chest dislodge, turn over. He knew she was waiting for him to ask the question. He wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. And he didn’t want to hear her response.
She waited. Realising he wasn’t going to ask, she leant in even further, her mouth right on his ear.
‘You know who I am. I’m your wife. Marina…’
Phil felt his body stiffen in revulsion.
‘And you’re mine, Phil.’
He felt her hand move over the duvet, make its way down his body.
‘Mine…’
11
I mani knocked on another door in Phil and Marina’s street in Moseley village. Old Edwardian and thirties houses, substantial and solid, a suburban part of Birmingham but with enough character in pubs, restaurants, non-chain shops and residents to still justify calling itself a village.
She hadn’t expected much and so far she hadn’t been disappointed. Most of the houses on the street were empty. People at work, school runs done and off into town, or just not answering the door. The only ones who had answered her had been elderly and lonely. They invited her in, made or offered her tea. Tried and tried to think if they had seen anything, willing an image or a memory to mind, not wanting to disappoint this young and attractive woman, to prove they could still be of some use, but ultimately had nothing to tell her. Imani didn’t hint, didn’t lead in the questioning, didn’t want them to pick up on something she said and confirm it just to make her happy. She offered no clues. They gave her no answers. But she was fairly well versed on the occupations and spread geography of their offsprings. The two uniforms she had with her were, she presumed, making a similar lack of progress.
She knocked and waited at the latest door. Idly checked her watch and found herself agreeing with Marina. Yes, this was procedure, yes, it was to be followed. But all the while she was doing this, whoever had taken Phil – and that was looking increasingly likely – was getting further away.
Further thought was stopped. The door opened. There stood an old woman. Here we go again, thought Imani.
She held up her warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Imani Oliver.’ She put the card down, smiled. Reassuringly, she hoped. ‘We’re doing door-to-door enquiries in this area. Could I ask you a few questions, please?’
The woman immediately became suspicious, glancing behind Imani, up and down the street. ‘What about?’
She took a photo from her pocket, showed it to her. ‘Have you seen this man?’
‘I don’t have my glasses on…’ The woman picked up the photo, scrutinised it. ‘Wait a moment.’ She turned, left Imani on the doorstep. She returned quickly with her glasses, resumed looking.
Imani watched her. Eventually the woman looked up, pointed to the photo. ‘He lives over there.’ She looked quizzically at Imani. ‘Is he in trouble?’
Imani ignored the question. ‘Have you seen him this morning?’
The woman looked up at Imani. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Getting into a car.’
Imani felt her heart thud.
‘Could I come in, please?’
Imani sat on the sofa, the woman opposite in an armchair. An open book lay on the arm of the chair. Imani tried to read the spine, make out what it was. Some non-fiction history. Not the cheap supermarket romance she had been expecting. And she hadn’t been offered tea, either.
‘Joan Harrison,’ said the woman by way of an introduction. Imani smiled in turn.
‘Joan – d’you mind if I call you Joan?’
The woman shrugged. ‘It’s my name.’
‘Joan, what can you tell me about the man you saw this morning?’
‘He was getting into a car.’ Her voice didn’t betray her age at all. Clear and lucid, just like her eyes.
‘Can you describe the car?’
‘Large, silver. Looked expensive. Big and powerful. Cars aren’t my strong point, I’m afraid.’ She gave a small smile. Like she was testing how it would fit her features. ‘If it had been a hansom cab or a sedan chair or litter,
She waited. Realising he wasn’t going to ask, she leant in even further, her mouth right on his ear.
‘You know who I am. I’m your wife. Marina…’
Phil felt his body stiffen in revulsion.
‘And you’re mine, Phil.’
He felt her hand move over the duvet, make its way down his body.
‘Mine…’
11
I mani knocked on another door in Phil and Marina’s street in Moseley village. Old Edwardian and thirties houses, substantial and solid, a suburban part of Birmingham but with enough character in pubs, restaurants, non-chain shops and residents to still justify calling itself a village.
She hadn’t expected much and so far she hadn’t been disappointed. Most of the houses on the street were empty. People at work, school runs done and off into town, or just not answering the door. The only ones who had answered her had been elderly and lonely. They invited her in, made or offered her tea. Tried and tried to think if they had seen anything, willing an image or a memory to mind, not wanting to disappoint this young and attractive woman, to prove they could still be of some use, but ultimately had nothing to tell her. Imani didn’t hint, didn’t lead in the questioning, didn’t want them to pick up on something she said and confirm it just to make her happy. She offered no clues. They gave her no answers. But she was fairly well versed on the occupations and spread geography of their offsprings. The two uniforms she had with her were, she presumed, making a similar lack of progress.
She knocked and waited at the latest door. Idly checked her watch and found herself agreeing with Marina. Yes, this was procedure, yes, it was to be followed. But all the while she was doing this, whoever had taken Phil – and that was looking increasingly likely – was getting further away.
Further thought was stopped. The door opened. There stood an old woman. Here we go again, thought Imani.
She held up her warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Imani Oliver.’ She put the card down, smiled. Reassuringly, she hoped. ‘We’re doing door-to-door enquiries in this area. Could I ask you a few questions, please?’
The woman immediately became suspicious, glancing behind Imani, up and down the street. ‘What about?’
She took a photo from her pocket, showed it to her. ‘Have you seen this man?’
‘I don’t have my glasses on…’ The woman picked up the photo, scrutinised it. ‘Wait a moment.’ She turned, left Imani on the doorstep. She returned quickly with her glasses, resumed looking.
Imani watched her. Eventually the woman looked up, pointed to the photo. ‘He lives over there.’ She looked quizzically at Imani. ‘Is he in trouble?’
Imani ignored the question. ‘Have you seen him this morning?’
The woman looked up at Imani. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Getting into a car.’
Imani felt her heart thud.
‘Could I come in, please?’
Imani sat on the sofa, the woman opposite in an armchair. An open book lay on the arm of the chair. Imani tried to read the spine, make out what it was. Some non-fiction history. Not the cheap supermarket romance she had been expecting. And she hadn’t been offered tea, either.
‘Joan Harrison,’ said the woman by way of an introduction. Imani smiled in turn.
‘Joan – d’you mind if I call you Joan?’
The woman shrugged. ‘It’s my name.’
‘Joan, what can you tell me about the man you saw this morning?’
‘He was getting into a car.’ Her voice didn’t betray her age at all. Clear and lucid, just like her eyes.
‘Can you describe the car?’
‘Large, silver. Looked expensive. Big and powerful. Cars aren’t my strong point, I’m afraid.’ She gave a small smile. Like she was testing how it would fit her features. ‘If it had been a hansom cab or a sedan chair or litter,
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