Courting Death Read online

  Yesterday, Dresden had given her a month to put her proposal together, now she expected her to pitch her idea to two strangers who, presumably, had the money and influence to make that idea a reality. Three pairs of eyes regarded her with silent anticipation.

  Summoning a confident smile, Bex greeted the two women and guessed, by their close stance and the way they exchanged smiles and glances, that they were not only business partners but a couple.

  “My idea is to set up something along the lines of a half-way house I’ve been involved with in New York.” No need to explain that she had established the house using the insurance money from her husband Zane’s death and left his long-term friend and her retired NYPD partner, Walt, in charge of a dozen boys. “My aim is to target delinquent kids before they step over the edge into major crime. I think a lot of kids go that route because they’ve lost hope. They believe there’s no way out of the slums and ghettos they live in. It makes them angry at the world and they take that anger out either on themselves with destructive behavior or on the adults that run the world and keep them in their place.”

  “Clem and I have certainly dealt with the fallout from angry teens,” Lillian said. “Is your idea to provide career training?”

  “That’s a possibility down the track. But first we have to teach them to vent that pent up aggression safely through physical activities like boxing or weight training. The group will be a supportive, non-judgmental setting that builds their resilience and self-esteem. We can’t reach everyone, but if we can put hope back into just one life, that teen has a chance to break out of a negative cycle.” Bex’s words spilled out with passion.

  Lillian nodded her head several times, highlighting the creases traveling down her neck and the slight jowling around her chin. Her eyes remained expressionless, neither approving nor disapproving.

  “What support do you already have for your initiative? Is the rest of your team on board with this idea?” Clementine’s voice was as smooth as her satin dress and Bex could imagine her addressing a jury in those dulcet tones.

  Bex drew a deep breath and lied.

  “Absolutely!”

  She hadn’t even mentioned her idea to the team, but she knew they were as discontented as she was of busting young teens and slinging them into court, knowing they’d simply reoffend the minute they were released onto the streets. She pasted a fake smile on her face.

  “In fact, one of our members is a former real estate salesman and he’ll scout out an appropriate location for the drop-in center.”

  “You’ll need volunteers, obviously. What other resources will you need? Gym equipment? That’s not cheap.” Beside Lillian, Clementine’s eyes weighed Bex reflectively.

  “We’ll source what equipment we can from donations or secondhand purchases. I have an officer on the team who has connections with a gym.” Hadn’t Idris said Quinn knew a gym-owner?

  “It definitely sounds like a worthwhile cause,” Clementine said. She pressed a business card into Bex’s hand. “Keep us up-to-date. Our law firm would be interested in offering assistance.”

  As Lillian stepped in to shake Bex’s hand, she leaned closer to murmur, “We’re not blowing smoke up your arse, Detective. Helping teens in trouble is very dear to Clem’s heart since she lost her son to drugs. Some nasty little shit got him hooked when he was doing his GCSEs. He ended up a crack head, beaten to death in some alleyway in a drug deal gone bad. There’s nothing worse than having to identify your own son in the morgue.”

  Giving Bex a hearty slap on the back, she followed her partner into the crowd, leaving Bex alone with Dresden.

  “I’m impressed that you’ve earned interest from Perry and Grais, Wynter. They’ll be sure to spread the word if they get involved. It’s also favorable that you’ve got the support of your team. I’m sure Richards will be a great help with his contacts. Who’s got the gym connections you mentioned?”

  Bex felt a sheen of perspiration coat her face. “That would be DI Standing.”

  Dresden’s raised eyebrows betrayed amazement. “If you can get Standing on board you will have done well. I look forward to reading the details of your proposal.”

  With a curt nod, Dresden moved into the crowd.

  Bloody hell, what have I let myself in for? Bex wondered if the most difficult part of her new enterprise was going to be getting Quinn Standing’s support.

  Chapter 9

  December 2 Saturday

  “You can tell that damp squib Ernest Lyons if he wants an argy-bargy Perry Grais is up for it. Ironrod Lyons Freemont are not going to gobble us up and spit us out without a fight.”

