Felicity Young - Take Out

‘We don’t even know if they’re still alive.’ Fowler pressed his fingers into his temples. ‘Wait a minute. What colour was Pavel’s missing Jag?’

Stevie paused, looked back at him as she tried to visualise the shape of the car in the alley. ‘Green. Shit. It could easily have been a Jag that rammed us—maybe Pavel’s still alive after all?’

‘I guess we won’t know for sure if it’s a match to his car until the paint results come back.’

Sooner than you think, Stevie thought to herself.

Fowler got up from the table, swayed slightly and put a hand on it to steady himself. ‘Well, hopefully more will be revealed at the briefing.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’ll be light in an hour, guess I’d better go.’

‘Is that wise?’

‘I’ve had worse cracks on the head than this.’

Oh, Lord, spare me the macho crap. ‘I didn’t mean that—I know you’ve got a head tougher than a macadamia nut. I meant someone tried to kill us tonight and it might be safer for you to stay here.’

‘What—you going to protect me?’ he said with a slight curl of his lip.

Stevie rolled her eyes at him. ‘Yeah, you seem to need it. Don’t be a dickhead; stay here. I have a spare room made up. It’s on the right of the passage near the front door; help yourself. I’ll drop you home when you’ve had a couple of hours rest and then you can put on a clean white shirt and we can go to the meeting at Central together.’

Fowler agreed without further persuasion. ‘I’ll need to touch base with Angus before the meeting though, tell him about all this.’ He yawned, his gaze wandering again over the primitive kitchen. ‘I suppose this might scrub up okay, if you can bear to put the work into it—very different to mine.’

Stevie shrugged. ‘Horses for courses.’

‘Guess so.’ He moved over to Monty’s tropical fish tank, temporarily placed against a wall that would one day be demolished for a walk-in pantry. He stared for a moment at the frantic movements and flashing colours of the darting fish, going nowhere, never stopping for rest. ‘I never understood what people mean when they say looking at fish is relaxing,’ he said. ‘These hyperactive little guys are doing nothing for me but increasing my headache.’

‘Monty’s prized possessions. He breeds them.’

‘Remind him of you, do they?’

Jeez, Stevie thought, the man not only had the hide of a rhino but the tact of a farting bull elephant to boot. She set about putting the first aid box away in one of the high kitchen cupboards. When she turned around again, she expected Fowler to have made a move, but found him still staring at the fish.

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’

He nodded. ‘I just saw a fish eat one of its babies.’

‘Generally the fish with the biggest mouth wins.’

Fowler muttered something she didn’t catch.

‘I’m going to make an omelette—do you want some?’ she asked.

‘May as well, I’m tired, but too tired for sleep.’

Stevie knew how he felt.

Stevie had planned on picking Izzy up from her mother’s and taking her to see Monty for the first time since the operation. But after the night’s drama, it was paramount she attend the briefing at Central if she was to get any inkling about what they were up against. Izzy was not impressed when she rang to cancel. She would probably store the disappointment and hurt away, Stevie thought, use it for ammunition when she was a teenager. Stevie let out a heavy sigh and replaced the phone.

Fowler had also been on the phone, talking to Angus. ‘He wants me to fill the team in at the briefing,’ he said with a noticeable edge to his voice.

They arrived at the Serious Crime Squad’s incident room with plenty of time to spare. Angus had not yet emerged from Monty’s office. Officers milled around the room sipping coffee from corrugated cardboard cups and pulling up chairs.

Wanting to remain unobtrusive, Stevie perched on her old desk at the back of the room. Wayne Pickering wandered by without seeing her, but spotted Fowler immediately. ‘Hey, what happened to your head?’ the older detective said.

‘I was picking flowers,’ Fowler replied.

‘Picking flowers can be a dangerous occupation; just ask Little Red Riding Hood,’ Wayne said, heading to the front row of seats.

Stevie jumped down from the desk and grabbed Fowler’s arm before he could sit down. ‘Christ, you sure know how to win friends and influence people, don’t you? You might have to work closely with that man, but there you are, antagonising him before you’ve even started.’

‘My mother always told me to be wary of men in purple and pink plaid sports jackets,’ Fowler said dryly.

‘Wayne’s a personal friend of mine. Just because he’s an eccentric dresser...’

‘With breath like a komodo dragon.’

Someone told them to shut it. Stevie retreated to her perch at the back of the incident room and folded her arms just as Angus stepped out from the office.

Monty’s office.

Stevie thought of Marius waiting in the wings, ready to fill the vacuum Pavel had left behind, but stopped herself before it went any further. Angus wasn’t like that.

As Angus summarised the case, Stevie recalled her days with the SCS: this briefing was a lot more organised than when Monty ran the show. It was almost as if Angus had stood in front of the mirror and rehearsed for it; he looked as dapper as a presidential candidate in his dark suit and striped tie. There were no tension-relieving jokes or ironic putdowns, and even Wayne and Barry were being less competitive with each other than usual. Officers raised their hands before they asked questions and Angus managed to keep his cool, no matter how idiotic some of the questions were.

A small specialist group, the SCS seconded officers from other divisions when the need arose. As Stevie watched the proceedings she found herself putting names to many of the backs, uniformed and non-uniformed, before her. Angus, Wayne Pickering and Barry Snow sat in the front row near the whiteboards and overhead projector and ran the show.

Angus moved to the board near the wall and the officers reached into the files of information they’d been provided. Stevie hadn’t been issued with one because she wasn’t supposed to be here; she’d have to have a gander at Fowler’s later. On the wall next to the whiteboard hung a corkboard with pinned pictures of Jon and Delia Pavel, baby Joshua and Ralph Hardegan. As yet Skye’s name or photo hadn’t been posted. By the end of the meeting, she hoped they would.

Angus summarised the events leading to the discovery of Delia Pavel’s body in the river, then ran through the time line. It had been twelve days since the Pavels were last seen, eight since the baby had been found and five since the discovery of Delia’s body. He also presented Melissa Hurst’s pathology report, which delivered no surprises—cause of death: gunshot wound to the head.

A SOCO sergeant stood and addressed the team. ‘As well as fingerprints from both parents in the baby’s room, we found several sets of unidentifiable prints which don’t match any others in the house except on one of the back windows. The window was unlocked. We think this might be where the woman—we’re assuming either a woman or child as the prints were relatively small—accessed the house to feed the baby.’

Stevie hoped Rodika’s prints had been taken by now. No mention was made of a match.

‘Upon searching the perimeter of the house,’ the SOCO officer went on, ‘we found two shotgun casings in a ventilation gap in the wall parallel to the ground, just below the kitchen window.’

Stevie shifted in her chair and wondered how close she’d been to the casings when she’d been scrabbling amongst the weeds. It was unlikely the perpetrator had placed them in the gap deliberately—she might even have inadvertently knocked them into the ventilation gap herself. Shit! Her stomach dipped. Better stay silent on that one.