Foul Justice (12 page)

“April fifteenth.”

“Hmm…‌The Kelly’s had their system fitted a week earlier, on the eighth.”

“That sounds like another one of those coincidences we keep hearing about,” Katy said, still reading through the file.

“Well, that’s all I can find in here.” Lorne looked at her watch and saw it had just turned ten thirty. “I’ll just try and get on top of the post, and then we’ll head over to the pub, see if we can track down this Zac fella. Can you see what evidence the team has managed to collect so far?”

Katy took her drink with her and left the office. Lorne rifled through the post like a woman possessed and had everything neatly stacked in the relevant trays on her desk within forty-five minutes.

•     •     •

They pulled up outside
The Cross Keys, on the other side of the city, around an hour and a half later. The pub matched the area, run down and in desperate need of rejuvenation. As Underhill had stated, a huge-breasted blonde barmaid was anchored behind the bar. When she opened her mouth, the decibels would’ve sent a sound level monitor shooting off the scale.

As they walked up to the grimy, chipped wooden bar, one of the punters sitting at the bar leaned over and tried to grope one of the barmaid’s prized assets. She slapped his hand away and laughed, a laugh that would rival any wild hyena’s.

Lorne and Katy looked at each and shook their heads in disgust. Eyeing the clientele, Lorne reached into her pocket to check that her pepper spray was handy. It was clear they’d need to be vigilant in this intimidating environment.

“Two orange juices, please,” Lorne said, without the hint of a smile.

The blonde, whose roots were showing, eyed her with disdain and took two bottles of juice from the shelf, along with two glasses, and slammed them down on the bar in front of the two detectives.

“Five quid,” the woman spat out.

Lorne knew the price had been inflated for their benefit by the way the two guys at the bar were sniggering.

After Lorne paid the barmaid, they picked up their drinks and headed for the back of the rundown, smoke-stained pub. They could feel three sets of eyes following them to the torn vinyl bench. Once seated, they had a great view of who was coming in and going out. Ordinarily their surveillance would have been carried out discreetly outside, but Lorne had decided to see what the inside of the pub held. The problem was that two women dressed in smart overcoats screamed ‘police’ and alerted the other punters.

“Friendly bunch, aren’t they?” Lorne said, wiping the lipstick stain off the rim of her glass with a tissue.

“I’ve come across more friendliness on a drive through Longleat,” Katy said drolly out of the corner of her mouth.

“I can’t see anyone matching Zac’s description yet. I suppose it’s still early.”

They nattered away for the next twenty minutes or so until a slim-built man in his mid-late twenties stormed into the pub.

The two men at the bar and the barmaid looked up. Their smiles simultaneously slipped from their faces the second they saw who the customer was.

Lorne elbowed Katy gently in the ribs. “Heads up! Ginger alert.”

The man had obviously already had a few drinks too many. He swaggered up to the bar and placed a foot on the rail at the bottom, almost toppling over in the process. “Got any news for me?”

The blonde raised an eyebrow and her lip turned up. “I told you yesterday. I don’t know nothin’.”

“And I told you I thought you were lying to me. Now give us a name, or—”

“Or what?” A voice bellowed from the doorway. A man in a black, heavy wool overcoat was standing there, two bouncer-type goons on either side of him.

“You?” The redhead, who they suspected was Zac, spun round fast and lost his footing. He slammed into the stool next to him with a grunt.

Out of the corner of her eye, Lorne spotted the barmaid clear her throat and point in their direction with her head. Immediately the guy and his heavies looked over at them with hatred in their eyes.

Lorne picked up her glass, averted her eyes, and murmured, “We’ve been made. Don’t look at him. Just keep talking.”

Their avoidance tactic appeared to work, if only for a short time, as the man in the overcoat turned his attention back to the redhead. “I hear you been asking about me, squirt.” He and the two goons took a few steps forward until they were a few feet in front of the other man.

“You?” Zac repeated.

The man in the overcoat glanced in Lorne’s direction again. Leaning forward, he whispered in Zac’s face.

Lorne was fuming that she couldn’t hear what was being said, but Zac’s reaction spoke volumes.

