Cold in Hand by John Harvey Read Free Book Online Page B

wasn't like Charlie to go for broke like that, but she was glad that he had.
    Thanking the woman, she took the flowers back inside. Red, yellow, and white roses, some barely out of bud, surrounded by wisps of decorative grass and fern. Beautiful.
    Pulling off the small envelope attached to the wrapping, she ran water into the sink and slid the stems down into it until they were well covered. They could rest there until she'd unearthed a suitable vase.
    Her nail was long enough to slide under the envelope corner and tear it across.
    It was the usual cream-coloured card with embossed flowers around the edge. The writing was small, yet distinct. Not Charlie's at all.
Hope you're recuperating well. Next time remember to duck!
    Stuart D.
    PS. Maybe you should come and work for us instead.
    Stuart D.? Stuart D.? For no good reason, the skin at the back of her arms went cold. She couldn't think who it was—and then she could.
    Stuart Daines.
    Stuart D.
    Tall, stepping towards her, smiling. Holding out his hand.
    It had been at a SOCA conference she had attended the previous November. SOCA: the Serious and Organised Crime Agency, set up to combat various kinds of high-level national and international crime and mostly staffed by ex-police and ex–Customs and Excise. Tobacco smuggling, people trafficking, the illegal transit and sale of weapons. On paper, the buzzwords had all sounded quite attractive, but none of the speakers, with the possible exception of one, who had talked enthusiastically about the need for closer cooperation at grassroots level, had been particularly convincing.
    And speaking, in one of the breaks, to a former Detective Inspector from the West Midlands, who had joined up and rapidly become disenchanted, had further convinced Lynn to steer well clear. Too many training courses, too much internal wrangling, not enough practical, hardheaded investigation.
    She had just finished talking to him and was heading back towards the conference room when the speaker who'd impressed her cut across her path.
    "Our friend from Sutton Coldfield bending your ear?"
    "Something like that."
    "Not a happy bunny."
    "No?"
    "Thought it was going to be all James Bond," he said, smiling. "Finds out it's hard work instead."
    Lynn found herself smiling, too.
    "Stuart." He held out his hand. "Stuart Daines."
    "Lynn Kellogg."
    He nodded. "Notts Force, right? DI. Major Crimes—or is it Homicide these days?"
    "Homicide."
    "You thinking of transferring? Giving SOCA a go?"
    "Not really."
    "Shame."
    Daines was close to six foot, an unstructured cotton-linen suit hanging easily from his lean body, dark hair prematurely
greying at the sides. Late thirties, Lynn thought? Maybe forty. One brown eye had a fleck of green at the far corner, like a flawed stone.
    "I enjoyed your talk earlier," she said.
    "One of the few, then."
    "Not at all."
    "Speak about liaising with local forces, setting up viable targets in the provinces, and most of this lot don't want to know. Anything fifty miles out of London, they think everyone's going to be wearing loincloths and painting themselves blue."
    Lynn laughed. "Nottingham city centre on a Friday night."
    "I'll take your word for it."
    He was looking at her in a way that made her feel less than comfortable.
    "You staying down?"
    Lynn shook her head. "Back up on the 7:30 train."
    "A pity. We could've had a drink, gone for a meal."
    "I doubt it," she said.
    When she got to the conference-room door, she quickly turned her head. He was still standing in the same spot, looking directly at her.
    Stuart Daines.
    Too fond of himself by half.
    She slipped the card back into its envelope and slid it between two jars on the shelf. There was a vase standing empty in the living-room fireplace that would do.
    For a few moments, the goose pimples returned to her arms. How had he known where to send the flowers? How had he known where she lived?
    She set the kettle to boil for some tea and thought about calling Resnick at work,