Courting Death Read online

  Heaving a sigh, she tugged her laptop from its carry case and snapped it open. After returning from Harley’s prison cell, her secretary had transferred a stack of digital folders to her computer for her attention. It appeared that Isla had also inherited Grace Kovac’s role in a merger that her firm was chasing. The partners wanted a female lawyer on board to win over the all-female partners at Perry Grais.

  Scanning the documents, Isla pursed her lips. This particular merger seemed more of a hostile takeover driven by Ironrod Lyons Freemont’s desire to expand its own geographic breadth: Perry Grais had strong Asia connections which would open new clientele for them. This was the third merger pursued by Ironrod Lyons Freemont in the past year. Ernest Lyons’s motto was, “The only way to grow is to keep getting bigger and bigger.”

  “Ms. Standing?” A very young and solemn constable stood before her. “Sorry for the delay, ma’am but the guv’nor can see you now. Please follow me.”

  Isla blinked several times, disengaging her brain from the legal labyrinth she had been following to refocus on Harley’s case. Tucking her laptop away, she slung the carry bag over her shoulder, picked up her briefcase and followed the constable. They reached a battered door, which he rapped on sharply before pushing it open for Isla to move inside.

  Isla hesitated at the threshold, casting a mistrustful eye over the two rickety chairs in front of a clapped out desk behind which sat a weary-looking man who didn’t even stand at her entrance, she noted.

  “Take a seat, Ms. Standing.” DI Alban removed his black-framed glasses and rubbed his eyes, which moved his gray-flecked eyebrows like a pair of crawling caterpillars.

  She waited but, as he offered no apology for keeping her waiting nearly forty minutes, she decided none would be forthcoming. Composing her features into an alluring smile, she made a show of crossing her legs as she perched carefully on the chair’s vinyl edge. It had always been her belief that men reacted more favorably to honey than vinegar.

  “Thank you for your time, Detective Inspector Alban.”

  Blue eyes above puffy bags skimmed from her red Louboutin soles to the top of her shining red helmet of hair. But the smile he gave her held little warmth and the eyes he settled on her were hard and wary, which confirmed he was wondering why Harley Carroll’s barrister was paying him an unexpected visit.

  “Let’s cut out the pleasantries, shall we? Neither you nor I have the time. It’s a Saturday and if it wasn’t for a spate of burgs that are plaguing the district at the moment I wouldn’t be in the station on my day off to talk to you.”

  He flipped open a folder on his desk.

  “You wanted to ask me some questions about the Harley Carroll case. I’ve pulled the file, so fire away. What do you want to know?”

  Isla stifled annoyance that charm wasn’t winning the day. Well, if he wanted to be business-like, she would oblige. Digging into her briefcase she pulled out her notes.

  “On October 31 last year, the police were called to Falcon Gardens, Mill Hill where they found my client Harley Carroll sitting next to his dead mother, a kitchen knife in his hand and his father’s condom-sheathed penis beside him. His father, Keith Carroll, was lying dead in the office down the hallway.”

  “That’s right.” Alban’s tone was guarded, as though he was expecting some trap from her.

  “Inspector, how far did the police go to look into a motive for the killings?”

  “The accused couldn’t or wouldn’t offer any reasons for the killings.”

  “I’m aware of that, but did you or your officers do any digging to see if there was something behind the murders? After all, Harley cut off his father’s penis. Doesn’t that action alone scream that something might have been amiss in their relationship?”

  Alban returned his glasses to his face and steepled his fingers in front of his chin. The look he bestowed on her was amused rather than affronted.

  “Ms. Standing, you’d be surprised at the number of severed penises I’ve come across in my time on the job. Is it a Freudian sign that perpetrators think they’ve been screwed over right royally by their victims? I’m sure it is. No doubt there was some tension between father and son. That’s quite normal given Harley was sixteen at the time. It’s a stressful age. Could cutting off Keith Carroll’s penis be a sign Harley was a young male teen testing his boundaries and rebelling against his father’s authority? Quite possibly.”

  “No, Inspector, I’m not talking about the action being a figurative symbol. I’m wondering if it’s an indication of something darker. Was there ever any investigation into the possibility that Keith Carroll was sexually abusing his son?”

