Fire Damage: A gripping thriller that will keep you hooked. Kate Medina
Could she ask the question without sounding committable? Did she have a choice?
‘It looks perfect.’ Jessie paused. ‘Are, uh, are any of the animals black?’ she asked in a voice so quiet that even she could barely hear herself over the patter of rain against the plate-glass window.
‘Excuse me?’ The sales girl eyed her, unsure whether to take the question seriously.
‘Are any of the animals black?’ she repeated. ‘I, uh …’ How to explain this so she didn’t sound insane. The truth was far too complex. ‘My nephew likes black animals. His … his cousin – my sister’s boy, not my brother’s … this farm is for my brother’s son. He has a black plastic donkey that Sami … that Sam loves, so I wanted to make sure that at least one of the animals was black. He, uh, he likes black animals …’ she tailed off.
The sales girl didn’t look convinced, not that Jessie could blame her.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But you can always buy extra.’ With a tilt of her head, she indicated a row of narrow shelves, stacked one on top of each other, bearing small plastic toy animals of every description. ‘I know they’re a bit expensive, but they’re Schleich.’ She paused. ‘Hand-painted in Germany,’ she continued, ‘each one unique,’ when it was obvious that Jessie had never heard of Schleich.
‘Perfect, thank you. I’ll take the farm set and I’ll have a look at the Schleich animals.’
While the sales girl wandered back to the cash desk and her mobile, Jessie chose two from the Schleich set, a jet-black cow and a black-and-white collie dog, looking carefully through the dogs until she found one that had just a couple of small white patches on its body. How would Sami react to an animal that was mostly, but not entirely black? Would it engender the same horror in him as a wholly black animal?
She put the rest of the dogs back, ordering them one behind the other, so that, from the front of the shelf where customers stood to choose, they were perfectly aligned. She glanced at the other animals. They were in disarray, as if a tribe of kids had come in and trashed them, which they probably had. Looking at the mess in front of her, she felt the familiar crackle of electricity travel across her skin, a tightness around her throat.
Laying the cow and the collie on the floor beside her, she rearranged the horses, one behind the other in the same manner as the dogs, the foals, the goats, the sheep. She was so absorbed in the task that she didn’t hear the sales girl approach.
‘I can do that.’
Jessie started. ‘Oh, hi. It’s OK, I’m nearly finished.’
‘I can do that,’ she repeated, an edge to her tone. ‘It’s my job.’
‘I’ve only got the ducks to do and then I’m finished,’ Jessie said firmly. The electric suit was spitting against her skin, a pulsing tension that she had to assuage. She was aware that the sales girl must think she was a nutter. Would give anything to be able to walk away, leaving the ducks in a mess. Perhaps she should tell the sales girl that she was a psychologist.
‘I’ll leave you to it then.’ The sales girl retreated in angry, clicking steps, casting back over her shoulder, ‘As you’ve only got the ducks left to do.’
Jessie rested her head against the wall. She felt close to tears. I’m a psychologist who could give most of my patients a run for their money in the fucked-up stakes. Finishing quickly, she stood back and surveyed her handiwork. The animals were lined in perfect rows, parade ground squared-away. She felt calm; her pulse back to normal. Collecting the Schleichs from the floor beside her, she carried them to the cash desk, laid them on top of the farm box.
‘They didn’t look tidy,’ Jessie murmured.
The sales girl wouldn’t meet her eye. ‘Gift wrap?’
‘No. No, thank you.’
The rain had turned to damp sleet and the sky had darkened to charcoal, as if, while she’d been in the shop, someone had dimmed the ceiling light. Thunder grumbled on the edge of town. Pulling her hood up, Jessie stepped on to the pavement. She was pretty sure that the sales girl would be on her mobile phone the second she was out of sight, texting, ‘You’d never guess what …’ to a friend.
Head down, she jogged up the street, wet sleet sloshing against her hood. She was nearly back to her own car when she caught sight of a red Golf GTI parked crookedly, half on the pavement, a hand-scrawled ‘Military Police’ notice propped on the dashboard. Stopping, she looked around. She was beyond the shops, where they petered to small office buildings. Behind her was a modern brick building with a large black front door bearing a brass lion’s head knocker that would have looked more in place gracing the entrance to a stately home. A rectangular plaque beside the door bore engravings that she couldn’t read from this distance. Turning back to the Golf, she was debating whether to leave a note tucked under the wiper.
‘Are you checking my car for neatness?’
She started, turned. Callan was right behind her, a look of amusement in those watchful amber eyes. He was wearing jeans and the same navy hoodie she’d seen him in yesterday, a black waterproof, undone, covering the hoodie.
‘You failed miserably,’ she said. ‘The coke can and crisp packets in the footwell aren’t going to win you any prizes.’
‘I’ll try harder next time, Doctor.’ His tone was teasing. Pulling the keys from his pocket, he unlocked the car. ‘Do you want a lift somewhere?’
‘Don’t I need to be a hooker to travel in a car like this?’
The ghost of a smile on his lips.
Jessie smiled back sweetly. ‘No, thank you. I’ve got my own car. Parked legally. Paid for.’ She indicated the sticker in his window. ‘Isn’t that called abuse of position?’
‘I was late for an appointment.’ He caught her questioning look. ‘Admin. Nothing exciting.’ His gaze slid away from hers. ‘I couldn’t find a space. There have to be some perks to the job.’ He walked around to the driver’s side, pulled open the door. ‘Four p.m. I’ll meet you at ten to, Provost Barracks main entrance.’
She nodded. ‘I remember. I’ll be there.’
‘Don’t be late.’ A shift in his voice – humour to tension.
‘I won’t.’
Standing on the pavement, she watched him pull on to the road and accelerate away, tyres churning up a plume of wet sleet from the tarmac. She started to walk back to her own car, then stopped. On impulse, she crossed the pavement to the brass plaque. A small business accounting firm occupied the ground and first floor, an IT business the second. At the bottom of the list, third floor, Mr John Rushton-Booth, Consultant Neurologist.
Jeanette Bass-Cooper looked hard at the detective inspector. She prided herself on being open-minded, but even she had limits. He looked as if he had been dragged out of some Soho rock club at 4 a.m., beer still in hand, and teleported down here to the seaside, kicking and screaming, blinking those disconcerting mismatched eyes against the daylight, smoky and feeble as it was.
His partner, on the other hand, the detective sergeant – Workman, Jeanette thought she’d said – was his antithesis. Shapeless black wash-and-wear trousers skimming solid ankles, chunky lace-ups that wouldn’t be out of place on a 1930s nanny, mousy hair cut into a low-maintenance bob. But she seemed sensible at least. Reliable.
Detective Inspector Bobby ‘Marilyn’ Simmons – Marilyn after Manson, he would hasten to add if questioned on the nickname his colleagues had bestowed on him the first day he joined the force, a nickname that had dogged him ever since – looked at the short, boxy woman in front of him in her black dress and high-heeled patent boots and felt the beginnings of a headache. The words