  Lillian Perry’s brown eyes glistened with fiery intent. The feisty barrister was known for her aggressive stance in a courtroom setting and Isla wondered if Lyons had finally bitten off more than the company could chew. Her invitation to tonight’s charity event had been Lyons’s attempt to woo Perry Grais to favorably view the company’s record in regard to its female lawyers. The ploy had miserably backfired, she thought as she took the brunt of Lillian’s hostility.

  Beside her she felt Quinn tense. Discreetly she moved her hand to rest on his forearm.

  “Lady Lillian,” Isla kept her voice smooth, “Mergers can be good for both parties. They can enhance each firm’s market standing and reputation–”

  “Bollocks!” Lillian butted in. “Don’t feed me that tosh, Ms. Standing. Ironrod Lyons Freemont want our clientele but they don’t want our lawyers. We’re a small firm of hand-picked and dedicated women, and I won’t see our team hustled into losing jobs because Lyons is a misogynistic bastard. I remember Grace Kovac when she was a bright young talent fifteen years ago. Becoming a partner at Ironrod Lyons Freemont was a death knell on her career. I don’t see her doing anything but handling low-ball cases and being railroaded into appearing at public events as Ironrod’s proof they’re equal-opportunity employers. Perry Grais will merge with your firm over my dead body!”

  Crackling like discharged electricity, Lillian shot Isla a ferocious look.

  “Nice meeting you, Ms. Standing, but frankly, if you’ve got any skill and sense you’ll look around for another job yourself. Ironrod will never appoint a second female partner! Women may compose fifty percent of the legal profession but the percentage of women promoted to partners in the top twenty legal firms is actually falling not rising. Bear that in mind, Ms. Standing, if you have any ambition.”

  Thrusting her jaw forward, Lillian gave Isla and Quinn an aggressive nod before heading away.

  “Whew! I thought I was going to have to step in with a violence restraining order. Who the hell is that woman?” Quinn said.

  “Lady Lillian Perry, daughter of the fifth Earl Perry. She has a reputation for being somewhat acerbic and doesn’t seem to realize that being a radical feminist went out of fashion in the 80s. She’s a vocal member of Women in Law London. She and Clementine Grais have been together for nearly twenty years and formed their female only law company about the same time. From small beginnings it’s blossomed into one of London’s most prestigious boutique law firms. To be honest, I don’t understand why Lyons has targeted them for a merger.”

  “Maybe he’s shooting for the best UK Law Firm for Women award next year?”

  Quinn’s lips quirked at his own humor but Isla failed to find the joke funny. He took her rigid hand in his. “What’s up, Isla? You tossed and turned all night, disappeared without saying a word this morning and you’ve been wound uptight ever since you returned. Are you worried about this merger? Afraid that Lyons will blame you if it doesn’t work out?”

  Isla shook her head, making her sleek bob slide first one way and then the other. She had done her duty by approaching Lillian Perry, only to be shot down. Quinn was right that she was wound too tight to enjoy tonight’s festivities.

  Tugging her husband’s hand, she pulled him behind one of the decorated pillars, away from the milling crowd. Color from the stained glass windows washed over their skin in geometri
c patterns. Quinn grinned down at her from his harlequin-colored face.

  “Are we going to have a little nookie right here?” he said. “You’ll get no complaints from me.”

  She punched him not so lightly in the arm, feeling muscles like coiled steel beneath his tuxedo jacket and an accompanying surge of sexual heat. That was the glue that held them together. Quinn’s prowess in the sack was impossible for her to resist. Despite the tension humming through her nerves, she was seriously tempted by his suggestion. It wouldn’t be the first time they had got hot and heavy in a public place.

  Quinn caught her mood and raised his arm to rest against the pillar, trapping her in front of him. He shifted his snake-like hips closer and she felt her breath hitch. She wanted to say yes, but Harley Carroll’s face swam before her eyes.