He took a swing at the man in the overcoat, missing his target and ending up on his backside on the floor. “I’ll get you for that,” he slurred and attempted to stand up, only to flop back down, exhausted.

The three newcomers and the punters sitting at the bar all laughed, which made Zac kick out and try to get to his feet, only to fail again.

Lorne watched the somewhat comical goings-on with interest, making mental notes of each of the characters involved. The pub wasn’t on her patch, so she had no idea who the criminals were. It would mean spending hours trawling through the database when she got back, unless she could find out their names. She doubted anyone in the pub would be willing to volunteer any names. Discreetly, she placed her phone on the table in front of her and angled it in the men’s direction. She hit the button repeatedly hoping she had managed to capture a few good images. Only time would tell on that one.

Katy smiled at her and did well to keep the trivial conversation going between them that served as a distraction to anyone looking their way.

Eventually, Zac stood up and staggered towards the man in the overcoat, only for the man’s two henchmen to stand in his way. Zac pointed at the man. “You ain’t heard the last of this.”

The man shrugged. “Neither have you and yours, boy. Take that warning back with ya.”

The thugs shoved him and sent him reeling to the floor, before all three of them, after a quick warning glance in the detectives’ direction, left the pub.

After another couple of minutes, Lorne and Katy finished their drinks and moved toward the pub’s entrance. Before they got there, Zac approached Lorne and stood in front of her. His eyes screwed up in distaste. “What ya doin’ here, filth?”

Put off by the odour of stale booze on his breath rather than his threatening behaviour, Lorne stepped into his personal space and beckoned him so she could whisper in his ear. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Zac, it’s a free country. We can go where we like. Oh, and for your information, your little performance has just put you on our radar.”

He pulled his head back. His eyes were glassy and drooping because of the drink he’d consumed. “What d’ya mean? What radar?”

Lorne tapped the side of her nose and motioned to Katy that they were leaving. Zac shouted after her, “You old tart, what d’ya mean?”

They heard the punters at the bar and the barmaid shouting and telling Zac to ‘Give it a rest and go home.’

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

W
hen they arrived at
Styles Interiors, their unannounced visit seemed to rattle the owner of the business, and Lorne couldn’t help wondering why.

 Danielle Styles was a sleek-looking, black-haired woman in her early-mid thirties, stylishly dressed in a beige boucle suit that had large, prominent gold buttons embedded with the Chanel emblem. Their surroundings echoed the opulence Lorne had witnessed at the two murder scenes she’d recently attended.

Towards the rear of the expansive showroom was row upon row of exquisite large rolls of fabric, arranged by colour, with the paler colours at the top and the darker ones at the bottom. To the left stood dozens of mirrors along one wall, mostly ornate with gold frames, but Lorne spotted a few with modern touches too. The rest of the showroom was sectioned off into lounge, dining room, and bedroom areas. Not a shabby-looking sofa or chipped table in sight.

Digging her warrant card out of her coat pocket, Lorne flashed it at the woman, who was obviously fighting to keep her composure.

“Ms. Styles? I’m DI Simpkins, and this is DS Foster. Is there somewhere private where we can have a little chat?”

 The woman examined the gold watch loosely draped across her tiny wrist and sighed. “I can spare you five minutes before an important client comes in.”

If the woman thought her schedule would put Lorne off, she had another think coming. “Let’s put it this way, Ms. Styles: either you find the time to see me here, or we can ask our questions in a cold, damp interview room back at the station. I know which I’d prefer.”

Styles spun on her heel, her hair and skirt flicking out in the spin, and walked swiftly through the showroom. Katy and Lorne fell into step behind her. The woman’s office was comprised of a wall of glass that looked out onto the showroom they’d just left. Styles swept behind her large smoked-top table and daintily sat in a leather office chair while Lorne and Katy rejected her offer to sit on the three-seater sofa, and chose to stand.

The woman stretched her long slim neck up to look at Lorne and asked, “So, what’s this all about, Inspector?”

“We’re just making enquiries at this stage, Ms. Styles. I presume you know that a couple of your clients have been burgled in the last few days?”

Nodding, Styles replied, “Yes, it’s a dreadful situation.”