  The blue eyes turned stony and his voice became flinty.

  “We did our job, Ms. Standing. We questioned neighbors, friends and what family we could find, although, as you know, there are no close relatives. There was no evidence to suggest that Keith Carroll was anything other than a benevolent breadwinner for his family. According to his mates he was a good bloke, always willing to help out a friend.”

  “So you found no indicators that he might have been a pedophile? What about porn on his computer?”

  “There was nothing untoward on his computer. There were plenty of porn magazines in the house, but they were all found in Harley’s room, stuffed under the mattress and behind cupboards. Pretty normal stuff for a horny teenager, I’d say. What are you attempting to do, Ms. Standing? Establish mitigating circumstances for the murders by accusing police of doing an inferior job?” Alban’s voice was sharp, his gaze weighty with suspicion.

  “What I’m trying to do is uncover the truth,” she answered.

  “We’ve already done that for the courts, Ms. Standing. The truth is that Harley Carroll murdered his parents. He confessed. His fingerprints and DNA are on the murder weapon. The evidence points to no one else. Keith and Andrea Carroll had no enemies, no outstanding rivalries. There was no evidence that either one was having an affair. There are no other suspects. It’s an open and shut case. I know you want to help your client, Ms. Standing, but you have to stay within factual realms.” His voice was firm. He shut the folder in front of him. “Like they say, do the crime, face the time. It was a callous and disturbing murder and Harley Carroll deserves whatever penalty the judge hands down.”

  Chapter 7

  December 2 Saturday

  Stepping from the street into the Grand Ballroom at 8 Northumberland was like slipping across the threshold of Aladdin’s magic cave. Around Bex, the walls shimmered with color while the chandeliers glittered above a sea of tables set with deep blue table linen, showcasing a flotilla of crisp white linen napkins and towering centerpieces.

  The guests looked even more spectacular. The sparkle of precious gems worn by the women reflected a rainbow of emerald, ruby, sapphire and amethyst hues mirroring the light glinting from the stained glass windows.

  Before leaving her apartment, Georgie had remarked that Bex looked “dressed up like a dog’s dinner.” She still hadn’t worked out if that was a compliment or not. Amidst the crush of couturier satin, silk, velvet and chiffon, she ran a nervous hand over her own modest crepe dress.

  She was wearing her wedding gown as the only elegant outfit she had brought with her to London. She didn’t know why she had carted the dress across the Atlantic, she only knew she hadn’t been able to bear leaving that part of her life with Zane behind.

  “Don’t worry, you scrub up pretty nicely, Guv.” Beside her, Idris ran a critical eye from her short, nordically fair hair down the modest neckline and fitted bodice to glance at her athletic legs, where the tulip skirt ended with a flounce around her knees.

  Idris’s words brought a flush to her cheeks, partly because it was a long time since she had felt feminine, and partly because it was the first time any of her team had used the ubiquitous term “guv” when addressing her. Since the team had moved to Bridesmead CID she heard the term frequently among the other detectives and uniformed officers. But she was an America
n interloper to the Met and no one in her team saluted her with the term.

  “Thanks, Idris. You scrub up pretty nicely yourself,” she repeated the words that she hoped were a compliment and stole a glance at Idris’s towering form.

  He wore a white cotton pique shirt with a wing collar, under a midnight blue tuxedo jacket that highlighted his own dark features. His sleek grosgrain jacket was single-breasted with shawl silk-faced lapels. With Idris’s size, he had no need of peak lapels to emphasize his shoulders. She noted the thin silk braid running down the side of his pants leg and ending above a patent leather shoe so large and shiny it looked like a Christmas bauble fallen from a giant’s tree. He seemed comfortably at home in their plush surroundings.

  “I’ll grab us some drinks,” he said, leaving her side.

  A waiter circled past her with a tray of canapés that looked like a roost of exotic birds. Dampening down her edgy nerves at being alone in a crowd of strangers, she snagged one and was wolfing it down when a familiar voice made her choke.

  “I take it Dresden’s hawking you around the guests to spout our fantastic statistics for the Youth Crimes Team initiative?”

