Deirdre Tinkerton and get more details.’
‘Whoa!’ Steven said, knowing that she was not going to like what he said next but determined to say it nevertheless. ‘You mean we need to fill Geoff Rhumer in on this, and
he
needs to get over there and see if Mrs Tinkerton can come up with a photo-fit. Better yet, he can gather together photos of his top twenty list of suspects and see if she can pick him out. Tracking down the stalker is his priority, remember. Getting leads on his victims is your job.’
Hillary opened her mouth to argue, caught his eye, and quickly snapped her mouth shut again. She hated it when he pulled rank on her, but, at the same time, she found it as sexy as hell.
‘Yes, sir,’ she snapped.
Steven’s dark-brown eyes flared. Damn it, he hated it when she ‘sirred’ him, but it made him go hot all over.
‘Glad we got that sorted then,’ he said, with a sweet smile.
Hillary smiled back just as sweetly. ‘I’ll get on with interviewing Gillian’s sister then, sir,’ she said smartly, and before he could issue her with any more smart-arse orders, she turned on her heel and left. Her back was ramrod stiff.
Steven, robbed of the last word, watched her go. Then he had to smile. Tonight was certainly going to be interesting.
Tom Warrington drove his car down a deserted and ever-decreasing farm track until it ended in the traditional wooden five-barred gate. There he parked and walked across the field to his copse. He’d known the landowner since he was a small boy, when he’d first discovered the small area of slightly boggy land in the dip of a field where some scrubby bushes had helped to make a wonderful den.
Since then, he’d made the place his own in a far more interesting way. The farmer, fed up with having his farming equipment stolen, and even some of his sheep rustled, had no objection to a uniformed copper being seen every so often walking across his land, and he had no objection to Tom planting some silver birches in the copse. The land was too boggy to plough, and he’d taken Tom at his word when he said he liked to go there to bird-watch and chill out.
Now, as Tom walked across the field, a portable battery-powered laptop in one hand, he felt his mood change.
It always did when he came to visit his girls.
He pushed his way into the green, cool space, listening to the birds twitter in agitation in the elder bushes. He ignored them and sat on the driest part of the small copse, on a mossy bank.
He patted the ground under one of the weeping willows. ‘Hello, ladies. I’m back. You know I never forget to come and visit.’
He imagined them all as if they were lying around him, sleeping. Or maybe sunbathing. All smiling at him.
He sighed, and opened up his laptop.
He stared at the blank screen and took several deep breaths. He knew Hillary was under constant observation now. Both that old-timer she went around with, Jimmy Jessop, and that lanky sandy-haired boy Sam Pickles were taking it in turns watching her boat, as were a handful of other old men and some of DI Geoff Rhumer’s team.
It was frustrating, but understandable, and he tried not to let it get to him.
Tom had taken special note of Rhumer, he had done so ever since Vivienne had told him about the new mysterious DI who had so many conferences with Hillary and that waste of space Crayle, and he had to admit to feeling rather insulted at the quality of the man they’d put on his trail.
He’d done some careful digging into his background. Once again, volunteering to work Records and Admin had paid off, and he’d been able to research quite a bit about Rhumer on the QT. The man was strictly a second-rater. He’d made no big mistakes in his career, but then again, he’d busted no big cases either. He was a plodder. A reliable pair of hands.
Tom had, at first, been inclined to take it personally.
Then, after thinking about it for a while, he’d understood what had happened, and he began to feel much more
‘Whoa!’ Steven said, knowing that she was not going to like what he said next but determined to say it nevertheless. ‘You mean we need to fill Geoff Rhumer in on this, and
he
needs to get over there and see if Mrs Tinkerton can come up with a photo-fit. Better yet, he can gather together photos of his top twenty list of suspects and see if she can pick him out. Tracking down the stalker is his priority, remember. Getting leads on his victims is your job.’
Hillary opened her mouth to argue, caught his eye, and quickly snapped her mouth shut again. She hated it when he pulled rank on her, but, at the same time, she found it as sexy as hell.
‘Yes, sir,’ she snapped.
Steven’s dark-brown eyes flared. Damn it, he hated it when she ‘sirred’ him, but it made him go hot all over.
‘Glad we got that sorted then,’ he said, with a sweet smile.
Hillary smiled back just as sweetly. ‘I’ll get on with interviewing Gillian’s sister then, sir,’ she said smartly, and before he could issue her with any more smart-arse orders, she turned on her heel and left. Her back was ramrod stiff.
Steven, robbed of the last word, watched her go. Then he had to smile. Tonight was certainly going to be interesting.
Tom Warrington drove his car down a deserted and ever-decreasing farm track until it ended in the traditional wooden five-barred gate. There he parked and walked across the field to his copse. He’d known the landowner since he was a small boy, when he’d first discovered the small area of slightly boggy land in the dip of a field where some scrubby bushes had helped to make a wonderful den.
Since then, he’d made the place his own in a far more interesting way. The farmer, fed up with having his farming equipment stolen, and even some of his sheep rustled, had no objection to a uniformed copper being seen every so often walking across his land, and he had no objection to Tom planting some silver birches in the copse. The land was too boggy to plough, and he’d taken Tom at his word when he said he liked to go there to bird-watch and chill out.
Now, as Tom walked across the field, a portable battery-powered laptop in one hand, he felt his mood change.
It always did when he came to visit his girls.
He pushed his way into the green, cool space, listening to the birds twitter in agitation in the elder bushes. He ignored them and sat on the driest part of the small copse, on a mossy bank.
He patted the ground under one of the weeping willows. ‘Hello, ladies. I’m back. You know I never forget to come and visit.’
He imagined them all as if they were lying around him, sleeping. Or maybe sunbathing. All smiling at him.
He sighed, and opened up his laptop.
He stared at the blank screen and took several deep breaths. He knew Hillary was under constant observation now. Both that old-timer she went around with, Jimmy Jessop, and that lanky sandy-haired boy Sam Pickles were taking it in turns watching her boat, as were a handful of other old men and some of DI Geoff Rhumer’s team.
It was frustrating, but understandable, and he tried not to let it get to him.
Tom had taken special note of Rhumer, he had done so ever since Vivienne had told him about the new mysterious DI who had so many conferences with Hillary and that waste of space Crayle, and he had to admit to feeling rather insulted at the quality of the man they’d put on his trail.
He’d done some careful digging into his background. Once again, volunteering to work Records and Admin had paid off, and he’d been able to research quite a bit about Rhumer on the QT. The man was strictly a second-rater. He’d made no big mistakes in his career, but then again, he’d busted no big cases either. He was a plodder. A reliable pair of hands.
Tom had, at first, been inclined to take it personally.
Then, after thinking about it for a while, he’d understood what had happened, and he began to feel much more
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