And how would she know that if the news hasn’t broken on TV yet?
In the same level voice, Lorne asked, “Can you tell me how you got the contracts for the Dobbses and the Kellys?”

The woman’s perfectly preened eyebrows met as she frowned. “I’m not with you?”

“You seem an intelligent enough woman to me. I really can’t ask my question any more simply, Ms. Styles.”

The woman broke eye contact with Lorne, sat back in her chair, and placed her elbows on the chair’s thickly padded arms. “Most of my work comes from word of mouth. People recommend me all the time.”

“Ah, I see. So you did some work for the Dobbses, and the Kellys went on to employ you, is that right?”

“I can’t remember which way round it was, but…” She stood up and walked over to the cabinet and pulled up the concertinaed front, returning with a moss-green-coloured file, which she placed open on the desk. “Ah, here we are…‌Yes, the Kellys had their makeover completed before the Dobbses.”

“And where did the Kellys’ recommendation come from?” Lorne asked, a niggling feeling beginning in the depths of her stomach.

The woman rifled through the papers, going back and forth to several sheets before she cleared her throat and told them, “Umm…‌I believe the recommendation came from a friend of mine, Kim.”

Katy took out her notebook. “Do you have a surname for her?”

“Smalling. We go back years. What does this have to do with your case, Inspector?”

“We’re just in the process of joining up the dots, Ms. Styles. I wonder if you would mind giving us a copy of your client list?”

The woman gathered the sheets together and stuffed them back in the folder, then held it protectively close to her chest. “Don’t you need some kind of warrant or court order or something?”

Here we go again.
“Only if you have something to hide.
Do
you have something to hide?” Lorne approached the desk, flattened her palms on it and leaned over.

The woman blinked her thickly mascaraed eyelashes quite a few times before she answered, “Me? What would I have to hide?”

“I don’t know. We’ll wait while you copy the documents.” Lorne’s smile pulled her lips into a straight line across her teeth.

Styles leapt to her feet and took the file to an outer office. Lorne expected the woman to rejoin them and to leave the menial task of copying to an office secretary or someone. When she didn’t, Lorne surmised her actions meant that she intended to avoid them. Styles returned with a pile of papers around ten minutes later.

Lorne accepted the pile of papers and gave them to Katy. She held out her hand for Styles to shake, another trick her father had taught her at the beginning of her career: You can tell a lot from a person’s character in the way they shake your hand.

The thing that struck Lorne most about their handshake was how sweaty and clammy Styles’ palm was. She recollected her father’s words: ‘A sweaty palm is a sure sign that person is guilty of something or has something to hide.’ She left the office and wandered back to the car, wondering which category Styles fit into.

•     •     •

It was getting on
for five o’clock by the time they tackled the city traffic and arrived back at the station.

John was anxiously pacing up and down just inside the door to the incident room. “Ah, there you are, ma’am. The DCI would like a word.”

“Everything all right, John? Did he give you a clue what about?”

He shook his head vigorously and rubbed his hands together anxiously. “No, ma’am.”

“What aren’t you telling me, John?”

“Nothing, ma’am.”

Lorne knew by the way he was fidgeting that something was up. She turned to Katy. “You make a start on those. I’ll see what the boss wants, and then we’ll head home for the night.”

The DCI’s personal assistant leapt out of her seat and knocked on his door the second she saw Lorne, heightening her stress levels further. The wily fox didn’t do things like that without reason.

“DI Simpkins is here, sir.” The assistant held the door open, and Lorne walked past her.

“Get us some coffee, will you?” DCI Roberts said.

“Not for me, thanks. Sir?”

He motioned for her to take a seat, and with her eyes locked on his, she lowered herself gently into the chair. She heard him exhale a deep breath as he sat down opposite her.

“I had a call this afternoon,” he said almost reluctantly.

Lorne settled back into her chair and crossed one leg over the other. “Okay, enough of the dramatics, Sean. From whom?”

What he said next knocked the wind out of her and left her clutching her chest and gasping for breath.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“O
h, my God! Sean,
tell me it’s not true,” she said, tears misting her eyes and seeping onto her colourless cheeks.