Hot Blooded (24 page)

I knew my boss had heard what Callum said to me, but I didn't really care. I admit it - I
floated
down that hallway to Akin's office. Callum loved me. I really didn't have any idea, until that day, how much strength those words could give a person. In an instant my whole mindset changed and I was struck with a renewed optimism about the case, about my job and about my life in general. I'd always looked at love as a vulnerability, something that made you weaker. It was how I justified being alone and making my career into my sole resource of self-worth - if you don't love anyone, no one can hurt you. No one can distract you. No one can ask you to focus on things you don't want to focus on. But there's a flipside to all that. It means going through life without backup. Even when I was engaged, I'd never really felt like Thomas had my back. I'd never felt like
anyone
really had my back. But I believed Callum. I just did, automatically and completely. And there was nothing I wanted more than to finally be able to say it back to him. Not just to say it but to show it, to
show
him I loved him, too. Because I did love Callum, no matter how hard I'd been trying not to admit it to myself.

As I followed Akin into his office, I felt a new confidence, a new sense that the task in front of me within reach. I could do it. Callum gave me that - Callum's love gave me that - and I was not a person who was used to drawing strength from others. It made it difficult to wipe the smile off my face. But it was also new territory and therefore a little scary, a little unstable.

Akin politely didn't mention what Callum had said. Instead he sat down and gave me a look.

"Well, Morgan? Tell me what we're going to do here. Tell me how we find Gazza Wilson."

"Are you putting me back on the case?" I asked hopefully.

He shook his head. "No, Morgan. You know I can't do that - not yet, anyway. It depends on how everything shakes out. If you end up solving this, as you seem to think you can, that's good. If you don't, or if the DNA doesn't match, well, I don't have to tell you that your actions over the past couple of days aren't going to do you any favors."

He was right. I knew it. But I also knew he trusted my instincts, and his refusal to fire or arrest me was its own kind of green-light.

He believed me. Well, maybe he didn't entirely believe me, but he was willing to see it out. "I'm telling you, Akin, Callum didn't kill Linda Trout. Gazza Wilson did. And if we find him, I think I can prove it," I told him, confident that I was right."Have there been any developments there? Any new information at all?"

"No," Akin said, "I've got five people on it but so far, no. The lab has a few of his cigarette butts from the Streatham Club and we're waiting on those results, but even if they come back positive we still need to find the bastard."

"What about Helen?" I wondered out loud. "I didn't ask her if she knew where Gazza might be. I think I'm going to call her again. It's a long shot, I know, but I might as well cover all my bases."

I expected a bit of a fight from Akin on that, but he just held up his hands. "OK, Morgan. OK. But if you get anything, you have to bring it to me first. No going off on your own again. Any new information comes to me first and I decide what to do with it. You got that?"

I smiled and nodded, already checking my watch and wondering if it was going to be possible to contact Helen Cross again that day.

"And go back to the safe house first, will you?" Akin said, sternly."You look tired. Go have a shower and a decent meal."

"Yes, Sir."

I did what Akin advised and went back to the safe house, even though I was itching to call Helen Cross. It was late when I finally got there and I stood in the sitting room for a few minutes looking out over an unfamiliar view of London.

Callum loved me. I rolled the thought around in my head, testing out how it felt to acknowledge it. Then I took a shower, ate a limp cucumber sandwich I'd picked up on the way home and climbed into the lumpy bed. I fell asleep almost immediately. I probably would have spent that time awake, pacing, going over various possible scenarios related to Gazza's whereabouts, if only Callum hadn't said what he'd said earlier. But he had said it, so something inside me was able to let go and sleep. Really sleep, for almost eleven solid hours. I woke up at almost two p.m. the next day feeling properly rested for the first time in months.

I got dressed, made myself some bad instant coffee and lay down on the sofa, still slightly dazed from the length of time I'd slept. I thought about Callum. I thought of his voice and the way it changed slightly when he spoke to me, the way his shoulders tensed up under my hands when we were in bed, the way his eyes closed when I touched him in a certain way...Callum, Callum, Callum. I knew I was acting like a goddamned teenager, but I indulged it anyway. I was alone, and no one could see what I was thinking - why not finally allow myself a little bit of enjoyment? I spent a good twenty minutes fantasizing before I reached for my phone to check the time and saw, to my surprise, that there was a message from Helen Cross. It had been sent three hours previously.

