Cold Blood by Jane Heafield (great books to read txt) 📕

‘Ex-girlfriend,’ Bennet said. ‘I’m just trying to do right by my son and find his mother–’

‘Enough,’ Turner cut in with a flick of the hand, as if dealing with a pesky fly at a picnic. ‘You’re not here on official business and we don’t have to answer any more questions. I’ve had to interject twice now, to make sure you’re not harassing my people, and it’s tiresome. I suggest you head home and continue your enquiries without interrupting our lives any further. Otherwise, I may make a call to your superiors about a harassment charge. Do you understand my meaning, detective? Game over with the monkey business. If you want to do right by your son, buy him a Lego set.’

Turner was awaiting a response, with a slappable grin on his face despite claiming to be upset. The response Bennet gave was to start walking. The loader’s tracks offered a route to chase back to his car.

‘Goodbye, detective. You should report this vandalism, by the way. Now that you know about it.’

Bennet wanted the last word. As he passed the G-class, he said, ‘Idi Amin was also a Mercedes fan. Have a good day.’

29

The rush-hour traffic thinned when he got out of the boondocks. Once free of the Peak District, Bennet turned his mind to the Buttery Park case, which he’d neglected for his personal mission. He was still on a pair of days off, so the investigation hadn’t suffered without his input, but that didn’t stop him feeling he’d mired it in mud with his absence. On the drive home, he made some calls with an eye to directing some angle or other, but his team had fared well without their decision maker. No forward movement, though, which was a growing cause for concern.

After that, he found his thoughts again turning to Lorraine. He checked her Facebook and Twitter, but she’d made no updates today. He pulled in at a lay-by and composed a text to Hooper, requesting him to trace the unknown number she’d called his landline from. But he couldn’t send it. Today he might talk to Lorraine, and tonight he could watch her and Joe have a good old time, but tomorrow the Independent Ethics Panel would come down on him like a ton of bricks. There were easier ways, like messaging Lorraine’s husband, but that felt just as wrong.

He emailed Francis Overeem instead and saw a chance to give his contact a semi-official mask. His lie: he’d gotten wind of a vandalism accusation and wanted answers before he reported it to Derbyshire police. He then scoured the director’s blog again and found the names and pictures of the two unknown crew he’d visited the Peak District with. Betty Crute, sound engineer, was a petite girl in a tank top with red dreadlocks and tattoos all down both arms. John Crickmer, cameraman, was a guy who looked like a grunger, with shaggy long hair and a heavy-metal jacket. Bennet sent both of them the same email he’d written to Overeem.

Which made him think. Turner had been right: Bennet now knew about the vandalism and had a duty to report it. His mind made a leap from that to an image of Lorraine in court to answer such charges, with Joe crying as he watched her get sentenced and taken into custody. Unlikely, but he couldn’t shake the idea. He decided he would get the story from Lorraine and the others before passing its details to Derbyshire police. He sent Lorraine yet another message via Messenger – this one asking her to urgently get in contact – then tossed his phone onto the passenger seat and rubbed his face. What a goddamn day.

He was home soon after. Stepping in the car to stepping out again: seventy-three minutes. Joe and Patricia were eating dinner before heading out to the cinema. He’d already called Patricia to explain his plan and she had some cottage pie left over for him. The lengthy return journey for a trip of about twenty miles had included a McDonald’s stop, but he found space for her cooking.

Perhaps because Patricia filled the void, or he didn’t want to mention her in front of the neighbour, Joe didn’t bring up his mother that evening. But Bennet didn’t fool himself that it meant Joe was over her. As they queued to park, and bought popcorn, and squeezed past legs to find their seats at the cinema, Bennet debated his next move. Joe’s nonchalance had cut the urgency Bennet had felt all day, and with time on his hands, and room to think clearly, he came up with a plan.

If she hadn’t called him by tomorrow morning, he would get hold of her husband by Facebook. An innocent little note to a man who surely knew about Joe’s existence. Just a prompt: hey, do you think Lorraine would consider seeing Joe for an hour or two? Her husband probably wouldn’t mind, unless he was an immature bastard, and his blessing might convince Lorraine it was a good idea. No more of this silly chasing her, and no need for guilt-trips. He just had to hope the snarky message he’d left her didn’t mess things up. He would also liaise with Crabtree to find a resolution not involving the police. The farmer didn’t want police traipsing through his ranch, and Lorraine’s husband was rich, so maybe there was a fiscal route through this mess.

Knowing he had a way forward if necessary, Bennet relaxed a little. He even followed the movie. But the worries came back at close to midnight. While heading upstairs to bed, he checked in on Joe and saw something unnerving as he bent to kiss his sleeping boy’s cheek. A portion of his pillow by his nose was puckered, and there were dried streaks of fluid on his cheek. Tears. Joe had been crying in bed. And the culprit, his phone, was in his hand.

Bennet took it and, out on