Fear or Favour

By Ray Britain

A drowned man is pulled from floodwaters. Identification is difficult but a routine investigation for DCI Stirling and newly promoted DI Marti Summer. Or is it?
Sensitive material in the dead man’s possession links Stirling’s investigation to the top of Government, and a leadership race for Prime Minister. Favourite to win is Zola Campbell, the grandchild of Windrush immigrants whose rise from humble beginnings to forge a business empire, amassing personal wealth and fame along the way, have made her an iconic figure. Entering politics, her talents earned swift promotion to the top of Government, and now she’s poised to be the first woman of colour Prime Minister. The media is in overdrive, the political stakes are high, and the nation is watching.
Fearing a national scandal that will engulf them all, ACC Steph Tanner wants results – fast! With just days to unravel what connects a quiet man’s drowning to events at Westminster, a hundred miles away, tensions rise as Stirling takes his investigation undercover.
Stirling senses something is missing. But what? Or who? With a suspect to locate, and crypto millions to trace, things are complex enough when MI5 step from the shadows! And just where do Lena Novak and the National Crime Agency fit into it all?
Frightened by Stirling’s methods, Marti Summer fears for her job, and the shame she’ll bring on her family. But Marti has a moral dilemma too - have her own prejudices jeopardised the investigation?
Haunted by tragedy, Stirling’s private life is a mess. Ayesha’s gone, with no explanation. He and Steph Tanner are close, but she’s his boss. And life is about to get still more complicated.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ray Britain
• Release date: Jan 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215739600

Ray Britain

Ray Britain’s third novel ‘Fear or Favour’ follows his previous titles, ‘Forgotten Lives’ (2021) and ‘The Last Thread’ (2017).Ray Britain led specialist investigations as a Senior Investigating Officer, and was also a Hostage & Crisis Intervention Negotiator, a voluntary role that involved him in sieges, firearms operations, and many suicide interventions. His specialist roles took him to the USA, India, Europe, Australia and elsewhere, and he was awarded several Commendations. He also worked with the Serious Fraud Office and the Home Office, and with many other police services. That experience brings an authentic voice to his stories and the realities of investigation, and of human frailty.If not writing, Ray might be enjoying hiking, rugby, skiing, reading, sailing, or yoga.For more information, please visit: http://www.raybritain.com/

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Title Page

Copyright © Ray Britain 2022

First published in Great Britain in 2023

The moral right of Ray Britain to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or any information storage and retrieval system or otherwise without the prior permission in writing of the author.

This is a work of fiction and is a product of the author’s imagination. Other than the names of some locales, all characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN (eBook) 978-1-9998122-7-0

ISBN (Paperback) 978-1-9998122-8-7

ISBN (Hardback) 978-1-9998122-9-4

Published by Ray Britain: http://www.raybritain.com

Cover by Design for Writers: www.designforwriters.com

Digital conversion by: www.bluewavepubishing.co.uk

Dedication

For Willa Rae

Kia roa, kia ora, kia hari tõu oranga.

And to the men and women of the police services of the United Kingdom, the finest in the world who, unarmed, and too often unappreciated, selflessly put themselves in harm’s way in service to their communities.

Also by Ray Britain

The Last Thread

Forgotten Lives

Fear or Favour

PROLOGUE

October

The mobile phone in her pocket that had been silent for days, which had never rung before, clattered noisily into life.

She felt a sickening lurch at the pit of her stomach. The longer it had been silent, the more that she had wished it to remain so.

An oasis of stilled conversation formed around her in the noisy, crowded room, spreading outwards as the call insisted on an answer. Offering a smile of apology, she opened a glazed door nearby, and stepped out onto the balcony that overlooked the street. Her chest tightened when she saw there was no caller identification.

Glancing over her shoulder to be sure no one would hear, she smiled fleetingly at faces turned in her direction, turned away, and answered the call.

‘It’s done.’ A cold, hard-edged voice.

She listened intently to the heavy, rasping breathing at the other end, as though physical effort had been used, and wondered what face matched this voice. Spoken with such finality, so matter-of-factly, she was taken aback. She had expected more.

‘When?’ was all she could think to ask.

‘Just now.’

‘Oh …’ She faltered as her heart beat harder, and her breathing shortened. She wanted to ask more but was frightened to know.

Checking over her shoulder to be sure no one had strayed within earshot, she saw someone watching her from the far side of the crowded room. Their eyes met and held for a moment. She stepped further along the balcony to be out of sight.

‘How?’ she asked.

Between the heavy breathing at the other end she could hear something else. Road traffic?

Without deference, the voice answered, ‘Less you know, the better.’

‘But you’re sure? I mean you’re certain …?’ she asked, her voice trailing away.

A pause before the cold voice replied, ‘Course I’m bloody certain!’

The accent sounded familiar. Northern. Liverpool? Manchester? Made nervous by the finality in the man’s voice, and of the possible consequences, she drew in a deep breath to steady her nerves.

‘Destroy the phone … tonight!’ the voice commanded.

‘But how will I …?’ she began, but the line was dead.

She returned the mobile to a pocket and stared across the London skyline at the Palace of Westminster a mile away where a fog lifting from the Thames was slipping a cold embrace around the sturdy waist of Victoria Tower. She shivered as she considered the duplicitous scheming taking place inside the parliament’s bars this evening, and how it would direct her life. For the moment, though, the outcome was as imprecise as were the streetlamps being absorbed into the fog.

From the private garden square below rose the sweet scent of decay. The recent storms had piled leaves up against the iron railings that bounded the park, through which they were spilling onto the worn pavements to make them treacherous for the unwary. She too must be wary. One uncertain step, one slip, and all would be lost, never to be regained. She looked across at Westminster again. The violent storms had seemed to foretell the winds of change they were planning, and which would shake the established order.

Her gaze shifted to the clock face of Big Ben. Nine forty-five. She felt a sudden need to get away from these fawning hangers-on and advantage seekers. The way forward was now clear, but she needed time and space to think.

Drawing in more deep breaths, she fixed her smile back into place and re-entered the room. Nearby, a group of men and women listened attentively to a woman braying, ‘Mark my words, the first woman of colour to be appointed to …’

The speaker’s opinion was left unsaid as she saw her audience switch its collective attention to the smiling woman now moving slowly, and elegantly towards them.

From the far side of the room, an astute gaze followed her progress.

