wouldn’t be the first time that had happened in this office, Gemma thought. Right now, she felt like crying herself.
‘Mr Dowling,’ Gemma warned him, ‘without getting someone in there undercover, it could be impossible to find out how they really manage their business.’
‘I hoped you could just ask the right questions,’ he said, looking dejected.
‘Sometimes, that’s sufficient. I’ll see what I can do myself,’ she said, ‘and, should it become necessary to put someone in there, I’ll let you know before incurring any extra expenses.’ She touched his arm. ‘Now, how about a cup of tea?’
•
Gemma spent the rest of the morning compiling new files and writing up her notes on Mr Dowling. She reviewed the information he’d given her about Forever Diamonds and checked them on the net. She’d never had a case quite like this one before.
Then, she changed into her shorts and T-shirt and went for a run along the cliffs, hoping that a good sweat would relieve some of her stored-up grief and frustration. She stretched out, passing the eroding angels and broken columns of the seaside cemetery which contained her murdered mother’s grave. Fat skinks plopped off stone ledges and disappeared into the grass at her passing. No breeze came from the flat surface of the Pacific and she thought she must be mad to be running in the building heat.
Back home, she showered and changed and went to her office. She checked her mobile—there was a text message from Angie: Call me .
‘I can’t talk for long,’ said Angie, sounding strung out. ‘It’s jumping round here. Another girl’s gone missing. From the same school.’
‘Netherleigh Park? I was only there yesterday. Thanks for the referral, by the way. The principal wants me to work on Amy Bernhard’s disappearance.’ Gemma paused.
‘So you’ve met Madame Beatrice de B? She’s really something, isn’t she?’ Angie lowered her voice. ‘It’s a madhouse here. Half are off on sick leave, half are at court and the other half are just plain mad.’
‘That’s three halves, Ange.’
‘Smartypants! I’m supposed to be compiling a list of possible VMOs—violent major offenders—for the boss so he can send them on to ViCLAS at the Crime Commission. Plus I’m on call-out for hostage negotiation.’
‘Well, Ange, you always say you like it hot.’
‘Not this hot. G-for-Gross is supposed to be assisting me as well, but ever since he got promoted to Inspector he’s been impossible.’
‘Promoted—Bruno Gross? How did that happen?’ It was painful for Gemma to think of Bruno, with whom she’d had a brief, ill-judged affair nearly ten years earlier.
‘God knows. He must have blackmailed someone. Or bribed them. His idea of policing these days is to lock the door of the station, take the phone off the hook and put the telly on.’
‘What’s ViCLAS?’
‘Violent crime linkage analysis system. Supposed to identify and track serial offenders. They want to marry my VMOs with theirs. G-for weaselled out of it and dumped it on me. So here I am with a tower of files. Gotta go, hon.’
‘The name of the latest missing girl—is it Tasmin Summers?’
‘How’d you know that?’
‘Someone was looking for her yesterday, when I was at Netherleigh Park,’ explained Gemma, looking at her watch.
‘You’d better come in and we’ll have a chat,’ Angie suggested.
As Gemma looked in the fridge, deciding on what to eat, she wondered where Taxi was. He should have appeared by now, nagging for food. Finally she made a couple of cheese crackers, brewed a pot of tea and, deciding to do things in style to cheer herself up, fetched a large crystal jug and a tray from the large sideboard near the dining table. The tray, its decanters and the matching crystal jug were almost the only family possessions she still had. The decanters, wide and heavy-bottomed, were specially designed for stability on the tray in heavy seas and even the tray had a little
‘Mr Dowling,’ Gemma warned him, ‘without getting someone in there undercover, it could be impossible to find out how they really manage their business.’
‘I hoped you could just ask the right questions,’ he said, looking dejected.
‘Sometimes, that’s sufficient. I’ll see what I can do myself,’ she said, ‘and, should it become necessary to put someone in there, I’ll let you know before incurring any extra expenses.’ She touched his arm. ‘Now, how about a cup of tea?’
•
Gemma spent the rest of the morning compiling new files and writing up her notes on Mr Dowling. She reviewed the information he’d given her about Forever Diamonds and checked them on the net. She’d never had a case quite like this one before.
Then, she changed into her shorts and T-shirt and went for a run along the cliffs, hoping that a good sweat would relieve some of her stored-up grief and frustration. She stretched out, passing the eroding angels and broken columns of the seaside cemetery which contained her murdered mother’s grave. Fat skinks plopped off stone ledges and disappeared into the grass at her passing. No breeze came from the flat surface of the Pacific and she thought she must be mad to be running in the building heat.
Back home, she showered and changed and went to her office. She checked her mobile—there was a text message from Angie: Call me .
‘I can’t talk for long,’ said Angie, sounding strung out. ‘It’s jumping round here. Another girl’s gone missing. From the same school.’
‘Netherleigh Park? I was only there yesterday. Thanks for the referral, by the way. The principal wants me to work on Amy Bernhard’s disappearance.’ Gemma paused.
‘So you’ve met Madame Beatrice de B? She’s really something, isn’t she?’ Angie lowered her voice. ‘It’s a madhouse here. Half are off on sick leave, half are at court and the other half are just plain mad.’
‘That’s three halves, Ange.’
‘Smartypants! I’m supposed to be compiling a list of possible VMOs—violent major offenders—for the boss so he can send them on to ViCLAS at the Crime Commission. Plus I’m on call-out for hostage negotiation.’
‘Well, Ange, you always say you like it hot.’
‘Not this hot. G-for-Gross is supposed to be assisting me as well, but ever since he got promoted to Inspector he’s been impossible.’
‘Promoted—Bruno Gross? How did that happen?’ It was painful for Gemma to think of Bruno, with whom she’d had a brief, ill-judged affair nearly ten years earlier.
‘God knows. He must have blackmailed someone. Or bribed them. His idea of policing these days is to lock the door of the station, take the phone off the hook and put the telly on.’
‘What’s ViCLAS?’
‘Violent crime linkage analysis system. Supposed to identify and track serial offenders. They want to marry my VMOs with theirs. G-for weaselled out of it and dumped it on me. So here I am with a tower of files. Gotta go, hon.’
‘The name of the latest missing girl—is it Tasmin Summers?’
‘How’d you know that?’
‘Someone was looking for her yesterday, when I was at Netherleigh Park,’ explained Gemma, looking at her watch.
‘You’d better come in and we’ll have a chat,’ Angie suggested.
As Gemma looked in the fridge, deciding on what to eat, she wondered where Taxi was. He should have appeared by now, nagging for food. Finally she made a couple of cheese crackers, brewed a pot of tea and, deciding to do things in style to cheer herself up, fetched a large crystal jug and a tray from the large sideboard near the dining table. The tray, its decanters and the matching crystal jug were almost the only family possessions she still had. The decanters, wide and heavy-bottomed, were specially designed for stability on the tray in heavy seas and even the tray had a little
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