"Lily - can you ring me?"

I called her right away.

"Helen? This is Lily Morgan. I'm just calling about your text."

"Oh, yes, Lily. I was just worried about Callum. Is he alright? Can I see him?"

Helen's voice sounded grumpy - the voice of a person who didn't necessarily want to be talking to me but who knew I was her best hope of getting her son out of the trouble he was currently in.

"He's fine, Helen, I promise. Right now we're more focused on finding Gazza Wilson. In fact I was wondering if maybe you could give me some help with that."

"Yes, well," Helen started hesitantly, "I'm not sure what help I can be there. I have no idea where Gazza is - I haven't spoken to the man for years."

"Anything you can tell me would be helpful, Helen," I encouraged."You've known him since childhood. Do you know if he or his family had a holiday home outside London? Was there somewhere he used to go, maybe a relative he used to visit - anything like that you can think of?"

"He used to go to St. Ives. As a kid, I mean. His family used to go there sometimes, during the summer holidays - I think they may have had a house there or something? Either way, it's the one place outside of London he ever went and he was always talking about moving there, buying a hotel and fixing it up, you know."

"Mmm," I said, thinking. Until we actually found the fucker, info of the kind Helen had just given was useful, even if it was vague and likely to lead nowhere.

"Do you think you'll find him?" Helen asked.

"Well, I can't really talk about it, you understand. I've been taken off the investigation anyway, so all of this is unofficial."

Helen made a surprised sound on the other end and I took the opportunity to hopefully build a little more trust.

"I let Callum escape a few days ago, when he, uh, when he helped me out of a very sticky situation. The police were coming - in fact I called them - but I let him go before they got there."

“Well Lily, I just want to say this to you - Callum didn't kill anyone. It's not who he is. I know you probably think I'm some idiot who has no idea what's going on, but I know my son. He wouldn't - not unless he didn't have a choice, and even then..."

I thought about what had happened in France, but I didn't mention it to Helen. She wasn't wrong, though. Callum wasn't the type. Helen knew it, and so did I.

"St. Ives, then?" I said, steering the conversation back to Gazza."You think he could be there?"

"I really don't know, Lily. I just know it was that place for him - the place we all have in our minds when we think about getting away from it all. I haven't had anything to do with the man for ages, so I can't speak to whether or not it still is, but it was, back then."

She asked if she could see her son and I told her, politely, that she'd have to contact the station to see about that. When the call was over I immediately dialed Akin.

"Yes, Morgan?"

I relayed the information Helen Cross had given me.

"So, what are you asking?" He replied, although he knew perfectly well what it was.

"I - I was thinking of going to St. Ives. Today. There's nothing else for me to do, anyway. What harm could it do to check it out? Can you send me a recent picture of Gazza - to my phone?"

I heard Akin blow his breath out of his nose, another thing he did when he was thinking.

"OK, Morgan. But you understand this is nothing more than checking things out, right? If you find him, or if you find anything at all, I don't want you doing anything other than calling me, is that clear?"

"Yes, perfectly clear. He's probably not there anyway. But if he is or if I think he might be, I'll call you first thing, I promise."

So I was going to St. Ives. I arrived at Paddington Station raring to go, with a few photos of Gazza on my phone and a list of hotels and bed and breakfasts located in the Cornish town. It was a wide net, but there was no other kind to cast in the situation. Akin had run a check to see if Gazza had family there and he didn't, or at least not that we could find on short notice, with basic checks. He also didn't own any property there. It was probably a wild goose chase, and I reminded myself not to get too excited.