*

Half-way across Westminster Bridge, a broad-shouldered man walking east diverted to the parapet. He stopped and leant against it to stare down at the ink-black Thames gliding past below. A heavy overcoat worn against the cold blurred his physique, and a peaked cap pulled low shielded his face from any casual regard of the few pedestrians hurrying past.

The man stared across at the Palace of Westminster where many lights still burned, casting diluting, fractured reflections onto the river. Swollen by the storms, the river had a silent menace as it flowed between the bridge spans, grudgingly parting around the stone piers.

The man pulled his hat down tighter against the wind and glanced casually each way along the footpath. Returning his gaze to the river, he waited until a few pedestrians clutching coats and shoulder bags against the stiffening breeze had scurried past. From his coat pocket he took out a cheap mobile phone, removed the SIM card and went to drop it into the water, but hesitated.

He calculated the risk and returned it to his pocket.

Casting a sidelong glance each way, he eased himself off the parapet and continued walking.

Day 1 – Friday: 10.31am

A soft rap on Stirling’s office door announced the arrival of a weary looking Detective Inspector Bill Edwards, his glasses pushed up to nestle amongst greying, brown hair. Edwards went to one of the chairs in front of Stirling’s desk. Though a lean-built man, he sat heavily and began to massage his eyes with both hands.

‘Make yourself comfortable,’ Stirling said, with dry sarcasm. He leaned back in his chair to study his colleague before remarking, ‘You look shagged.’

‘That’s an understatement,’ Edwards answered with tired resignation. ‘I’m buried in pre-trial disclosure for the two murder trials that start soon, and there’s still a shedload of work for the inquest into our vigilante that’s scheduled for next month. I’ve read that many documents, my eyes are falling out.’

As Detective Chief Inspector, Senior Investigating Officer of the Major Crime Team, the MCT, Stirling was not surprised. He had oversight of everything. Everyone was exhausted, but as Stirling’s formal Deputy SIO, Edwards had more on his plate than most. The MCT was having a tough year already when a series of vigilante murders during the summer had tested the team almost to destruction. The politics had been febrile, and the media attention intense. Then, as the net closed on the killer, Stirling himself had been targeted at his home. When the vigilante was eventually identified, the facts had been so sensational that the shockwaves were still reverberating through the force. A detailed review of security was still going on.

‘So, did you stop by to have a moan, or for tea and sympathy?’ Stirling asked. He was happy to listen, but he had his own caseload.

The two men had known each other for most of their careers, coming through the ranks together, and getting into a few scrapes along the way. Three years ago they had both put in for promotion to the DCI’s job in charge of the MCT. Though equally qualified, it was Stirling who’d got the job, putting their long friendship at risk. But such was Bill Edwards’s loyalty, he had been the first to find Stirling to congratulate him, and to pledge support. They occasionally disagreed as Edwards tended towards pessimistic caution, while Stirling was prepared to take risks. But their friendship had endured and remained strong. Edwards, and his wife Ellen, were Stirling’s closest friends. In truth, his only real friends, and even they thought he was something of a closed book. Stirling was notoriously tight-lipped about his private life.

Edwards gestured vaguely in the direction of the night kitchen further along the corridor and answered grouchily, ‘I was going to get a coffee. Thought you might like to join me?’

Stirling stood up. Taking his jacket from the back of his chair, he slung it over his shoulder and started for the door. ‘I’ve got a better idea. Let’s get out of the building.’

Sitting in a corner of the coffee shop from where he could see the room, and the door, Stirling listened as Edwards took him through the MCT’s caseload. There was precious little spare capacity. With their second coffee, conversation turned to domestic matters. Bill reassured Stirling that both Ellen and their teenage daughter, Frankie, were fine. The vigilante investigation had spooked them all, Ellen especially, who had been badly frightened when it seemed that Bill too might also be targeted. And having armed officers in their home had not helped.

‘Have you heard from Ayesha? Ellen’s bound to ask?’ Edwards asked, watching him keenly to gauge his reaction.

Stirling’s gaze drifted off across the room. He shook his head but offered nothing in return. It was no more than Edwards expected. There was usually a woman in the background but, with the exception of his most recent girlfriend, Ayesha, whom he and Ellen had got to know quite well, little information was ever offered. Even as his closest friend, he rarely got a straight answer to questions of Stirling’s private life.

A few years ago, Stirling had returned to the force after a two-year secondment to an obscure, specialist team in the Met. In the months that followed, Edwards had noticed a change in Stirling’s nature for reasons that he could not penetrate, but not for the want of trying. Something had happened to Stirling while he was away, but whenever he’d probed, usually over a beer, all he had got were evasive answers and a clear sense that his questions were unwelcome. Consequently, he had given up trying.

‘I hear Ayesha’s left,’ Edwards said, hoping to learn more.

Stirling’s steady gaze returned to him. ‘You know she left, Bill … weeks ago. There was a big argument at my place and when we met a few days later, we ended it.’

‘We? Or you?’ Edwards asked, dryly, and felt the full force of Stirling’s hazel-green eyes settle on him.

‘Okay, so I did,’ Stirling replied, impatiently. ‘I couldn’t offer Ayesha what she wanted. Home for dinner every evening, kids playing around the hearth, steady hours, and weekends free of work. It was better to end it before things got too complicated.’

Stirling saw his friend’s dubious look, and continued, ‘I know you and Ellen were very fond of Ayesha, but it’s none of your business, really, is it?’

Edwards heard the irritation in his voice. ‘When I say she’s left, I mean she’s left town. Given up her job. Gone!’

He saw surprise on Stirling’s face, then a concerned frown as Edwards continued.

‘Ellen was worried because Ayesha stopped answering her calls to see if she was alright, so she rang the solicitors practice where she worked. The receptionist gave her some cagey answers until Ellen explained they were good friends, and that she was concerned for her welfare. The receptionist told her Ayesha handed in her notice about a month ago, with immediate effect. Just walked out. Her apartment in Diglis has been rented out through an agent – I checked – and nobody at her office knows where she’s gone. Certainly not to work for another law firm or they’d have been contacted for formal references.’

Shaking his head, Stirling frowned hard. ‘But I don’t understand, Ayesha was doing so well there. She expected to be made a partner within a year or so.’

