Death in the Sunshine (Retired Detectives Club, #1)(12)

‘The cops are establishing the facts now,’ Philip continues. ‘But the victim was a young woman, too young to be a resident here. There’s no ID right now, but—’

Hank pushes his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose. ‘Why don’t they know who she is? How did she get here?’

‘Every entrance is gated, there should be a record,’ says Donald, running a hand across his chin. ‘They’ll get her name from that.’

‘But people won’t feel safe in their homes,’ says Dorothy. Her eyes are tearing up behind her glasses. ‘It’s bad enough with the burglaries, but murder? Who would do such a thing? Our little neighbourhood used to feel so safe but now—’

‘It’s outsiders coming in, has to be.’ Rory’s clenching his fists and his face is getting red. ‘They’re coming into our community and terrorising our residents . . .’

‘Yeah, this all started same time as the construction over in district eleven,’ says Donald. ‘We had no crime before then, but those workers came in and suddenly it’s like we’re crime central.’

Rick watches the group. He can tell from the voices of those closest to him, and the body language of those further away, that the tension is rising. He glances at Philip. Knows that Philip’s style is to let them talk themselves out, then once they’re done, focus on taking action – it’s the tactic he used after the first few burglaries – but he needs to step in sooner today. Take control.

‘Yeah, first the burglaries, now homicide,’ agrees Clint. ‘My grandkids visit on the weekends. It’s no good if this place isn’t safe for them.’

‘For sure,’ says Rick. ‘We need to help the cops solve this. That’s why we called the meeting.’

There’s uncertainty on the patrollers’ faces now. Fear too.

‘How can we do that?’ asks Dorothy. She’s petite and must be pushing eighty years old, but Rick can tell there’s a steely core to her. With her white hair pulled into a tight bun and her pink twinset and pearls, she reminds him of the stern maths teacher he had in seventh grade.

‘We’ve been patrolling the streets at night for weeks now, ma’am, and we were out there last night. Between us, we know things the cops don’t. We need to make that intelligence available for them.’

Dorothy nods. There are murmurs of agreement from around the group.

‘So how are we going to do that?’ Donald says.

‘Firstly, I need your weekly logs a day early – we’ll drop by you all this afternoon and collect them, so please have them ready,’ says Philip. ‘And secondly, I need you all to look at a photo. It’s not pleasant, but it could help the police ID the victim.’

‘You want us to look at a picture of the dead girl?’ asks Dorothy, her expression real serious.

Philip looks solemn. ‘That I do.’

There’s silence. Rick’s not sure what way the group will go on this. It’s always hard to say with civilians. Over the years he’s gotten used to crime-scene pictures and dead bodies up close. Didn’t like it, but that was part of the job. Things didn’t always go right. People didn’t always make good choices. It was a bad day if someone ended up dead, but in the world of narcotics it was something you just had to deal with. Rick looks at Dorothy. ‘Can you do that?’

Dorothy holds his gaze for a long moment, then nods. ‘I want this murdering asshole caught,’ she says firmly. She looks at Philip. ‘Okay, let’s see this photo.’





7


MOIRA


Silence.

With the dogs out in the garden the house feels strangely empty. It reminds her of how her London apartment had felt towards the end – empty and soulless. As if the joy had been sucked right out of the space, just as it had been out of her. Up until that last job her work had been the love of her life, but what happened with McCord changed that, and afterwards things felt different, wrong.

PTSD, that’s what the police doc had said. They told her that with cognitive behaviour therapy and her personalised coping strategies it’d get better with time. That the nightmares would lessen, and she’d keep the panic attacks under control. They must have believed it too, because they’d kept her on paid sick leave and the doc met her once a week to help her work through her shit. And it did help, a bit. But, as she could only ever bring herself to tell them half the story, she supposed she could only ever get half better. And as you can’t have a panic attack in the middle of an undercover operation, her offering to take early retirement seemed the best option for everyone; the safest option. Because the very last thing she’d choose to do was to endanger her colleagues. Again.

And now she’s here.

She gulps down the last of her orange juice and puts the glass in the sink. The nausea and light-headedness are gone now, and her legs feel less wobbly. It must have been low blood sugar causing them, as she’d thought. It certainly wasn’t a panic attack.

Walking across the kitchen to the back door, she steps out into the garden to see what the dogs are up to. Wolfie, the small fluffy mixed-breed terrier, is chasing Marigold, the leggy juvenile Labrador, around the bushes. Pip, the elderly sausage dog, is lying on his back in his favourite dirt patch, sunning himself. When he sees her looking at him, he raises his front legs, encouraging her to tickle his tummy.