Cold Pressed (30 page)

Beatrice thought about that. “Who was he blackmailing?”

“Several entertainers at the caravan park and Callaghan
himself. Provided them all with recreational drugs then threatened to expose
them. Gained confidences only to use the information.”

“Nice man.”

Hamilton flicked his finger against his glass, creating a
dull echo. “According to Callaghan, he’d given up on Britain and planned to
emigrate to America. He was refused a visa, which he blamed on an incomplete
birth certificate.”

“Was that the real reason he was refused?”

“Hardly likely. His affiliations already marked him out as
undesirable. Fuelled some sort of fire, nevertheless. Very angry man looking
for someone to blame.”

“His birth parents.”

“His birth mother. In his mind, it was all her fault. As I
said, odd ideas about women. So he sought her out, with every intention of
‘ruining her life’. Callaghan said he was no more specific than that. Whatever
happened when Keith Avis aka Toni Dean met Eva Webber we’ll never know, but we
can safely assume she told him about Swallows Hall, the names of the teachers
and the summer of 1965. All he told Callaghan afterwards was that he’d changed
his plans.”

Beatrice pondered the golden liquid in her glass. “Thank you
for the bigger picture, sir. It helps, a bit. Would you share that information
with the Hellenic Police? I’d like Inspector Stephanakis to know we appreciate
his investigative rigour.”

“Fair enough. Tell me, what did you think of Voulakis?”

She chose her words carefully. “He seems a little less
precise than I’m used to, but he made me most welcome. I liked him. I had no
idea you had been friends so long.”

“Indeed. We go back a long way. I introduced him to the
woman who is now his wife.”

“So he said.”

Hamilton inhaled the aroma of his Scotch. “What else did he
tell you?”

“That you and he ‘awarded’ the first ASBOs ever issued.”

He gave a short snort of laughter. “True. We did. Probably
even used the word ‘award’ in those days. Now, look here, Stubbs. You and I
need to have a chat about your future. I’m chairing a meeting with you,
Rangarajan and his DS for this coming Monday to discuss the logistics of
handing over Operation Horseshoe.”

“No, sir.” She placed her drink on the low table, making
sure to use a coaster. “Firstly, I won’t be here on Monday. I am taking a week
off in lieu and will return the following Monday after I have discussed and
decided my future plans with my partner. Secondly, if the result of those
conversations means early retirement, I am absolutely within my rights to be
taken seriously by my senior officer. Loose cannon or not. Until I know what I
want for my own future, I will make no plans or commitments to any projects I
may not be able to fulfil.”

She lifted her chin to Hamilton, daring him to argue. He sat
back and swirled his drink around his glass, studying her.

“Don’t waste it, Stubbs. That’s a sixteen-year-old
Lagavulin. A week in lieu is acceptable. We’ll schedule a bilateral meeting for
the following Monday and take it from there. On a personal note, I hope you’ll
postpone retirement. You are an extraordinary detective inspector and an asset
to my team. A loose cannon and a bloody nuisance without a doubt, but someone I
would prefer to keep.”

She sipped at her whisky to hide her smile. “Thank you,
sir.”

Back home in Boot Street, she paused outside Adrian’s
flat. Sounds of
La Cage aux Folles
drifted into the hall, so she decided
against disturbing him and stuffed a note under his door. Upstairs in her own
place, she threw a laundry load into the machine, repacked her case for a week
in Devon and checked her messages. A voicemail from Rose Mason, announcing
their safe return to Edinburgh and inviting Beatrice to join them on a weekend
jaunt to Wiltshire for a ‘survivors’ reunion’. Beatrice smiled at the sardonic
inverted commas. She was copied in, along with Chief Inspector Voulakis on an
email from Hamilton. The main recipient was Nikos Stephanakis and the content
conveyed warm gratitude how influential his work had been.

Satisfied, Beatrice had a shower, brushed her teeth and
although it was only ten past nine, crawled into bed. She set the alarm on her
phone and finally made the call she’d been planning all day.

“
Beatrice?”

“Hello, Matthew. I’m back.”

“
Hurrah! And the case?”

“The case is closed. Semi-satisfactorily. I’ll tell you the
sordid details when I see you. Listen, I’ve told Hamilton I’m taking a week off
to think about my future. May I come to Devon? I thought we might talk this
over together.”

“
Of course. Nothing would make me happier. You sound
very... chipper
.”

“I am. You asked me to think about what I want. And I did.”

“
Ah. Good. So do you know what you want, do you think?
”

“I do.”

Acknowledgements

With thanks to:

Triskele Books – Gillian Hamer, Liza Perrat, JD Smith,
Catriona Troth, Barbara Scott Emmett, JW Hicks and Perry Iles for editorial
advice, support and teamwork; Florian Bielmann and Janet Marsh for
admonishments; Jessica Bell for language guidance; Nicole Horler and Stephanie
Sorgo for monikers; James Lane and JD Smith for design genius; Stella Antoniou
for her culinary expertise; Dr Neal for his medical nous; Antony Sorgo for
technical advice and the secret policeman’s tireless patience with my
questions.

Any errors are entirely my own.

Thank you for reading  a Triskele Book.

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