He thought back to their last meeting, sitting together on a bench in the grounds of Worcester Cathedral. Of Ayesha hugging him tightly, seemingly hesitant to say something. At the time he’d thought that it was her usual fierce pride, determined not to chase a lost cause. Later, though, after they’d parted ways, he’d had a strong feeling that something had been left unsaid. Or unresolved. It had bothered him for days, but as the pressures of work built again, he’d pushed it from his mind. Since then, someone else was occupying his interest.

Concerned, he asked, ‘And you’ve no idea where Ayesha’s gone?’

Edwards shook his head. ‘Back to her family in Leicester, perhaps?’ he suggested. ‘She was extremely unhappy when Ellen spoke to her just after you’d broken up, and before she stopped taking her calls.’

It might make sense, Stirling thought. He had not met the Patel family but knew from Ayesha’s fond descriptions of them that they were tight-knit, and that she could take refuge there if she needed to do. It was even possible that she had become company lawyer for their burgeoning business interests. He wondered if Edwards, and most likely Ellen, were worrying too much.

‘I’m sure she’s fine, Bill. Ayesha’s a highly intelligent and resourceful woman who doesn’t need someone like me holding her back.’ He shifted in his seat, readying to leave. ‘So, what are you and Ellen up to this weekend?’

Edwards stood up and pulled on his coat as he followed Stirling to the door. ‘Absolutely nothing! I’m taking it easy for a couple of days before returning to those case papers on Monday.’

The two men stepped outside, both pulling up their collars against a cold wind. They turned and started towards the MCT a few hundred metres away, located across two floors over the town’s largely redundant police station.

‘What about your own weekend?’ Edwards asked, not expecting a straight answer.

Stirling thought about the dinner he would be cooking for his visitor that evening. ‘Nothing special really, Bill. I’ll probably catch up on some reading.’

Unconvinced, Edwards gave him a sideways look, but decided against asking more.

3.29pm

With the meeting almost over, Stirling was closing his briefing notes when Dave Pearson, Detective Chief Superintendent, Head of CID, and Stirling’s boss, pulled out his handkerchief and sneezed noisily into it, again. Pearson had been struggling throughout their case review meeting with their boss, Assistant Chief Constable Steph Tanner, who was accountable for all major crime investigations and other major operations throughout the force area.

The meeting was taking place in Tanner’s office, the three of them sitting around a low coffee table in front of tall, sash windows overlooking the close-cut lawns of Police Headquarters. Beyond, lay Autumn ploughed fields that stretched away to the horizon, bisected by the north-south cut of the M5 motorway a couple of miles away.

Tanner had arrived on promotion two years ago with an established reputation for being a decisive, sure-footed leader, a reputation which had only grown since. The concern for Stirling, and others in CID, was how long they could keep her before she moved on to a bigger job, in a bigger force.

Studying Pearson closely, Tanner frowned. ‘Should you be at work Dave? You’re not at all well.’

Pearson sniffed loudly and stuffed the sodden handkerchief back into his pocket. ‘Thank you, but it’s just a bit of a cold, that’s all. I haven’t taken a day’s sick leave in over ten years, and I don’t intend to start now. We’ve far too much going on.’

When Tanner suggested he take a few days off to recover, Pearson politely, but stubbornly declined. Stirling smiled inwardly. Known affectionately to all in the CID as the Old Man, he knew better than to waste breath on trying to get Pearson to take time off. There was rumoured to be a Mrs. Pearson, but few people could claim to have met her. Stirling had spoken to her on the telephone a few times when calling Pearson out of hours, but the phone was always quickly palmed off to her husband. Pearson was married to the job, and the popular expectation was that he would finally leave his office feet first.

Tanner looked at Stirling in quiet appeal, hoping he might comment, but when she saw that nothing would be offered in support, she turned back to Pearson.

‘Well, you look and sound awful for just a cold. I’m calling it flu’ … you should take some time off to recover. Lex Portland can cover your desk for a few days, longer if needed. He’d benefit from the experience.’

Without showing a trace of emotion at mention of Portland’s name, Stirling saw Pearson’s eyes flinch before he answered, ‘Well, yes, that’s always a possibility. He’s certainly very keen. I shall rest over the weekend and will be at my desk on Monday morning, as always.’

Tanner gave him a long, frowning look before rising from her seat, signalling the end of the meeting. Stirling went to the door and held it open for Pearson to pass in front of him. Occupied in stifling another sneeze, Pearson did not notice Stirling looking at Tanner who was now standing behind her desk. With one hand to her ear, she mimed a telephone call, gesturing that she would call him later.

Stirling gave a slight nod and closed the door. Pearson was waiting for him at the far end of the Chief Officer’s Command Suite. More often referred to as the landing, the chief officers’ spacious offices had once been the principal bedrooms of the former mansion house that had been police HQ for decades. Together, they walked in silence until they got to Pearson’s office where, unusually, he closed the door and waved Stirling into a chair opposite his desk. Stirling waited as Pearson slumped into his chair, folded his hands across his chest and fixed him with half-hooded eyes as though he were a possible piece of prey. It was something Pearson did when assessing a problem, or someone.

‘So, how d’you fancy Lex Portland as your boss if I fall off my twig?’

‘I’m sure he’d do a good job, Dave. He’s been busy raising his profile since he got here on promotion from the West Mids.’

Stirling had spoken evenly, a half-smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Pearson studied him a little longer and was about to reply when he was seized by a coughing fit that bent him over his desk. Stirling wondered about his own wellbeing as Pearson blew his nose noisily, then gave Stirling a jaundiced look.

‘Very diplomatic, but you can’t bullshit me,’ Pearson said, through a chesty wheezing. ‘Portland’s nakedly ambitious and he’ll walk over anyone to improve his CV. I’ve noticed, though, that when the shit starts flying, it’s always some other poor sod that catches it.’

Portland had recently transferred on promotion from the neighbouring big-city force of the West Midlands Police, to take up a Detective Superintendent’s post. Tanner and Pearson had both encouraged Stirling to apply for the position, but he’d turned it down. Within a few days of arriving, Portland had started manoeuvring to bring Stirling’s Major Crime Team into his portfolio, claiming it was anomalous that Stirling lined-in directly to Pearson, Head of CID. It was an unusual arrangement, but it worked well for Pearson, and Stirling. It gave Pearson a direct handle on the complexities of the MCT’s investigations, especially when covert techniques were being used, and eliminated a supervisory layer for Stirling. It was generally considered that Portland wanted the kudos of major crime investigation within his own command to polish his CV for future promotion. It was also generally considered, but more quietly muttered, that Portland lacked the necessary experience and competence to oversee major crime investigation.