  Quinn patted her heartily on the back as she coughed back the Wasabi shrimp on avocado rice cracker. What in hell was Quinn Standing doing here?

  “I overheard Dresden talking to the Lord Mayor. ‘I’m justly proud of how well the team are cleaning out the London boroughs,’” Quinn mimicked their boss’s well-rounded, fruity tones. “Anyone would think we’re on the streets wielding brooms. Still I guess it’s better than you out there wielding your six-shooter.”

  “You made that very clear with your complaint yesterday. You do realize that if it wasn’t for Dresden talking me out of it, you’d be on a Management Plan right now,” Bex said through gritted teeth.

  “Don’t pretend you’re doing me any favors, Wynter.” He eyed her so shrewdly a guilty red tide flooded her face. “I can see Dresden’s husband Lander here complete with wheelchair, so I’m presuming you’re not Dresden’s plus one?”

  “No, actually I’m here with Idris representing the team.” The words came out as a belligerent challenge.

  Quinn looked around the room. “Ah, the impeccable Idris Carson. In a bespoke tuxedo I’m guessing.”

  Bespoke? Since when had Idris’s suit started talking? Quinn eyed her pained expression with a smug smile.

  “Oh, you’d probably call it a custom made suit on your side of the Atlantic,” Quinn explained.

  “I knew that,” Bex lied. “How did you get on the invitation list?” She turned the question into an attack.

  “I’m Isla’s plus one. Ironrod Lyons Freemont supports the Mary Miriam Trust Homeless Youth Christmas Initiative. I’m guessing the partners need to prove they’re not really the last sexist male bastion in London, so Isla’s tonight’s token female representing the company.”

  Bex let her eyes roam around the room. Amongst the bobbing brunettes, coiffed grays and shining blonds, Isla’s red hair glowed like a beacon. Even from a distance she could see Isla’s tawny eyes highlighted by smoky khol while long, chandelier diamonds dripped from her ears. Her black dress was short enough to showcase stunning legs in skyscraper heels and belted to emphasize curves above and below the sequined ribbon.

  Swooping down on them like an attacking hawk, Isla’s arm encircled Quinn’s waist possessively.

  “DCI Wynter, so nice to see you at such a worthwhile cause.” Isla spoke as though she barely knew Bex.

  Isla and she had been through a harrowing experience a few months ago that should have provided a bonding opportunity, or at least put them on a first name basis. Bex guessed that Isla now regretted any confidences that had spilled over from that time as a mark of weakness. And weak was not a word that Isla Standing had any truck with, as far as Bex could tell. At least she was standing eye to eye with the hotshot lawyer this time, Bex consoled herself.

  “You’re right, Isla. Saving kids from freezing to death on the streets this Christmas is a worthwhile cause.” Bex refused to play into Isla’s stand off position. She’d held Isla while she puked over a toilet bowl so she had a right to be on a first name basis.

  Idris joined them, looming beside her shoulder, and Isla’s face lit up in welcome.

  “Lovely to see you again, Idris!”

  Isla leaned in and air kissed both cheeks. Idris moved a hand to her arm as she did so, the mocha color a startling contrast against her creamy skin.

  “Isla, you’re looking exceptional tonight. Quinn.” He gave a cool nod of acknowledgement in Quinn’s direction.

  “I’d love to stay and chat but I need to steal my husband for a few minutes.” Isla pulled back from Idris’s arm to draw Quinn away.

  “You looked very cozy with Ms. Standing,” Bex said as Idris offered her a champagne flute.

  “And from the look on your face Quinn rubbed you up the wrong way. Take a sip of champagne. It’s Bollinger so it’s guaranteed to make you feel better.”

  Bex accepted the glass gratefully and swigged its contents in two gulps. “How right you are. On both counts, but that’s not all. I hate these sort of affairs. Rich people spending hundreds if not thousands of pounds on their hair and outfits to attend a swanky function all while pretending they’re selflessly doing it for charity.”

  Idris sipped from his flute while Bex placed her empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray and grabbed a canapé in each hand.

  “Rich people don’t usually like to bog in and get their hands dirty. They think throwing money at a situation is the solution.” Idris’s voice was bland, but his pale eyes flashed with angry sparks that made Bex wonder about the source.

