The Moor (DCI Ryan Mysteries, #11)(49)
Lowerson pasted a blinding smile on his face.
“Right! Yes! Great. That’s great. For you. I’m happy, I mean. Happy, for you.”
He shouldered through the door leading to the executive suite and walked quickly up the stairs, calling himself all kinds of idiot.
He had obviously misread her signals, completely.
CHAPTER 26
Rochelle White stared fixedly at herself in the long mirror in the dressing room. It was a beautiful room, designed by herself, for herself, and funded by the man who lay sprawled on the bed next door.
“Babe! What’s taking so long?”
Her whole body jerked at the sound of his voice and she was galvanised, hurrying across to one of the rails. She was again racked by indecision, her manicured hand hovering over the rows of expensive fabric.
“Everything alright?”
She spun around to find her boyfriend leaning against the doorway, already resplendent in his dark dinner suit.
“I’ll—just be a minute,” she said. “I can’t decide what to wear.”
Her skin crawled as his arms came around her midriff, then moved up to cup her breasts through the filmy bra she wore.
“Maybe we should stay in, after all,” he muttered thickly, rubbing against the back of her legs.
She tasted bile, but managed to swallow it and turn to him with a teasing expression.
“You know you can’t cancel, now,” she said, gently nudging him away. “You’re sponsoring the event tonight.”
With a dramatic sigh, he reached across and selected a slinky red number that went well with her skin tone and hair.
“Wear this one,” he said. “But leave the bra off.”
It was not a request.
She gave him a pliant smile and unhooked her bra, feeling his eyes running all over her as she hurriedly zipped herself into the dress. She was about to slip into a pair of matching red heels, when his voice stopped her again.
“The gold ones would look better.”
She smiled again, and reached for them with shaking fingers.
When she was ready, he took her chin in a firm grip, tugging her face towards him until his lips were almost touching her own.
“Never, ever push me away again,” he whispered, then gave her a hard kiss. “Time to go.”
“I’ll—I’ll meet you downstairs. I just need to use the loo.”
He nodded.
“Be quick.”
After he left, she sank down onto the small sofa and willed the trembling to stop.
She had to get out.
He knew.
He had to know.
If he knew, she would be next.
Just then, a phone started to vibrate. Not her ordinary phone, but the one she kept hidden away, in a compartment she’d built herself.
It couldn’t be ringing.
It wasn’t possible.
Her eyes flew to the door, as she scrambled to find it before Bobby came back.
*
“The tech team managed to unlock the phone,” Lowerson said.
Yates looked up from her jacket potato, hating the formality between them, now.
“Oh, yes? Did they find anything interesting?”
“Well, it obviously wasn’t Dan Hepple’s main phone, because it was almost empty. However, it seems you were right about there being a woman in his life, because there was a bunch of compromising pictures and a fair number of saucy text messages.”
He forced a smile.
“What’s her name?” Yates asked. “Anything we can use?”
“She’s just listed as ‘R’ in the phone, but I’m going to try calling the number and see who we find at the other end.”
“Don’t you want to trace it?” she asked.
Lowerson pulled a face.
“Could take days and, even then, nothing could come back.”
Yates knew burners could be hard to trace; that’s why they were so popular amongst a certain class of criminals and married men.
“Let’s hope her husband doesn’t answer,” she said, as he dialled the number.
*
Rochelle clawed at the panel in her shoe rack until she could grasp the mobile phone hidden behind it. She only had moments before Bobby would come to look for her, if he wasn’t already on his way.
She pressed the ‘mute’ button, and hurried into the adjoining en-suite, locking the door behind her.
The phone still vibrated in her hand.
The only person who knew this number was Dan—or so she thought.
Was this a trick?
Would she answer, only to find Bobby laughing at her on the other end of the line?
Her lip trembled, and she willed herself not to cry. It would ruin her make-up, and then he’d know something was wrong.
The phone was still ringing.
With a shaking finger, she pressed the green button.
“Hello?” she whispered.
*
Lowerson sat up in his chair and gave Yates the ‘thumbs-up’ signal.
“Oh, ah, hello. Who am I speaking to?”
At the other end of the line, Rochelle frowned.
“Is this a cold call, or something?”
“No, no. My name is Detective Constable Jack Lowerson, from Northumbria CID. We found this number listed on a phone belonging to a man named Daniel Hepple. We’re hoping you can help us with some enquiries.”