Stirling’s reply was neutral. ‘I’ve heard some stories, but I’d rather make my own judgement.’

Pearson huffed dismissively. ‘Well, watch your back while you’re deciding because he doesn’t plan on being here long. He’ll soon be sniffing out a promotion to get to chief officer. Hopefully, somewhere else, and not here.’

‘Okay. So, is that it?’

Pearson nodded, sniffing heavily. ‘See you next week unless we get called out over the weekend.’

His face began to screw up, ready to sneeze. Stirling rose quickly and moved to the door, ready to leave before he too was infected. From the open door, he looked back at the man who had taught him so much, who was his occasional confidant, and for whom he had the greatest respect.

‘Steph Tanner’s right, Dave. You look bloody awful. Take some time off.’

Unable to speak, Pearson waved him away with one hand while groping for his handkerchief with the other.

Stirling hastily closed the door as Pearson sneezed violently.

Day 2 – Saturday: 8.22am

A movement beside Stirling roused him from a light sleep. He opened his eyes and turned his head to see warm, brown eyes watching him. He shifted closer until the warmth of her bare body was pressed along the length of his own.

‘Morning … been awake long?’ he asked, reached around her waist, and drew his fingertips slowly down her spine to the cleft of her buttocks. She arched her back with pleasure, pushing her breasts against his chest.

‘A little while,’ she answered, smiling. ‘I’ve been watching you sleeping. You look younger when you’re asleep.’

‘Not the wrong side of thirty-five, heading for forty you mean,’ he replied.

He slid his hand over her buttock and on down to the softness of her inner thigh. She moved her leg aside to allow him to explore, then reached for him and guided him until he was above her.

‘You’re still a few years younger than me, though. Anyway, I’m not interested in how old you are, but I am in this,’ she said, gripping him more firmly. ‘I’ve some catching up to do.’

Stirling cradled the back of her head in his hand as he bent and kissed her. Her tongue delicately probed his mouth, increasing his arousal.

He remembered something she had said the night before. ‘Last night, how long did you say it’s been?’

‘Three years, two hundred and sixty-one days.’

Amused, he replied, ‘That’s a crime, surely?’

‘The penalties of being divorced and being a mother …’ she moaned softly. ‘Umm, that feels good. And having a job that many men are frightened of and keeps me too busy, or too tired for a sex life.’

‘But how do you remember the date so precisely?’ he asked.

She wrapped her legs around him and pulled him tighter. ‘I’ll tell you later … now stop talking and get on with it. I’m hungry.’

Panting for air and sheened with sweat, still entwined, hearts beating hard against each other’s chests, neither of them could speak as they waited for their breathing to steady.

‘You weren’t joking about being hungry,’ he panted, sucking in another deep breath.

She laughed and stretched languidly. ‘I’d almost forgotten how good sex is, and how much fun it can be too.’ She rolled into the crook of his arm and kissed him. ‘And we still have the rest of the weekend, as long as our damn phones don’t ring.’

Stirling blew out his cheeks. ‘I’d better eat a good breakfast, then,’ he said, then asked, ‘When’s your daughter home from seeing her father?’

‘Not until seven tomorrow evening, so I’m looking forward to being looked after. And I don’t just mean lots of sex, although that is expected. What are we doing today?’

Stirling threw back the duvet and went to the window to consider the weather above the fields that surrounded the cottage. Set beside a narrow country lane that went nowhere important, the cottage was a mile from the nearest main road. The only traffic that occasionally went past it was to the nearby hamlets where he knew no one and, better still, no one knew him.

‘It’ll be drizzling all day, so I’ll take you for a long walk across country.’

‘And back to bed this afternoon? Perfect!’ she exclaimed with a low, chuckling laugh.

Stirling looked across at her, now curled up contentedly beneath the quilt with just her face visible. ‘I’ll make tea,’ he said. ‘The shower is across the landing. Help yourself to whatever you need.’

Her eyes travelled down over his body. ‘Oh, I intend to!’

As he carried two mugs of tea through the lounge to return to the bedroom, Stirling heard a mobile phone ring briefly upstairs before it was answered. Pausing at the top of the stairs, he knew it was work by the brisk nature of the questions Tanner was asking. Stirling felt his mood sink as, once more, his personal life was intruded upon by work. He entered the bedroom to see her sat up against the pillows with the quilt lying in her lap, with one arm crossed under her breasts as she held the mobile to her ear. She put a finger to her mouth to be sure he made no noise, and answered a question posed at the other end.

‘No problem at all. We’ll cover all her movements until she returns to London. So where are your protection officers now?’

Giving half an ear to the conversation, Stirling put her tea down on the bedside cabinet, then walked round the bed and got back in next to her. As she talked, she shot him a smile and pressed herself against him. Stirling slipped his hand under the quilt and slid it slowly over the soft bump of her belly, and on down into the soft brush of hair. Her eyes flared good humouredly as she mouthed silently at him to "Stop it!. She pushed him away with her elbow while crisply answering another question.

‘That’s fine, Inspector. And if anyone challenges the overtime cost, tell them I authorised it. Sorry? My full title? Assistant Chief Constable Steph Tanner.’

At the other end, Stirling could hear a man’s voice. He sipped his tea, thinking how different this brisk, decisive manner was to the funny woman who had spent much of the night making energetic, uninhibited love. They had first met, outside of work, a few weeks ago for coffee. A few lunches had followed, often hastily arranged as and when their responsibilities allowed, and always well away from the likelihood of prying eyes while they each considered if a relationship was wise.

Tanner was his boss, and though he had no lofty career ambitions to put at risk, she did. Tanner’s professional reputation would be damaged if prurient gossip began to circulate, leading to negative judgements by those who could influence her career. She had been cautious, gauging his sincerity. She had told him of the rumours she’d heard about him. Workplace gossip, he had explained. He enjoyed the company of intelligent women, yes, but he never gossiped. The paradox, however, was that the less he talked, the greater the assumptions made by others. A couple of dinner dates had led Tanner to decide that she could trust him so, with her thirteen-year-old daughter, Jenny, at her father’s for the weekend, last night had been their first night together. Stirling was determined to protect her reputation.

