The Chosen Ones

Ed withdrew her hand and picked up her wine glass. ‘I know of it, of course, one of the Cinque Ports, but I’ve never been.’

‘You’ll love it. We’ll have a leisurely walk or two – Camber Sands is good – and there’s good food to be had in Rye.’

‘Thanks for the offer.’ Ed took an olive. ‘A weekend away sounds good.’

‘So you’ll come.’

‘I’m sorry, Verity, I’ve got a lot on at the moment. May I take a raincheck?’’

‘Of course.’ Her habitual half-smile had disappeared.

Both women busied themselves with their white wine and olives. Verity was the first to speak.

‘How’s the team? I’ve heard your DS Potts has been seen drinking alone in back-street pubs.’

Ed stiffened. ‘My team’s my business. Anyway –’ she indicated Verity’s near-empty glass ‘– Mike’s not the only one who likes a drink after work.’

‘Touché!’

Before Verity could say more, Ed continued. ‘I’ve never seen Mike the worse for wear and it doesn’t affect his work.’

Verity held up her hands. ‘Sorry, it was the journalist—’

‘It’s a non-story.’ Ed held Verity’s eyes. ‘Your work and mine are our own concerns unless something happens that is of public interest.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Verity looked at Ed apologetically. ‘As I say, it was the journalist speaking.’

Ed realized she’d overreacted. They’d long since established their working boundaries. She softened her voice.

‘Journalist and friend.’ Ed paused, then raised her glass and inclined it towards her friend.

Verity reciprocated and both women drank enough to warrant a top-up.

‘Would you like to stay here or shall we go for supper at Gino’s?’

‘Gino’s,’ Ed replied without hesitation. ‘Pasta with some of their Sangiovese is just what I need.’

‘I’ll ask them to hold a table and open a bottle.’

As Verity called the restaurant, Ed’s work mobile buzzed.

‘DI Ogborne.’ She listened for a few moments. ‘Right, get Jenny. Tell her she’s coming with me. I’ll be at the Station in ten minutes.’ As she spoke Ed looked across the table, waving a finger and shaking her head. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to go.’

Verity muttered, ‘Just a moment,’ into her mobile and her look of surprise became a questioning frown. ‘What? Why?’

‘It’s work. A young woman’s been found dead in Dover. She appears to have been alone in her flat.’

Before Verity could reply, Ed was on her feet and walking between tables to the exit. She had no doubt the editor would use her contacts to get a reporter to the scene well before other journalists got wind of the incident.

17 (#ulink_54ca65ee-b8ec-5fbd-8f1c-bc119c7515db)

Gina’s chin dropped onto her chest, waking her with a start. She was slumped on the floor in the hallway of her flat. For a moment she was disorientated, then the horror flooded back. She scrambled to her feet and began pulling frantically at the lock on the front door. It wouldn’t budge. In desperation, she grabbed her keys from the floor and tried each one again. None of them worked. The lock wouldn’t turn.

‘No! No! No!’ Gina beat on the door with her fists, screaming uncontrollably.

A chair scraped against the kitchen floor. Gina froze. She heard footsteps coming into the hall. The cold tension between her shoulder blades returned.

‘You’re wasting your time. Nobody will hear you. Your neighbours are on holiday.’ The voice was getting closer. ‘Please don’t be alarmed. Come, let’s take it slowly … let’s talk it through.’

The telephone … the policeman. No, not the policeman. She turned to face the voice. Three feet away stood Colin Smith, Decorart. His thin, childlike body and choirboy face did nothing to lessen the threat Gina felt. She took a half-step backwards and then something snapped inside her. With a cry of rage, Gina launched herself at Colin with the blind intention of beating her tormentor to the ground.

‘Let me go! Let me go! Let me go!’ she screamed, her fists raised to attack him.

Despite his slight build, Colin held her wrists easily and waited until her shouting became pleading and the adrenalin-fuelled rush of strength left her body. Gina sagged and he lowered her to the floor.

‘I’ll leave you to appreciate the situation. There’s no escape. Take your time. There’s no hurry. I’m here. I’ll be waiting.’

Once more slumped against the wall, Gina felt numb. Her mind and body were devoid of strength. Overwhelmed by an immobilising sense of helplessness, she appeared impassive despite the thoughts raging in her head. The only sign of movement came from the tears that escaped her eyes and dripped steadily onto her crumpled shirt.

18 (#ulink_885d10b5-0620-5bd9-919c-1ca8b77e36f3)

Glum faces stared from cars in a tailback from the ferry terminal in central Dover. The grey evening was not an ideal start to a summer holiday, but for DI Ogborne and DC Eastham, unexplained deaths came in all weathers. When they reached the far side of town, Jenny parked behind a line of police vehicles near the entrance to Maxton House, an unremarkable block of flats just off the Folkestone Road. Together they approached the uniformed officer guarding the door and showed their Warrant Cards.

‘Who found her?’ asked Ed.

‘Parents, Ma’am. They’re in the van with a WPC.’

‘And the body?’

‘Second-floor flat, two flights up and turn right.’

The two detectives became aware of the smell on reaching the second floor. It was far from overpowering; nevertheless, the WPC standing with her back to the door of the flat had a handkerchief held to her nose. Barely glancing at their Warrant Cards, she lowered the handkerchief to indicate fresh coveralls, overshoes, face masks and latex gloves, housed in bags leaning against the opposite wall. Despite the presence of a senior officer she was unable to hide her distress.

‘Your first?’ asked Ed as she pulled on the protective clothing. ‘I guess it’s not pleasant.’

‘I don’t know, Ma’am, I’ve not been inside.’

‘Probably for the best.’ Ed nodded to Jenny. ‘Ready?’

The full force of the smell hit them as they opened the door and stepped inside. Ed heard Jenny gasp and knew she’d immediately wish she hadn’t. Touching the DC’s arm Ed said, ‘If someone had told me she’d been dead for days, I’d have brought my Vicks. Remember next time.’

It was a small one-bedroom flat, with a few pieces of cheap pine furniture and a notable absence of lampshades. Blonde artificial wood flooring and dull off-white paintwork completed the decoration. There were no ornaments and no pictures on the walls. Through an open bedroom doorway Ed could see a pathologist leaning over a small double bed, examining the discoloured body of a young woman. The dead woman was lying on her side wearing a T-shirt and knee-length skirt. A duvet was folded on the floor at the foot of the bed.

‘DI Ed Ogborne and DC Jenny Eastham, Canterbury CID. What have we got?’

‘Dorling, Buckland Hospital. I’ve just about finished. You’ve got a young woman in her early twenties. Like many these days she’s above average weight for her height. I estimate she’s been dead some six to ten days. When I get her back to the lab, potassium levels in the vitreous humour of the eye might provide a more precise estimate, but I’m doubtful; putrefaction has already started. I’ve found no superficial signs of injury. My initial impression is SCD, Sudden Cardiac Death. Given her age it’s likely she was congenitally predisposed.’

‘Anything unusual?’ asked Ed.