Hammond tried to grab at it, but Winkler pushed him away. Winkler was delighted to see that the PR man’s face had turned as red as the carriages that had fallen to the floor. ‘That was my granddad’s,’ Hammond said.
‘Ah. What a shame. Was your dear old granddad a kiddie fiddler too? Is that how it started? Granddad climbing into your bed at night, asking for a special cuddle?’
Hammond stared at him. ‘You’re sick. Who’s your superior officer? I’m going to call him right now . . .’ He pulled his phone out of his pocket.
‘Him? Sexist too, as well as a sexual predator. How many have there been, eh? Over the years?’
Hammond had gone so red now, breath coming out of him in quick, shallow gasps, that Winkler was slightly concerned the other man was going to have a heart attack. He didn’t want him to die before he faced justice. He lowered the train and gently placed it back on the track.
At that moment, Hammond’s mobile rang in his palm, making him jump. He stared at the screen, clearly debating whether to take it, but it must have been important because he lifted it to his ear and said, ‘Mervyn Hammond. Oh . . . Good morning, your Excellency . . .’
Winkler’s phone started ringing too. He checked the display: Gareth. He backed away towards the door, pointing at a spot below his eye and then at Hammond. Winkler felt satisfied. Hammond would definitely make some kind of move now. He would wonder how Winkler knew about him, move to further cover his tracks. Cover his train tracks, Winkler thought, sniggering. He really was a comedy genius.
He answered his phone as he walked towards the house. ‘Yeah?’
‘Boss, it’s DS Batey. We’ve had a call . . . You’re going to find this interesting.’ Gareth sounded excited.
‘Go on.’
‘Someone called Crime Stoppers anonymously. You’re not going to believe this, but they mentioned Hammond, said they were at a party at his house last night and saw some teenage girls’ clothes in one of the bedrooms. Including a pair of pink knickers with the word “LUCKY” printed on them.’
Winkler stopped dead. ‘What?’
‘I know. Rose Sharp’s underwear.’
Winkler’s heart was thumping like a full-size train thundering along the tracks. ‘Did this caller give any more details? Leave a name?’
‘No, like I said, it was anonymous.’
‘And who else knows about this call? Lennon?’
‘Not yet, no. The referral just came over – I picked it up and called you right away.’
Winkler raised his eyes to the heavens and mouthed ‘thank you’. ‘OK. Great. Keep it that way for the moment. I’ll call you back.’
He ended the call and jogged back towards the house, watching several Asian women emerge carrying bin bags that they dropped beside the white van he’d noticed earlier.
He broke into a sprint, glancing over his shoulder to see if Hammond had emerged from the barn yet. He must still be on his call to ‘his Excellency’, whoever that was.
As he reached the house, the Thai housekeeper emerged through the front door to join the three other women, an expression of alarm crossing her face when she saw Winkler running towards her.
‘I need everyone to stop,’ he said. ‘Listen to me.’
Four pairs of eyes stared at him.
‘Did any of you find any clothes, women’s clothes, when you were cleaning up?’
The women all started talking at once. He held up a hand. ‘Please. One at a time.’
One of the women, another East Asian, about twenty-one, Winkler guessed, said in a whisper, ‘I find knicker.’
Winkler thought he was going to have a heart attack. It was lucky he was so fit.
‘Where? Show me.’
The four women all started rummaging through the bin bags, untying them and sticking their gloved hands inside. Winkler looked over his shoulder. Hammond still hadn’t appeared.
‘Come on, come on,’ he urged.
‘I can’t find,’ the young Asian woman said.
‘Oh for fuck’s sake.’
He pushed her aside and grabbed the bin bag she had been rummaging through, tipping it out onto the path. Beer bottles, screwed-up napkins, food waste, cigarette ends, a couple of used condoms. But nothing pink. He did the same with the next bag, and the next, the women gawping at the horrific mess that spilled onto the edge of the lawn, all their hard work undone.
‘Where the fuck are they?’ Winkler snapped.
There was one bin bag left. He untied it and tipped its contents onto the pile of trash.
And there they were.
‘Gloves,’ he demanded. ‘Now.’
The housekeeper peeled off her transparent gloves and handed them to him. He slipped them on and crouched down, imagining himself being carried around the station, aloft on the shoulders of his colleagues, everyone chanting his name.
He held up the garment, pinching the knickers lightly between finger and thumb, and a thrill of excitement coursed through him.
‘Gotcha,’ he said.
Chapter 43
Day 14 – Chloe
Even though two days had passed since her birthday parachute jump, Chloe was still finding it difficult to process the maelstrom of emotions and adrenalin that had little dispelled in the aftermath. The goggle marks had long faded from around her eyes, her cheeks were no longer reddened from the freezing cold descent, and it felt as though she’d dreamed the whole thing. Then she would experience another flutter of excitement and the sheer joy of being alive – only to find guilt thudding down on top of her, that she shouldn’t feel that way, not after Jess’s murder.
And then there was this other, new thing, more exciting than everything else put together – more than the parachute jump; way more than her sixteenth birthday; more than the cute nervous guy from the plane asking for her number – an actual message from Shawn Barrett.
Shawn Barrett texted me, she thought, a smile curling irresistibly up at the corners of her lips. Me!
She felt a punch of shame and guilt in her gut – only recently she had felt embarrassed by her love of OnTarget, had thought herself too grown-up for them. Thank God Shawn would never know her traitorous thoughts.
As she sat at the breakfast table in her pyjamas half-heartedly eating a bowl of Special K, her mum noticed how distracted she was.
‘Still thinking about the jump, Rog? I’m so proud of you, you know. I couldn’t have done that, not in a million years. You’ve been so brave . . .’
Her mother’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. She switched off the radio, reached across the table and took Chloe’s hand between her own, her voice thick.
‘We don’t get that much time together on our own, do we? I just wanted to say that the other day was incredible. There’s always so much going on here, and I feel like I’m constantly nagging you and Brandon about something or other—’
‘You are,’ Chloe confirmed, prompting a tearful laugh.
‘So anyway. I just wanted to say that it was amazing to take you to the jump, just the two of us, and watch you floating down to earth with that massive grin plastered all over your face, and to know you’ve recovered, that you’re well again, I can’t tell you . . .’
She was openly sobbing now, and Chloe gave a self-deprecating sort of huff, although, annoyingly, her own eyes had filled up too.
‘Oh God, Chloe, when I thought we were going to lose you, I just couldn’t bear it. I really couldn’t. The relief that you’re OK!’
‘Yeah, I’m fairly relieved too,’ said Chloe. She examined her mother’s profile, still attractive – although she really ought to pluck that one long hair she never noticed growing out of the mole by her left ear, and she was getting wrinkles in her neck. Chloe wondered what her mum had been like as a teenager. What she herself would be like as an adult, as a mother.