The call ended. Tanner put her mobile on the bedside table, then turned to him and pulled an apologetic grimace. ‘Sorry, but I had to take that call.’

‘No problem, but I thought you weren’t on call this weekend?’

‘I’m not,’ she said, lifting her tea. ‘But anything to do with the Home Secretary’s protection always comes to me unless I’m away on leave.’

Tanner gestured to the phone. ‘That was her personal protection officer. The Home Sec got home from London in the early hours of this morning and there was some misunderstanding about the hand-over from the Met’s protection team to ours own. Her PPO needed to sort out some cost issues.’

Stirling knew that the Right Honourable Zola Campbell, MP, Home Secretary, had her constituency home address somewhere in the force area. Each week, a personal protection team provided by the Metropolitan Police handed over responsibility to an armed team, provided by the force. The force’s team covered the Minister’s movements until she returned to London, usually on Sunday afternoon or evening.

‘Unusual,’ Stirling commented. ‘Unless there was some flap on in London, most MPs are in their constituencies by Thursday evening ready for local meetings and constituent surgeries on Friday. Was there some crisis in London?’

Tanner shrugged. ‘He wasn’t specific. Said there was some sort of networking event going on in Westminster.’

‘Have you met her yet?’ asked Stirling. ‘From what I’ve seen of her in the media, she’s a rising star. Everyone’s tipping her for the top job.’

Tanner nodded as she sipped her tea. ‘Campbell’s as sharp as a razor, and I don’t just mean her intellect. I met her last year soon after she was promoted to Home Sec’. She was meeting all the movers and influencers in the area, which included the Chief, of course. He took me with him. I think he wanted me there to wave our meritocratic credentials.’

‘Wow. That’s a bit cynical, isn’t it?’ he said, with a smile.

She smiled back at him. ‘You’re right, the Chief’s very fair, but it was the right thing to do, to make sure she got a good first impression of us. I needed to meet her anyway because her security’s my responsibility. To be sure she was happy with what we’d put in place.’

‘And was she?’

‘Yes. She’d done her homework, though. Campbell knew more about me than I was expecting, someone had briefed her thoroughly on my bio’. She asked me lots of questions about our crime stats, and other stuff that she clearly already knew the answers to. She only stopped when she realised she wouldn’t catch me out and gave me a sort of sly smile that said, You’ll do and then turned to social chit-chat.’

‘You said it’s not just her intellect that’s sharp?’

Tanner took a couple more sips of tea as she considered the question. ‘You know, I was with her for the best part of an hour but behind the easy charm and professional, light-switch smile, I didn’t feel a shred of warmth in her nature.’

Stirling opened his mouth to speak, but Tanner continued, ‘I know, you’ll say all politicians are notoriously ruthless, especially those with ambition. God knows I met enough of them when I was with the Met, but Campbell’s different. She’s one on her own.’

‘How so?’

Tanner put her tea down and rested her head on his shoulder. Staring across the room, she answered, ‘Hard to say, exactly. But my professional experience and instinct say she’s dangerous. Campbell’s a force of nature. Her personality draws you in, but even when she’s not in political mode, there’s a chill about her. I doubt you’ll ever meet her but if you do, let me know what you think.’

She pushed herself up to look at him, her eyebrow arched. ‘Of course, you’d have to see past her beauty first. She’s as stylish and as beautiful in the flesh as she appears in all the society media she regularly appears in.’

Stirling shrugged his shoulders and gave a disingenuous smile. ‘Can’t say I’ve noticed.’

‘Of course you haven’t,’ she said, with smiling scepticism. ‘I couldn’t blame you, though. Zola Campbell certainly has a presence about her, and you’re right about her being tipped for the top job. The PM looks vulnerable … there’s talk of a no confidence vote.’

‘With the size of the Government’s majority, I don’t see him getting chucked out of the job, do you?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine, but he’s lost his backbenchers and on my reading of it, they smell blood in the water. Zola Campbell’s being touted as the consensus candidate who’ll appeal to voters on both sides of the centre ground and, importantly, she’d bring in the minorities vote.’

Stirling couldn’t disagree. ‘She has all the right credentials. From a poor family in a deprived, inner-city area, but still made it to Oxbridge. Successful businesswoman and a self-made millionairess, in her thirties and very photogenic. But she doesn’t have enough ministerial experience for the top job, does she?’

Tanner shrugged. ‘Beyond my pay grade, as they say. Anyway,’ she said, drawing her nails up his inner thigh, ‘Why talk politics when there are much nicer things to do on a wet, Saturday morning?’

‘True. So, we could go for that walk, or …’

Tanner pressed herself closer. ‘Oh, I think or, don’t you?’

2.55pm

Shaking her head, Tanner ignored Stirling’s outstretched hand and jumped from the top bar of the gate to land in front of him. Her foot slipped on the wet ground, and she fell hard against his chest.

‘Sorry, I’m not as fit as I should be,’ she laughed, and recovered her breath. ‘Too much time sitting at a desk. How many miles have we done?’

Stirling looked around, estimating their walk. ‘Eight miles, nine perhaps. The cottage is only five minutes away.’

‘Perfect. A cup of tea and a snooze. Thank you, I haven’t done anything like this for so long. Too long.’

‘It’s good to have your company, Steph,’ he said, bending to kiss her damp cheek. Taking her hand, he led the way along the muddy track that would take them home.

The drizzling rain had only recently eased off. Underfoot, still sodden from the autumn rains, the ground squelched and, on either side of them, ragged hedgerows were clinging on to the last of their rain embroidered leaves. They had been walking for over three hours along winding woodland tracks, and the many footpaths that stretched for miles across the countryside surrounding Stirling’s home. Their conversation had been relaxed and wide ranging with very little of it concerning work, which they had consciously avoided. It was a chance to get to know each other better than their few discreet liaisons had allowed.

Tanner was speaking when she stopped and looked up at him. At five-eight, she was quite a bit shorter than his six-foot-three.

‘I must stop calling you Stirling. It’s become a habit when we’re at work … and because everyone else does.’ She raked her blonde hair back from where the rain had plastered it onto her cheek and grinned up at him, ‘Especially now we’re shagging each other.’

Stirling laughed at her crude humour. ‘Close friends call me Douglas.’

Tanner arched an eyebrow. ‘And does sleeping with you qualify me as a close friend?’

He feigned seriousness. ‘Hmm … not sure. We’d better see how the weekend works out … you might have changed your mind by tomorrow.’

