Death in the Sunshine (Retired Detectives Club, #1)(40)

Yes, she sees the logic and the benefits. But, still, she doesn’t like it.





21


PHILIP


He can see the disappointment on Moira’s face – disappointment and frustration – and he understands that. He wants to keep the stuff they’ve discovered to themselves too, if the truth be told. But he’s a stickler for the rules, always has been, even back in the day when the blokes would take the piss out of him and call him ‘Follower Philip’ at police training school. He’d got the last laugh, mind you. As DCI some of the people he’d trained with ended up serving under him. He smiles to himself at the memory. Then he remembers that some of them are still working; they weren’t forced into retirement like him. Suddenly, rather than being his, the last laugh seems to have been on him.

Despite what happened, he still believes that rules are necessary for society to function well and not descend into chaos. You need structure to keep focused on the greater good and maintain law and order. Even those charged with upholding the law need rules to make sure they discharge their duties well. He grimaces. Even those responsible for upholding the law make mistakes sometimes.

Leaving the others sitting on the patio, Philip walks through the kitchen to the hallway. He can still hear them talking about the fruits of their afternoon of investigation. What they’re doing now is outside of the rules. He knows that, and he encouraged it. Philip purses his lips. Tries to figure out where that came from. Breaking the rules is so unlike him.

He crosses the entrance hall and opens the door to his study. Switching the light on, he stands in the doorway and looks at the space – his domain: the book-filled built-ins with true crime and thrillers on the middle shelves and forensics and investigative textbooks on the uppers. The big oak desk with the green leather pad in the middle, and the high-backed ergonomic chair that’s the spitting image of the one he’d had at the police station as DCI.

Philip frowns. Is that what this investigation is about? Is he trying to rekindle his old life? He misses it bad; misses it like a piece of him was amputated on the day he retired. If he’s honest about it he misses it as much, and maybe even a bit more, than he does his own children.

Maybe that’s why he let that Detective Golding get to him.

Philip shakes his head. Was he too hasty writing off the detective bloke? The man had gone a lot of hours over clocking-off time due to catching the murder at the end of his shift; it’s likely he wasn’t thinking or acting his best. Could be he’d have handled their conversation better if he’d been fresher.

Philip thinks back to the conversation. Remembers how angry he was. How the tightness in his chest began the moment he heard the guy’s condescending tone and ratcheted up another notch with every word he spoke. Philip doesn’t think his clearest when he gets cross, Lizzie always tells him that. So it’s possible he might have let his own emotions get the better of him. He hates being outside of the action, and detests being talked down to even more. The bloke got his back up. And, as a result, the investigation had seemed a good thing to do. But they’ve found things now – proper evidence; the phone that had been recently buried and that hairclip Lizzie fished out of the pool filter. And Lizzie could have been seen, been watched, by the killer.

Perhaps he should give the detective another chance. That’s fair. Reasonable. He nods to himself. Reasonable, that’s it. He’s always prided himself on being fair and reasonable.

Dialling the detective’s number, Philip waits for the call to connect. He tells himself to play it cool. Be calm and give the man a chance, even if he’d hung up on him the last time.

The phone’s answered in two rings. ‘Golding here.’

‘Detective Golding, this is Philip Sweetman over at Ocean Mist.’

‘Yes?’ The detective’s tone is frosty.

Philip presses on. Reminding himself to be calm, reasonable; to give the man the opportunity to do the right thing. ‘I’ve got some more information I think you need to hear about. We’ve—’

‘Let me stop you right there, sir.’ Golding’s words are thick with condescension. ‘Like I said earlier, this is police business now and you seniors have no place trying to meddle in a—’

‘But this is important.’ Philip clenches his fingers tighter around the phone. He needs Golding to hear what they’ve found. ‘We’ve visited the crime scene, and we’ve—’

‘I said enough, goddammit.’ Golding’s voice is louder now. The condescending tone has been replaced with irritation. ‘Now listen to me. You need to stop meddling and stop calling. I’ve got a job to do, and you need to let me do it. I don’t need your help. I don’t want your help. So quit calling.’

Philip’s silent for a moment. Shocked. Feels the anger bubbling in his belly. The audacity of the man – the refusal to even listen – is infuriating. He hardens his tone. Bangs his fist against the oak desk as he speaks. ‘You have to hear me out on—’

‘Goodbye.’ The way Golding says the word makes it sound more like a growl. Seconds later the call disconnects.

Philip’s heart is bashing against his ribcage as if it’s trying to break out. He puts his hand against his chest. He’s not meant to get overexcited; the doc warned him about that, told him he needed an easy life, stress free. He clenches his fist. Presses it harder against his chest. There’s nothing stress free about interacting with bloody Detective Golding.