  Thoughtfully, she nibbled her canapé.

  “You and Quinn used to work together at Hackney CID, didn’t you? Is that when you got so chummy with Isla?” Bex was pleased to try out a new British word. Dresden had said it to her the other day: I’m glad to see you’re not getting too chummy with your team, Wynter. When you’re a leader you have to draw a line. Bex hoped she was using it in the right context.

  “Quinn and I double-dated with our partners a few times so I got to know Isla.”

  Her eyes dropped to his left hand but it was as she remembered: ringless.

  “I’m sorry you couldn’t bring your girlfriend tonight.”

  “That relationship ended a year ago. I didn’t think it was fair to keep her hanging when I had no intention of making it permanent.”

  Bex threw a sharp look at Idris, noting his head was still turned as his eyes clung to Isla and Quinn weaving their way through the crowd.

  “Do you think Quinn and Isla’s lives are as perfect as their looks?” Bex couldn’t quite mask a tone of wistfulness or the pang of nostalgia that tweaked her heart. Once she’d had love in her life. Now, Quinn and Isla’s intimate togetherness simply emphasized how stripped bare that life was.

  He shrugged. “I don’t know what she sees in him.” Idris followed Bex’s example and downed his own drink in a swift gulp. “Quinn walks around with a chip on his shoulder the size of his bloody ego and treats everyone as though they’re second class coppers. I know for a fact the loser was living out of his car for weeks and squatting at his mate’s gym when he and Isla split up earlier this year. A prize worth taking back. Not,” he ended the rant with biting sarcasm.

  Bex blinked several times as she took in his words. She hadn’t realized that Idris’s feelings about Quinn ran so deep. She’d been too busy dealing with Quinn’s antagonism to realize he’d been spreading himself evenly through the team. Or, was Idris’s view skewed?

  Again, she noted how his eyes lingered in Isla’s direction.

  “You never know what their relationship’s like behind closed doors,” she said, hoping to diffuse Idris’s tension.

  “I’m willing to bet he’s as big a tosser behind closed doors.”

  “That’s a harsh judgment based on a few double dates.” Bex had been in London long enough to know th
at “tosser” wasn’t a compliment.

  “It’s based on the fact that I was there when Quinn insisted on following through on a sting operation we were ordered to discontinue, even though he ended by risking Isla’s life. As usual Quinn played by his own rules. Jammy bastard managed to pull it off to nab a gang of illegal gun runners, walk away with a promotion to detective inspector plus get Isla to forgive him for almost getting her killed.”

  Idris signaled and such was his presence that a waiter scurried over with a drinks tray. The glass looked frail in his massive fist. Idris’s size was intimidating in itself, but now the anger pulsing from him spiked Bex’s heart rate, even though she knew he wasn’t threatening her.

  “I think Detective Superintendent Dresden wants a word with you.” Idris flicked his eyes over the crowd and Bex followed their direction.

  The waves of Sophie Dresden’s pale gold-streaked hair did nothing to soften the determined tram lines etched between her brows. Even from a distance Bex recognized the rigid set of her mouth and the resolute stare focused on her as the older woman beckoned imperiously.

  “I think she wants both of us,” Bex said, but found she was talking to thin air. For a big man, Idris moved like a stealthy tiger when he wanted to and he’d already disappeared.

  Chapter 8

  December 2 Saturday

  “This is Detective Chief Inspector Rebecca Wynter, head of the Youth Crimes Team. And this is Lady Lillian Perry and Ms. Clementine Grais, founding partners of the law firm Perry Grais.”

  Lillian wore a red velvet smoking jacket over men’s dress pants and a Marcela fronted snowy white shirt. Her gray-streaked hair was short, revealing a strong jawline and an assertive nose, while her handshake was impressively robust. Clementine, in a sheath of white satin, hung in the background. A deep well of sadness shadowed her limpid blue eyes, embedded in a nest of fine lines.

  “Since they’re both strong supporters of youth initiatives like tonight’s events, I thought you could expound on your idea of a club for troubled teens.” Dresden’s expressive eyebrows were arched like interrogation marks, making Bex feel she was being tested.