‘I doubt that Douglas,’ she said, and slipped her arm through his as they continued walking. ‘This is so good. I haven’t felt this relaxed for a long time. Ever since I arrived in force, I’ve been too busy to consider a relationship, and from past experience, men don’t like playing second fiddle to my career, or the hours I work.’

Stirling stopped abruptly to look down at her. ‘Are you telling me there were other men before me? I thought I was your first!’

They laughed and they walked in silence for a minute until he remembered something. ‘You were going to explain the three years and … how many days was it since you’d last had sex?’

Tanner cringed. ‘Oh, God! I was hoping you’d forgotten that.’ She released a sigh. ‘It was the last time me and Jenny’s dad had sex, if you must know. We were having problems and went off for what was supposed to be a romantic weekend, to see if we could breathe life into the embers of our marriage.’

‘I guess it didn’t if no sex since?’

She shook her head. ‘Sadly, no. I don’t think either of us expected it to work, but we felt we should try, for Jenny’s sake. So, that was the last time I’d had sex until this weekend but, now that I’m restored to match fitness … how far did you say it is to the cottage?’ she asked impishly.

He laughed, and asked, ‘Didn’t you ever try online dating?’

Tanner rolled her eyes. ‘I’m embarrassed to say I did, but that was a complete disaster.’

‘Why?’

‘I have Jenny to consider. I’m not letting any man anywhere near her unless I’m a hundred percent certain they’re safe to have around … and that she feels comfortable with them, too. Jenny absolutely adores her father, which I support, completely. Fortunately, her Dad and I still get on well, and I won’t let anything get in the way of their relationship. I completely understand that he’d have concerns about another man being in the house with his daughter.’

‘And the disaster?’ Stirling prompted.

‘Oh, that …’ she replied, pausing. ‘You’ll understand that because of our jobs, we don’t want our mugshots uploaded to websites where we can lose control of them, or some freak takes an unhealthy interest in you, and they come back to haunt you in some altered or contrived context.

‘Anyway, some years ago … before I came here, I gave it a try. I created a profile with a bullshit description of my background thinking that if I met someone I really liked, I could explain later, and they’d understand? Anyway, I got a lot of interest straight away …’

‘Which doesn’t surprise me in the least,’ he commented.

Tanner dismissed the compliment with a soft huff, and continued, ‘Most of them I swiped left, but there was this ex-army type who I liked the look of. After some messaging, I thought he was interesting.’

‘Did you meet him?’ Stirling asked, holding a gate open for her to pass through.

‘Thanks … Yes, we met a few times for lunch and dinner and got on really well. I didn’t tell what I did for a living, and he accepted my cover story at face value … some dreary job in a business he’d never have heard of. I have to confess, it made it quite exciting, somehow. Like I was leading a double life … more fool me. I wasn’t looking for a long-term commitment, not then … or now, for that matter.’

She glanced up at Stirling to check his reaction, saw a relaxed shrug that she took to be acceptance, and continued. ‘So, we got on really well and he booked dinner at a hotel one evening. He’d booked a room, of course … I thought I’d see how things went without making any promises.

‘The evening went well, he was very attentive and … well, I drank far too much wine and I let my guard down. He had an arrogant confidence about him that I found attractive … and he was intelligent, funny, and at the time I thought, very shaggable.’

Tanner caught sight of suppressed laughter on Stirling’s face. ‘I know …’ she remonstrated wryly, ‘…but I hadn’t slept with a man since I’d split up with my husband, and we’d not been intimate for a long time.’

Tanner broke off for a moment, then remarked, ‘God, this makes me sound so desperate, doesn’t it?’

Stirling laughed lightly. ‘No, not at all. Life’s rarely straightforward, but it does explain your … umm … enthusiasm last night.’

She dug him in the ribs. ‘Ha! Very funny!’

‘And your army type?’ he reminded her.

Tanner fell serious. ‘Well, that didn’t end well. I went upstairs with him, quite willingly … I won’t lie to you. We started kissing and there was some light petting, but then he started pushing the pace faster than I wanted. His hands were going everywhere, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. I sobered up quickly and knew I didn’t want to sleep with him.

‘When I said I wanted to leave, he pinned me on the bed and started pulling at my clothes. We were struggling so hard … I couldn’t shout out because he had his hand over my mouth. I didn’t even realise he’d torn my knickers off until I felt his hand on me.’

Stirling stopped to face her. ‘Steph, this is very personal … you don’t have to tell me any of it.’

Tanner shot him a faltering smile. ‘I’ve been in some really dodgy situations in my career, Douglas, especially when I was working undercover, but he turned so quickly, so unexpectedly … I was stunned. I didn’t react at all like I’d always thought I would if that ever happened to me.

‘He was a complete Jekyll and Hyde. Utterly charming one minute, and dangerous the next. I’ve only ever told one very close friend, and she’d never repeat it. You’re the only other person I’ve ever told.’

She turned her face upwards and closed her eyes against the rain, pulled in a deep breath of air, and released it slowly before looking at him again. ‘I want to tell you. It helps me to rationalise it in my head … and I trust you.’

‘If you’re sure,’ he answered. ‘But we have to work together. I don’t want you regretting telling me and feeling exposed.’

She raised her hand and put it against his cheek. ‘I said I trust you, Douglas, I don’t trust easily.’

Tanner hooked her arm through his again and nudged them onwards. ‘Anyway, it got very unpleasant. I won’t repeat what he was saying he was going to do to me. He was holding me down by my hair with one hand and trying to force my legs open. I tried shouting for help when my mouth was free, but he backhanded me really hard. He was swearing at me … said I’d led him on and just carried on trying to rape me.

‘Some rational, objective part of my brain was calmly thinking, So this is what it’s like, then. You know … all the women who complain to about having been raped and we can’t get a conviction because it’s just their word against another’s?’

Stirling knew that frustration only too well, as he continued to listen.

‘Nothing happened eventually, thank God, but only because I collected my wits and screamed at him what my job was. I’d never have stopped him otherwise … he was far too strong. He wouldn’t believe me, but I kept saying I’d have him arrested and told him to look in my handbag.

‘He did, and when he found my warrant card, that really shook him. He started apologising and making excuses, said he’d misunderstood the signals, all the usual bullshit. Then, as I was getting my clothes sorted out to get out of there, the bastard started twisting things round … saying he thought I was enjoying it, that I liked it rough … the bastard! By that time I was running out the door.