  “I need to ask you something, Quinn. If you arrest someone who confesses to murder, how much investigation do you do into the case? I mean, exactly how much effort do the police put into a case like that?”

  Quinn dropped his arm. “That’s not the response I expected.”

  “I need to know, Quinn.”

  He rubbed his chin reflectively. “What do you mean ‘how much effort’? They investigate the case. Full stop. They do their job which is gather the evidence and present the findings to the prosecutor. End of story.”

  “But if someone confessed, do the police skim over the investigation? I mean, how hard do they look for motive or to see if there are other suspects?”

  Quinn sighed and jammed his hands in his pockets. “What are you up to, Isla? Trying to work some legal slight of hand to get a client off the hook?”

  Quinn didn’t have much respect for her profession. His view of the criminal system was that the police, in other words he, worked his arse off to bring criminals to justice while lawyers, in other words she, got paid to undo all that effort and let the guilty slip away from their just deserts.

  “No, Quinn, I’m serious. If you arrested someone and he confessed to the crime, would you do anything more than gather the evidence that supported his confession?”

  “Look, police are trained to go into interviews with an unbiased frame of mind. We gather evidence, we don’t lead the suspect so his answers fit our conclusions. But, in the real world, it all depends on the investigating officer and the pressure he’s under, like how many other cases he’s dealing with, has the budget already been spent, is his guv’nor breathing down his neck for results. Why all the questions?”

  An MC’s voice urging people to be generous at the silent auction floated towards them. For a moment Isla let the sounds of conversation and classical music from a string quartet lap around their isolation at the edge of the ballroom as she wondered how forthright she should be.

  “I have a case for sentencing. The murderer has confessed to killing his parents. When I spoke with him on Friday I think he was trying to tell me his father had been sexually abusing him. Possibly for years.” Isla remembered the chill she had felt when Harley spoke about his father. It had seemed like a different person inhabited Harley’s body. “Abused kids often have psychological problems, sometimes severe issues like split personalities, to help them cope.”

  Isla had gone over Grace Kovac’s notes on the case. A court psychiatrist had interviewed Harley for his pre-sentencing report and determined he was suffering from depression. That diagnosis had simply resulted in Harley being transferred to a more secure facility where he couldn’t get his hands on anything lethal.

  “Abuse could be grounds for mitigating circumstances which would help at Harley’s sentencing. I spoke with Rory Alban from Barnet CID, but he never even checked into any abuse. I got the impression he wanted the case out of his hair. Quinn, could you run Keith Carroll’s name through the police database to see if there are any red flags on him?”

  “What the hell, Isla!” Quinn jerked back as though she had thrown boiling water in his direction. “It’s unethical to use my police privileges to spy on ordinary people!”

  “I want to make sure that justice gets done,” Isla coaxed. She knew that Quinn’s view on law was a simple black and white: guilty or innocent. The innocent should be exonerated and the guilty should pay the price. He liked to follow through on that whether or not it fell totally within the bounds of the law.

  “I can’t do it without risking my job,” Quinn said, not bothering to hide his irritation.

  “Then we could live off my salary, Quinn,” Isla wheedled.

  Quinn snorted. It was already a bone of contention between them that Isla’s earnings outstripped his wages. His brows lowered thunderously.

  “Maybe you should be complaining to Daddy Super Tight-Arse instead. He’s got more powers and leeway than me.”

  “Don’t call him that! You know I hate that nickname!”

  Growing up as Isla Titus had involved more than her fair share of sniggers and crude comments. When her legal acquaintances had queried whether she would be keeping her surname after marriage or melding it with her husband’s she knew it was a no-brainer. Isla Standing rang with more class in a courtroom than Isla Titus. She couldn’t even bear to think of the jokes at her expense if she called herself Isla Titus-Standing. She only wished the name change could have happened before she’d been issued with her degrees, now recorded for posterity with her maiden name.