It took just under six hours on the train to get there, and I arrived feeling mildly nauseous - something about the smooth, rocking motions of UK trains always made me feel sick rather than sleepy. It was almost midnight, and I stood outside the train station for a few minutes rubbing my eyes and getting my bearings. I was struck very quickly by two things. One: St. Ives was painfully beautiful, even in the dark. And two: St. Ives was not the sort of place where Gazza Wilson would easily fit in. A long, sandy beach stretched out beside me, sandwiched between the dark Atlantic and the kind of picturesque English seaside buildings that made it onto postcards and tourist websites. I spotted a few smartly dressed tourists out on the town and people - locals - who looked vaguely artistic in that kind of tasteful, English way. I could see immediately that they weren't Gazza's crowd.

I walked down the road that ran next to the beach, sighing slightly at the sight of hotel after hotel after hotel. A day was almost certainly not going to be long enough to check each one. Still, there was nothing to do but get on with it. I walked into a particularly pretty hotel and booked a room, then showed the receptionist a photo of Gazza and asked if she'd seen him. She had not, so I went up to my room to try and get a good night's sleep before the slog that I knew the next day - or the next few days - was going to be.

I was up by eight the next morning and out on the street by nine.

The staff at the hotels I went into were polite and helpful for the most part, the way people often are when you tell them you're looking for someone and show them a photo. But none of them had seen Gazza. I plodded along the narrow streets for hours until my legs ached and the soles of my feet burned. At about two in the afternoon I headed to a little restaurant overlooking the beach that advertised 'old-school' fish and chips. My father used to tell me stories about eating fish and chips by the seaside during childhood holidays, so I figured it was the thing to do. The waitress noticed my accent at once.

"Are you on holiday?" She asked, writing down my order on a pad of paper.

"Actually, no," I said," I'm looking for someone. But now that I've seen this place I think I will book a holiday - it's beautiful."

She smiled. "You're looking for someone? Who?"

I smiled back, a little surprised at her guileless helpfulness. I internally noted another way in which I was becoming a Londoner - helpful people were becoming a genuine surprise.

"A man I know. He's missing, and a lot of people would like to find him. I have a photo."

I brought the photo up on my phone and handed it to her. She looked down at it for longer than any of the hotel proprietors had.

"Do you recognize him?"

"Um," she replied, as if trying to call a memory to mind, "I'm not sure. Can I show this to the people in the back?"

It crossed my mind that she was about to do a runner with my phone, but I reminded myself, once again, that I was no longer in London and told her it was fine. She disappeared into the kitchen and I sat tensely at my table, hoping I was wasn't wrong to trust her. I looked out over the water, which was aluminous pale aqua-grey under the midday sun, not unlike Callum's eyes. I liked St. Ives. I couldn't even entirely say why, because touristy seaside towns weren’t usually my thing. But there was something soft in the St. Ives air. Something that made me want to move slowly and spend more time looking at my surroundings. I thought it would be lovely to spend some time there with Callum, maybe holed up in one of those ridiculously quaint, overpriced hotels. We could take walks on the beach in between bouts of slow, Sunday-morning sex.

Someone coughed and I looked up. The waitress was back, and she was with a man dressed in whites.

"Jim says he saw this guy in here yesterday. I thought I did, too, but I wasn’t sure," she told me.

A wisp of excitement curled in my belly. It couldn't be. Surely I wasn't going to get this lucky? I looked up at Jim.

"This man?" I asked him, pointing at the image of Gazza on my phone."You saw this man in here yesterday?"

"Aye, pretty sure I did. He's down from London. I mean, he didn't tell me he was but he sure sounded like he was from London."

Holy shit.

"The accent, you mean?" I asked, keeping my voice casual.

"Oh yeah, definitely from London. I think it was this guy. Maybe he looked a little older? Kicked up a right fuss over his order."

That sounded like Gazza. That sounded exactly like Gazza.

"And did he say anything?" I asked, trying to control my growing sense of excitement.“Did he mention where he was staying or how long he was here for?"

The waitress piped up. "Oh I asked him if he was on holiday but he didn't want to talk. He just ate and left. Didn't leave a tip, either."

No tip. Everything they said made it sound like Gazza. I tried not to get my hopes up, but I still managed to eat my fish and chips way too fast and leave in a big hurry so I could call Akin. I made sure to leave the waitress a decent tip, too.