‘And before you ask, no, I didn’t make a complaint. Can you imagine the gossip an allegation of attempted rape would have caused, made by a Detective Chief Superintendent, as I was then? People would have said that I must have led him on and then changed my mind. That I should’ve known better … and I should have!

‘Imagine the investigation’s findings? A reserved room in a hotel. The waiters’ statements saying how I was laughing at the table, how much wine we’d drunk together, and that I’d gone upstairs willingly. It would have been my word against his. We’ve seen so many cases like that, haven’t we? It was a hopeless situation that would have damaged my reputation, my career, and an imminent promotion, so I let it go.’

‘I’m very sorry that happened to you, Steph. But you do know you’re almost certainly not the first woman he attacked, and probably not the last?’

Tanner nodded guiltily. ‘Of course I do, but I had to consider Jenny as well. It might have stigmatised her at school, who knows? Anyway, that was the choice I made, and I must live with it.’

Stirling understood, but it didn’t stem his rising anger as he imagined her fear, and her obvious shame. ‘I understand, but if you ever see him again, let me know because I’d like to have a quiet word with him.’

Tanner gave him a half-hearted smile but said nothing, and they walked the last hundred metres to the cottage in a thoughtful silence. Inside the covered porch, they kicked off their boots and stepped inside, into the hallway from where the stairs led upstairs. While Stirling went to the kitchen to make tea, Tanner pulled off the waxed jacket he had loaned her for the walk and hung it on a hook behind the oak door. Careworn, its wax proofing creased through long wear and the cuffs frayed, the jacket was far too big for her and was now heavy with damp. On an impulse, she drew the lining to her face and breathed in the scents of old wax, of woodsmoke, the outdoors, and Stirling’s comforting masculine scent.

As she pulled her sweater over her head and draped it over the stair newel-post to air, Tanner wondered why she had told him about the attack. She hadn’t intended to confide in him, but it had felt a natural thing to do. There was something about Stirling’s nature that invited trust, though he didn’t speak about his own past. She’d noticed how he had subtly deflected her questions about his life, not that it bothered her. She’d seen it before, at work. Had seen the veil fall over his eyes whenever the most innocuous questions of his private life had been raised in the fringes of a meeting, or in conversation. He was entitled to his privacy, of course, but it left her curious to know more about the real Doug Stirling, the man behind the mask he showed to the world.

Tanner made her way through to the kitchen where Stirling was pouring their tea. She followed him back into the adjacent lounge where she settled herself into the battered old sofa set back from a black, log burner. With her legs tucked beneath her, and her hands wrapped around the mug of tea, Tanner watched Stirling pick up a steel poker from a corner of the wide hearth and knock the embers into life. He threw in a couple of split logs which landed in a shower of sparks and caught immediately. He crouched for a moment, watching the flames, closed the glass door and came to sit next to her.

‘I love your home, Douglas. You’ve done a lovely job of doing it up. How long has it taken you?’ she asked.

Stirling’s gaze travelled around the room, his eyes resting here and there on the peg of a wooden joint, an irregular piece of plastering, recalling the problems he had encountered throughout the refurbishment.

‘About five years. It was in a poor state when I moved in. I did most of the work during leave and rest days.’ Then added with a bitter edge he couldn’t hide, ‘I got a lot done during my enforced ‘gardening leave’ earlier this year.’

Tanner recalled Stirling’s suspension from duty the previous winter after an allegation that he’d pushed someone to their death from a bridge. In fact, he’d been trying to save them. The media coverage had been cruel, with a lot of speculative, baseless criticism. The fact that a Coroner’s court had since vindicated his actions had clearly not erased his bitterness. What Tanner could not know was that the events of that cold, wet morning, still stalked Stirling’s dreams, often waking him in a cold, desperate sweat.

Tanner apologised again for not having been able to protect him more at the time. ‘I’m sorry about all that business, Douglas.’

‘Forget it. None of it was your fault, and it’s in the past.’ He made a move to get up, ‘Come on, you can help me get dinner ready.’

Tanner looked at the flames now dancing inside the burner, warming the air around them, and driving out the chill that had seeped into her shoulders while they were outdoors. Wishing to prolong this moment of quiet intimacy, she settled deeper into the sofa, and drew him closer.

‘Let’s stay here a while.’

*

Her head bent against the rain, the woman was almost at the end of the footpath of the river bridge when she realised with a start that her daughter was no longer at her side. She turned and looked back along the footpath.

Mid-way across the bridge, her small daughter had stopped and was staring down through the portly stone balustrades at the river below. Now facing into the wind and cold rain stinging her eyes, the woman’s anxiety turned to irritation. Cold, and in a hurry, she called to her daughter, ‘Come on Sammy.’ Unheeding, the girl continued to stare at the river.

Wondering what was holding her daughter’s attention, the woman leant over the stone parapet. All she could see was the undulating slab of dirty brown water flowing underneath. After the prolonged heatwave of the summer, the storms in recent weeks had swollen the river until the broad arches of the bridge were barely visible above the waterline. Though apparently sluggish, the speed of the current could be seen in the many half-submerged tree branches and other debris that twisted and rotated on its surface, borne from many miles upstream to add to a barrage of flotsam that was already jammed under the arches of the bridge.

Instinctively frightened by the river’s menace, the mother hurried back and tugged at her child’s coat sleeve, but the child resisted. She looked over the parapet again to see what was distracting her daughter but saw only a tangled raft of wood and branches, all hungrily snagging more passing debris.

Crouching beside her daughter, the woman hugged her tight. ‘What is it chick? What’re you looking at?’

Through damp tendrils of wind-drawn hair, the child looked at her mother, her eyes gravely serious. Wordlessly, she extended a pudgy, dimpled hand and pointed at the piled-up debris below. The woman looked but saw nothing among the tangle of branches and rubbish to interest a child.

Impatient to be gone, she took her child’s hand and was about to draw her away when a movement caught her eye. Among the debris, a bundle of rags that billowed and deflated with the eddying currents of the dam, suddenly coalesced into a recognisable form.

Stifling a cry, the woman snatched up her daughter and hurried away.

