Critical Incidents

Valerie Woodson looked at Robin, expectant, and for a moment she was thrown. What now? Her instinct – her training, so ingrained it was second nature at this point – was to get details of Rebecca’s associates, her employers, friends, exes, but how did Maggie work? Did she have to agree formally to take on the case? Did she want to? Writing down names would look like a commitment. And what about Valerie’s side of it – was there some kind of contract? A fee? What were Maggie’s terms?

She played for time. ‘How long have you lived here?’

‘Since I was born,’ Valerie said. ‘I’m the only original Brit on the street now. My parents bought the house in the Fifties, I’ve never lived anywhere else. My dad retired about the time I met Graeme and we bought it from them. They moved out to Worcestershire, bought a bungalow near Inkberrow.’

‘Nice.’ Jesus, the idea of living in one house your whole life. ‘Did you ever see any evidence of Rebecca using drugs?’

The non sequitur took Valerie aback, unsurprisingly. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Sorry – I mean, have you ever seen her with them? Found them in the house?’

‘Of course not.’ Now she looked indignant. ‘I wouldn’t stand for that.’

Robin glanced back up the hall and saw Maggie open the front door, step out and pull it closed behind her.

Valerie saw, too. ‘Is it something to do with Rebecca?’

‘I don’t think so. No. The police wouldn’t know to call us about her. We’ve only just made contact with you, so …’

‘That’s true. Yes, that’s true. God.’ She put her face in her hands. ‘Sorry. It’s just … Do you have children?’

‘One. A daughter, too.’

‘So you understand.’

‘A little bit, yes. You must be … extremely worried.’ Quick, she thought, deflect the conversation. The last thing she wanted to get into was her life or how she came to be working with Maggie. Her homicide experience wouldn’t be a comfort, either. ‘Where do they go when they’re out, Becca and her friends?’

‘With her old friends, Lucy and Harry, they go – they used to go, before she started at The Spot – to this thing, what’s it called, The Digbeth Dining Club? Street food, she called it, lots of different stands that …’

The front door – Valerie’s head whipped round. Following her gaze, Robin saw Maggie step inside and close it. For a moment, turned away, she seemed to pause. Then, deliberately, she walked back to the kitchen. Her face was oddly composed, un-Maggie-like. Robin tried to meet her eye but found she couldn’t.

‘Valerie,’ Maggie said, ‘I’m sorry but we’re going to have to go. Something’s come up. I’ll ring you as soon as I can. In the next hour or so.’

The woman’s chair shrieked against the floor. ‘What’s happened? It’s Becca, isn’t it?’

‘Becca?’ Maggie seemed confused. ‘Becca – no. No. Robin, can we …?’

Robin stood, her heart starting to beat faster. What the hell? It was there, she wasn’t imagining it, the care with which Maggie said her name. Disorientated, she followed her down the narrow hallway and back outside. The door banged shut behind them. It had started drizzling again while they were inside, she’d seen it through the kitchen window, but now it was properly raining. ‘What’s going on?’

‘In the car.’

The automatic fob flashed the lights. Robin opened the door then hesitated. As she dropped into her seat, she realized she was begging: Please, not Lennie.

Maggie’s door slammed shut. She bowed her head then took a breath. ‘That was Alan Nuttall on the phone.’

Relief, followed immediately by guilt. ‘So it is Rebecca?’

‘No, it’s nothing to do with this. He was calling to see if I knew about something that came in last night.’

Last night – not Lennie. Sheer, exhilarating relief – thank god. ‘So what was it?’

‘There was a house fire in Edgbaston. They’re still looking for the husband – he’s missing. The boy’s injured, badly injured, but alive. The wife … she didn’t make it.’ Maggie reached across the gearstick and took her hand.

Robin stared at Maggie’s giant turquoise ring. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘What I’m trying to say … Rob, it’s Corinna.’

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