Akin answered his phone at once when I called.

"Morgan. Any luck? None to report on this end - not in terms of finding Gazza. That Ian bloke seems more and more amenable to testifying against him though, if we can actually find the bastard."

"He's here Akin - I mean, I am pretty damn sure he's here."

"Did you see him?" Akin asked, sounding suddenly a lot more awake.

"No, but I just ate at a restaurant and the staff said they saw a guy who looked like him in there yesterday. Said he was from London without any prompting, too. It's him. I'm sure it's him."

"Are you?"

"Yes. I showed them the photos. One of them seemed certain it was him."

"Hmm. Well, Morgan, I can't say you're harming your chances of getting back into the Met's good graces here. I'll catch the train right away, and I'll call the St. Ives police. Where are you staying?"

I gave Akin the address of the hotel.

"Right. Stay put until you hear from me. If Gazza Wilson is in St. Ives it's probably not worth the risk of him spotting you."

As it turned out, Akin didn't make it until the next morning, so I spent the rest of the afternoon cooped up in my hotel room looking out over that strangely beautiful sea and daydreaming about the things Callum and I would get up to if he were there with me.

Akin was alone when he arrived. He sat down across from me in the hotel's small breakfast room where I was eating a plate of fruit and downing cup after cup of coffee.

"That any good?" He asked, eying my mug.

"Nope,” I responded, grinning.

“Well I better have some, then.”

He signaled the waiter for coffee. “The St. Ives police have been informed. They’re checking with the local hotels right now, so we just have to sit tight until we hear from them. I don't want to step on any toes. And they're in uniform so they may have better luck getting answers."

We chatted about the little details that would need to be taken care of if we did find Gazza, but there was something else I wanted to ask my boss and I had to be subtle about it. Eventually I felt like it was OK to bring the topic up.

"Have you spoken to Callum Cross again?"

"Yes. We let him go yesterday, actually. He's not a flight risk that I can see, and I made sure to tell him that if he did do a runner it would hurt your case."

"
My
case?"

"Yes, Morgan, your case. We couldn't hold him any longer without laying charges for the dust-up at the Streatham Club and I reckoned that would be pointless. We need him onside - we need him to stick around. And anyone with eyes in their head can see he's all wrapped up in you. He wouldn't stop asking me about you, actually.

"Really?" I asked, wincing slightly at the overexcited tone in my voice.

Akin smiled at my embarrassment. "Really, Morgan."

We spent the next couple of hours wandering up and down the beach until finally Akin's phone rang. I could see from the look on his face, even before he spoke, that it was important.

"Where? Right, OK. He's not there? Right. Right. We'll be right there, but if he shows up first just go ahead and make the arrest."

He turned to me, his eyes lit up. "They found him. Well, they found where he's staying - and we'd best get up there right now."

Gazza Wilson turned out to be staying in one of the fancy seaside hotels I'd already been to the previous day. When Akin and I arrived, three marked police cars were parked outside, all with their lights on, and a small group of local police were gathered on the pavement outside the hotel's front entrance. I looked at Akin, who was already staring at the scene angrily, and watched him approach the St. Ives officers.

"Who's in charge here?" He asked."Look, get these cars the fuck out of here, right now. And get off the street. You think this guy is just going to come strolling in with all these coppers hanging around?"

I could tell Akin was even more pissed off than he was letting on, but he knew we had to make an effort not to make the local police feel patronized. Tensions between big city cops and small town cops were real. And a serious pain in the ass. The local officer in charge was, as expected, unhappy.

"Superintendent Akin, I should remind you this isn't London. We know how our town works-"

"Yes, of course, yes," Akin cut him off, as diplomatically as possible. "It's just that this man knows he's being searched for. He's going to take one look at these cars and do a runner before we even get eyes on him. If you could just-"

"Sir, is it correct that this man is wanted for murder? That he left a five year old child orphaned?"