Day 3 – Sunday: 11.39am

Yellow cordon tape fluttered in a noisy arc with every gust of wind at each end of the bridge, then sagged limp and exhausted until being bent back to work by the next wind. Inside each cordon, a solitary officer in a bright yellow jacket frowned in equal measure at the driving rain, at a few determined journalists, and at groups of bedraggled watchers. All of them were pointing cameras or mobile phones at the small knot of senior officers standing at the centre of the bridge, or at the tangled debris below.

Lining the edges of the flooded riverbanks, more onlookers persisted in risking their safety to get better pictures of whatever lay amongst the debris. The officers had given up on shouting appeals to keep back as, each time, they had grudgingly receded like the water itself, only to creep back to the water’s edge.

Upstream of the bridge, a flight of stone steps led down from the embankment to disappear into the river. There, a group of fire-fighters in lifejackets readied an orange, inflatable rib. Above them, an officer relayed radio messages between the firefighters below, and the mixed group of police and fire officers clustered at the centre of the bridge. Two hundred metres further downstream the high, square tower of the cathedral watched the drama unfold, waiting to receive more souls.

Cautiously, three firefighters followed each other into the rib, found their balance against the tilting base, and sat down. The rib sank lower in the filthy water, with the current swelling against its sides. The engine was pulled into life, and its pitch rose as the boat was aimed away from the steps towards the centre of the river, a bow-wave building dangerously under its stubby nose.

Cries of alarm went up from both banks when the boat struck something unseen below the surface. Snagged tight, driven from one direction by the current, and by the engine from the other, the boat pivoted wildly on whatever had caught it. Out of control, the boat was borne helplessly downstream towards the logjam stuck fast below under the bridge. A woman’s scream rose from the far bank.

Two of the firefighters leant heavily on the inflated sides to dig hard into the water with single oars to free the boat. The strained pitch of the outboard engine rose as the helmsman tried uselessly to reverse off whatever was pinning them from below. Inexorably, the boat and men were being swept towards the bridge. Shouts could be heard from the boat. All three men leant over and pushed hard on the oars. The boat lifted as it was pushed up from something, then dropped back and continued to turn in the current, out of control. An arm pointed urgently at the bridge they were being swept towards.

The men pushed down again. The boat rose. Suddenly, it was free but now began to spin out of control at the centre of the bloated river. Unbalanced by the sudden lurch, two of the firefighters fell back into the well of the boat where they lay, struggling to get up. Meanwhile, the helmsman fought with the tiller until he had the boat facing upstream and, painfully slowly, the boat inched its way upstream until a safe distance from the hazards of the bridge.

At the centre of the bridge, someone in a white helmet was waving them back to the shore.

5.41pm

As he stood in the lounge watching the early evening news, Stirling heard Tanner’s feet descending the stairs. She appeared in the doorway carrying a small travel bag which she set down, then came to stand beside him.

‘Well, that’s me ready,’ she said, and pointed at the television. ‘Anything interesting?’

He gestured at the screen with the remote control. ‘It’s the regional news. There’s a body trapped under the main bridge in Worcester. They can’t recover it. Too dangerous.’

Tanner watched the news coverage of the attempted retrieval of the body, earlier that day. ‘I wouldn’t have let my people go out on that water,’ she commented. ‘It’s far too dangerous.’

‘You can’t blame them for trying, I suppose, not with a corpse stuck in full view of the public. Flood or no flood, the rats will be getting at the body … poor sod, whoever they are.’

Tanner sighed. ‘The Chief will want a full brief in the morning. Turn it off please, Douglas. I’ll worry about it tomorrow. I’m ready to leave.’

Stirling switched the TV off, tossed the remote onto the sofa, and followed her to the front door where he held her coat open. She turned herself into it, then stepped forward and kissed him.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘For?’

‘Everything. You’ve helped me to forget about work for two days, which rarely happens. And for allowing me to be me, and not someone else’s version of myself … someone’s mother, someone’s ex-wife, someone’s senior officer. But …’ she put her arms around his waist and looked up into his face, ‘… most of all for making me feel very special.’

‘Well, that wasn’t hard. You’re easy company, and good fun. Will you come again?’

She smiled and nodded. ‘I’d like that very much.’

‘Just give me a few days’ notice. I’ll need to go on a red meat diet,’ Stirling joked.

Tanner laughed. ‘I’ve no complaints, but you have set my expectations now, so it might be a good idea.’

She was about to kiss him again when a text message pinged inside her coat. Apologising, and saying that it might be her daughter, she fished around in a pocket, frowned at the screen, and returned the phone to her pocket.

‘The Home Sec’s on her way back to London,’ she explained. ‘One less thing for me to worry about. I’m sorry that work got in the way at the last minute.’

‘Don’t apologise, it’s what we signed up for,’ Stirling answered. ‘Unless it interrupts sex, which is completely unacceptable. Always!’

‘Absolutely!’ she replied, and hugged him, reluctant to leave. She pushed herself away. ‘I must go, I want to be there when Jenny gets home.’

Tanner picked up her bag and stepped out into the porch. She aimed her key fob at her car where it was parked behind the garage, out of sight from the lane. The lights flickered, and an interior light came on. She turned back to him.

‘It’s going to feel strange sitting in meetings with you this week.’ She lifted her eyes up the stairs, ‘Trying to focus on the conversation and not thinking of us up there.’

Stirling bent and kissed her. ‘We’re both detectives. I’m sure we’ll manage to keep a straight face. You’d better go, or you’ll be late for Jenny.’

Stirling watched the taillights of Tanner’s car travel down the lane until they disappeared, locked the door, and went back to the lounge. In the corner of the room where his desk sat under the stairs, he opened his laptop and scrolled through his playlists. Feeling more relaxed than he had in a long time, he searched for something to echo his mood. Deciding on easy listening jazz, he pressed the play button and stood back to listen as the music stretched itself through the room, then went through to the kitchen to fix himself some supper.

Twenty minutes later he was eating bread with cheese and pickles while reading the weekend paper when a message pinged on his mobile. He turned it face up to read the screen. It was a circumspect message from Tanner. She was too smart to leave anything that could be dredged up on a work issued mobile to embarrass either of them. He put the phone down and returned to the paper.

When his phone began to ring an hour later, expecting it to be her, he answered without looking at the screen. ‘Hi. You got back okay?’

There was a pause before a man’s voice spoke. ‘Hello Mr Stirling. Not who you were expecting, obviously. Long time, no speak.’

Stirling frowned in concentration. A mature voice, neither young nor old, but not one