisingly calm to his ears, even though his insides were tumbling.
‘Terry Prince was released on parole today.’
He expected her to look concerned, even perhaps apologise for giving him grief, but she only looked annoyed.
‘I am aware of that, thank you, Matt; I’ve been run ragged today trying to put together some decent copy on it and get someone involved to talk to me before they talk to the tabloids. This is local news, it should be my story. So you’re not the only one who’s had a bad day. I wouldn’t have thought it would affect you lot down at the station anyway.’ She said you lot as if Matt and his colleagues were synonymous with a bad smell rather than the police force. Matt took a step back in the face of her disdain, feeling hurt.
‘It was my first murder case, Carla. Remember?’ For God’s sake, he had told her about it all before, back when they had been in the first flush of their relationship and would spend the night in each other’s arms, talking and fooling around until dawn. She should know it meant more to him than just another case, just another story, but no, all it was to her was an opportunity for her to further her career, even get her out of the local Telegraph and into the tabloids. It hit Matt that he had never before realised just how self-absorbed Carla was. Or at least, he had turned a blind eye to it, if only because it meant she didn't try to probe too deeply into his own failings and the insecurities he had grown adept at suppressing.
As if she had heard his thoughts and decided to live up to them, Carla crossed her arms and looked at him with the disgust evident on her face.
‘That’s your reason for standing me up? Or is it an excuse? Honestly.’ She shook her head as if Matt was beneath her contempt, and there was no trace of irony in her next words: ‘You get far too over-involved with your work. What about me? Us?’
Matt gritted his teeth. If she said ‘what about me?’ one more time he was going to seriously lose his temper. Instead he stepped back and looked at her evenly.
‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘I am far too involved. But not with work.’
He turned on his heel and walked off, leaving her spitting highly unladylike insults at him. As his anger died down however he felt guilty for jibing her. That pint was looking more and more tempting.
It was waiting for him when he walked into the Stag, along with a grinning Scott. Scott had a permanent grin, like the Cheshire Cat. It made women swoon and criminals squirm, and managed to elicit a weak smile from a still conflicted Matt.
There were more than a few lingering glances aimed his way as he approached the bar and Matt wondered if he was being paranoid, until the bartender waved a copy of the same tabloid he had spotted earlier at him.
‘Travesty,’ he said bleakly. Matt nodded non-commitally before sliding onto the bar stool next to Scott’s and taking a long, slow swig of his waiting beer, looking around at the familiar and not-so-familiar faces.
The Stag and Pony was a regular haunt for the Coventry police force, plain-clothes at any rate. Uniforms were more likely to be found in the Green Giant down the road. Matt wasn’t much for bars, but Scott was in here so often even his wife joked she should send his laundry over.
‘Okay?’ his friend was asking now, his trademark grin in place but his eyes worried. Matt sighed.
‘Everyone’s