Be My Girl by Tony Hutchinson

Author:Tony Hutchinson [Hutchinson, Tony]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781916445703
Publisher: Cheshire Cat Books Ltd
Published: 2018-08-18T18:30:00+00:00

Trevor Stewart appeared outside Sam’s office, his uniform epaulettes looking like they belonged on a doll, his shoulders filling the doorway.

‘How’s it going?’

‘Good. We’re making good progress. A lot further forward than we were on Monday.’

‘Pleased to hear it.’

Stewart sat down. ‘I know about the phone call, your phone call.’

Shit. Why am I surprised? He’s got spies everywhere, thought Sam.

‘Are you okay to continue? Perhaps a change of SIO?’

‘I’m fine sir. He’s rung a number that I put out into the public domain. It’s no big deal. I’m fine.’

‘Dave Smithies is willing to take over.’

I just bet he is! Your new drinking mate, the DCI who wants my job. I’ve got sources too.

‘I’m fine, sir. It’s not a problem. If anything it drives me harder.’

‘Well if it becomes a problem, let me know. I’ve just got your welfare at heart. Just thinking chummy’s not likely to ring a bloke is he.’

‘He’s just as likely to ring Dave as he is me if his motivation is to taunt the ones trying to catch him.’

Trevor Stewart stood up. ‘But he’s not likely to be fantasising about sex with Dave Smithies, is he? Keep me updated. Anything you need, let me know.’

Sam slouched back in the chair. Now it was her fault the rapist fantasised about her. Stewart was something else. He couldn’t get her into bed but he was reminding her that he could do what he wanted with her career. Bastard.

Sam grabbed her coat.

A sudden snow flurry had Sam reaching to turn on the wiper blades. Great. She hated the snow. Hated it at school when the bullies amused themselves throwing snowballs at anyone who wasn’t part of their gang; hated her clothes covered in snow; hated red raw cheeks and wet hair; hated it years later when she fell over chasing a burglar in uniform, watching him escape into the arms of a colleague; hated the piss-taking that followed; even hated her one skiing trip with friends from university.

She turned on to her driveway and despite the snowflakes clustering the headlamps like moths, the powerful beams lit up the front of the house, shining on a bunch of flowers propped up against her front door.

Who buys me flowers? Someone’s got the wrong house.

She dashed to the door, snowflakes invading her mouth and coating her hair like the white top of a Mont Blanc pen. The snow was melting as soon as it hit the ground and it would turn into tiny puddles as soon as she got inside.

She grabbed the flowers, the wet paper disintegrating in her fingers, and darted into the hall, the lamp on the timer providing a dim light. Get into the kitchen, Sam. A wet, tiled floor is preferable to a wet carpet.

The panic alarm didn’t ease the memory of last night’s call. It was bravado telling Ed she would be fine. It was outrage when she told Stewart she was okay.

She placed the flowers on the bench, a smell like freshly cut wet grass rising from them.

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