  Quinn gave her a hard laser stare, filled with anger and lustful hunger that fueled her own pulsating desires. Without volition, her hand snaked under his tuxedo jacket to rest against his chest. She knew he could feel the heat from her palm through the thin fabric of his shirt.

  His hand reached out, twining through her hair as he pressed his face against her neck. As she sucked in his hot, pungent scent, all thoughts of Harley Carroll fled.

  Chapter 10

  Tuesday 5 December

  Isla sat outside the psychiatric assessor’s office, one crossed leg swinging impatiently. Silently she reviewed the facts Quinn had tersely handed over yesterday: Keith Carroll’s interactions with the police in a nutshell.

  There were a number of speeding tickets, a violation for running a red light and a caution for being drunk and disorderly. The only item that really interested her was a complaint lodged in 2015. Keith Carroll had been arrested and investigated for a complaint of interference with a twelve-year old girl.

  Isla switched on her smartphone and read through the screenshot Quinn had sent her.

  Indecency with or towards a child - section 1 Indecency with a Child Act 1960.

  A twelve-year-old girl, Daisy Van Wieren, states that she was swimming at the local swimming pool when Keith Carroll approached her and touched her intimately. Mr Carroll was interviewed about the allegations, which were subsequently dropped. Mr Carroll was never formally charged with indecent assault.

  Quinn had cautioned her over the information. “You can’t use this, Isla. No one can know I accessed the police database to get this for you.”

  “I know. Even though Carroll was never charged, the fact that a complaint was made lends credence to what I think Harley was trying to tell me. I don’t think the whole truth has come out in this case, Quinn.”

  “Ms. Standing, please come in.”

  Isla started out of her reverie and hastily pocketed her phone. She stood to face the psychiatrist who had assessed Harley after he had entered his guilty plea.

  Dr. Rayansh Chaudri was a nervous little man whose bloodshot eyes made him look like a closet alcoholic. Doing a job that dealt with sad, confused, angry people unburdening themselves of problems would drive anyone to drink, Isla thought. Her background check had also revealed that Dr. Chaudri worked part-time at a clinic for the criminally insane.

  She shook his hand and he waved her inside his cramped office. The room smelt pleasantly of lavender issuing from a small diffuser sitting on the floor. No doubt he needed all the help he could to calm down some of his clients, Isla mused. It was the only pleasant thing about the room.

  Isla felt oversh
adowed by the floor to ceiling bookshelves along three walls. There was a simple desk jammed into a corner and two easy chairs facing each other in the subdued light filtering through a small hopper window without drapes.

  She took one chair and he sat opposite, holding a folder on his lap.

  “I appreciate your seeing me on such short notice, Dr. Chaudri. Can I ask you about your assessment of Harley Carroll?”

  He patted the dossier sitting on his knees. “I looked over my notes last night. I must preface my assessment by saying that adolescents present a difficult challenge. That age is particularly prone to everyday suicidal ideation and thoughts of inflicting violence towards others. For those adolescents who take it a step further into practical application, it’s the general consensus that they’re suffering from mental illness. When I say mental illness, I mean, commonly, some sort of depressive disorder.”

  “So, you’re saying that Harley was depressed at the time of the murders?”

  “When I spoke with him, my assessment is that he most definitely presents as depressed. His demeanor, his lack of interest in anything, his lackluster responses, his signs of agitation and anxiety, are indicative of depressive illness.”

  “Could that depressive illness be brought about because of sexual abuse or rape?”

  Rayansh Chaudri’s large hazel eyes strayed to the window just beyond her shoulder. His arms were reedy and the hands clutching the armrests were gaunt, ending in thin fingers. He looked like he should be one of his own clients. He glanced at the watch on his emaciated wrist as though wishing their time away. The timepiece was a large sports model, filled with dials on a heavy-duty rubberized band. Isla couldn’t imagine Chaudri playing anything more strenuous than a leisurely game of cricket.

  “I understood that Harley Carroll had confessed to the murders? That the case was closed? I’m afraid I’m not sure where your questions are leading, Ms. Standing.”