It was one of the local cops, a woman. I could see she knew what she was doing, and I shot her a brief, thankful smile. She’d given her superior a good reason to back off - specifically a reason given to him by one of his own team and not one of the arrogant city police. He looked around and nodded at his officers.

"Right, yes. Get the cars out of here," he said."We'll wait inside."

I glanced up the road, relieved we'd managed to sort out the problem without a major tantrum, and suddenly spotted a man with gray hair. He had Gazza's build. I looked harder and nudged Akin, pointing in the man’s direction.

"Is that him?" He asked sharply.

"I don't know, I can't tell from here, I think that's-"

Although the man was too far away to identify from sight alone, we both watched him come to an abrupt stop when he spotted us. Then he immediately turned around and ran.

"That's him, that's him!" I yelled, alerting the local cops. "Older white male, graying hair, blue shirt, jeans - he just saw us and legged it up the hill!

Two of the local St. Ives officers and I took off immediately, running up the pavement full-tilt to the place where I'd seen the man disappear down a sidestreet. Behind me I could hear Akin shouting instructions to the others who weren't already in pursuit. Almost at once the air was filled with the sound of sirens.

There was a single street, the only place Gazza could have gone. I didn't have a radio so I asked the female officer, the one who had smoothly prevented the blow-up between her colleagues and Akin, to radio them to block the street from the other end.

"How long is it? Are there other sidestreets?" I asked, panting and scanning the front gardens for any sign of movement.

"It's not long but there are sidestreets. I'll have them blocked as well."

I continued jogging along the road with her as she radioed the instructions back to her station. There was no sign of Gazza. Then her radio crackled again.

"Setchmore Road! Setchmore Road east end! He's on foot!"

I turned to the officer, waiting for her to tell me where the hell Setchmore Road was and she ran off ahead, turning back to yell at me:

"It's close! It's close, it's right here!"

The three of us soon got to Setchmore Road and started slowly making our way down it, checking front gardens and hedges. As we got closer to the end of the street I could see a squad car parked there, lights flashing. He had to be somewhere between where we were and where that car was.

"Opposite sides!" I shouted. I picked the left side for myself and prayed more officers were about to show up. There were a lot of heavy bushes in the front gardens and more than a few back gates leading to back gardens. If Gazza got over one of them, he could be on another street in thirty seconds.

"Radio for them to block off the parallel streets!"

The female St. Ives officer radioed in the command, and I was just starting to feel a little more secure that we had him when I felt a sudden sharp pain in my head. The bright sunny day suddenly went black.

I lost consciousness for a few seconds, and came to with the side of my face being ground into the pavement and a heavy weight on my back. Before I had time to think about escaping I felt myself being hauled to my feet, and then there was an awful, cold tickle against my throat. I didn't even have to look. I knew what it was. Everyone started shouting as I held my hands out on either side of me, trying to appear as unthreatening and passive as possible. Gazza breathed heavily in my ear as he dragged me back along the street, away from the squad car.

"Put the knife down, sir! Put the knife down!"

Fuck. I was fucked. The local cops were armed, but none of them had a clear shot. All they could do was watch as Gazza dragged me backwards, yanking me hard every few seconds so I kept stumbling and almost losing my balance.

"Stand up straight, bitch," he snarled into my ear."Fucking bitch! Fucking...bitch!"

Gazza's desperation was tangible, and I knew very well how desperation could affect a person's thinking. He knew there was no getting out of the situation in anything other than handcuffs. He didn't have a lot to lose from hurting me, at that point.

"We should talk about this," I panted. I forced my arms to stay where they were, even though every instinct screamed at me to grab his wrists or the knife itself, anything to get it away from my throat. "Gary, please. We should talk about this. Put the knife down, we can-"

"Shut the fuck UP!" he screamed, tightening his grip until I could feel the cold, sharp metal edge starting to cut into my skin.

"Put the knife down! Put it down!"

It was Akin's voice. He sounded panicked, and that made me panic. I lost control of my arms and started scrabbling at Gazza, managing to get my forefinger jammed under the blade. I let out a choked scream as I felt it slicing, painlessly at first, through my flesh.