Riley was beckoned first thing in the morning again when he came into work on Monday. He grabbed a cup of coffee and then joined Clarke in her office. Perhaps there was news about the foot, although the labs did not operate on Sundays. But he did not really need a confirmation from the lab that the foot had been planted by the same person who had left the other body parts behind. It would be a complication, however, if the foot turned out to belong to another body.
He sat down and waited. It had to be about a case. He did not expect anything about her private life or his. If she had wanted to share anything she could have done that the day before. Work, where offices had glass doors and windows, was not the best setting.
Clarke looked as excited as she could look at work. It was the clothes that were holding her back, he decided. With the wrong sort of clothes she never rose above the emotional level of an ice cube, with the right sort of clothes she could be normal, and with no clothes at all she could be -- he took a sip of his coffee to distract himself. It was still a little hot and he grimaced.
When she was not before him he could not disregard that the force's website said she was fifty-two and this made him absolutely certain that such an incident would never occur again. When faced with her, however, he could only think she did not look that old at all. He was fairly sure it was wrong, but bringing it up would be insulting in any case.
She spoke. "I checked my photos against photos and descriptions of stolen art and there may be a match."
Riley nursed his scorched tongue. "How could you see that? You could hardly make out what was in the photos at all."
"That is why I said may be."
"Have you been back to check if it was still there?" Somehow he doubted that stolen art would be kept in a semi-public place for too long. If it was still there, it was not stolen. If it was gone, it might be stolen. Not or maybe. The odds were clearly against it being stolen.
"I need someone to lift me up," Clarke said with a dignified look. She clearly disliked that fact.
"A ladder?" Riley suggested.
"What a brilliant plan," she said scathingly. Evidently she could not imagine herself carrying a ladder around.
"I know I'm brilliant. I thought you had some information about the foot." This was a waste of time. Or maybe he was a little piqued that she was behaving as if nothing had happened. Was he? Or was he glad for it?
He had been wondering for most of the Sunday what she would do, but he had never imagined her contemplating to use him again for her private snooping. From her less than friendly exterior he gathered he was only useful for lifting her up. This briefly made him wonder if he had been a disappointment, but that was something he would never ask.
"The foot." She spoke as if she had no idea what he was talking about.
"My case?" The real case, he wanted to add, not the one that was a figment of someone's imagination.
"It's on the board."
"I haven't been to the board yet, because you called me in here," Riley said very patiently.
"I have a meeting anyway," she said, getting up. "I'll get back to you about the art case. Think about it."
"About what?"
"You'll know, if you're really as brilliant as you say."
She locked her office and Riley was free to go. He went to the incident room and looked at the board. Someone had replaced the pins on the map with small pieces of paper that represented the body parts that had been found so far. Once all the parts had been found there would be a body on the map. He groaned. "Miss Arts and Crafts at work?"
"The Ice Cube did that," said O'Neill with an eye roll.
"I wonder where she finds the time."
"She was here all weekend. Why do you allow her to interfere? This is your thing."
"She's not interfering yet."
"But we noticed she's been calling you in much more often."
"Only me?" Clarke had of course called him in for her extracurricular activities, which he could not mention to O'Neill. If she had not spoken to any others she was not interfering in the case.
"Thank goodness for that! Isn't the investigation going according to her wishes? Are we taking too long? I'm sure she would have caught the culprit in a day or so, but we are human."
"Give us a chance to be good," said Riley with a forced laugh. Even he was sometimes in doubt as to whether Clarke was human. "Would it be to our credit if we accidentally caught the butcher dumping a foot?"
"Well, we wouldn't tell anyone it was accidental, certainly not the media. It'd be the result of careful investigating."
"True."
"But I'm sure the Ice Cube thinks we ought to know where to be accidentally in order to...and so forth."
"We have too much paperwork to be anywhere but here accidentally." He tended to put that off like his cleaning, but he had a meeting that afternoon with all the senior officers and that required some work in advance. But paperwork was welcome; it would take his mind off humans.
Riley was late to his meeting. There had been a queue at the bakery, to which he had gone at the last moment, but he trusted he would be excused. He had brought treats after all. It was his birthday.
"Twenty-five? Thirty?" asked someone. "What's the occasion?"
Riley was the youngest in the room and he knew it, but he had not known he looked so young. In fact, he was certain he did not. They were only asserting their seniority. They were probably all over forty, as if that mattered. "Thirty-five."
"Oh god," Clarke said under her breath.
He knew why she said it, but it could not be helped. It was something she could have known before, too. He had not intended to rub her face in it. Besides, he would think it a great deal better to find he was only thirty-five than for him to find out she was fifty-two. She must be using some really good facial creams.
The day before his parents and a few friends had come over, and he knew his mother had been waiting for Clarke to appear. She had not, of course, because she had not known and he had not invited her. He hoped his mother would interpret Clarke's absence from his birthday correctly: there was no affair.
Why his mother was so interested in his love life was a mystery. Maybe she was thinking he ought to settle and get married, though there would be little sense in wanting him to settle with a woman in her fifties. But it was impossible to guess what his mother was thinking or expecting. He should not even be thinking of it.
Speaking of incomprehensible women, Clarke was even worse. He had no idea what was on her mind, except probably a great desire to forget everything about Saturday morning. Still, she behaved as if she had already put it behind her. Being cool and curt was nothing new for her.
He could not be as quick. Telling anybody was out of the question, but he frequently thought of it. It was rationally inconceivable that something so embarrassing could have occurred at all, let alone that it had in fact been quite agreeable. He did not know what this revealed about himself. It was probably nothing good.
But then, he had not forced Clarke into anything. In fact, she had begun, something she would probably deny if he said so. She certainly seemed to regret it now.
"So..." he said after the meeting, carrying the rest of his treats for this team. Clarke and he had to walk in the same direction. She walked ahead of him, though, and he hurried to catch up. "I have thought about it. What?"
"Only a peek."
Nothing else. Nothing at home. He understood and he had not expected or wanted anything else. But he had to ask when everyone else was out of earshot. "Did my having a birthday shock you?"
"I hadn't thought you'd had quite so many already."
He rolled his eyes. "I don't use the same brand of facial creams as you. When? The peek."
"Tonight. I don't like wasting time. I'll pick you up at eight. Unless you have birthday celebrations planned?" She almost looked disappointed.
"I had those yesterday."
"I hope you tidied up a little."
"That would look suspicious." He knew what his mother would conclude if she suddenly found a clean and tidy house. She was clearly on his case, as doggedly in pursuit of the affair as Clarke was of her stolen art.
"Why?"
"Because I never tidy up. I was just thinking I was glad I have only one mother, but..." He was satisfied to see her glare and walk away, but he did not doubt that she would put her irritation aside when she needed him for her investigation. Women were strange.
Clarke went home. She did her grocery shopping, cooked and ate her dinner. Then she changed her clothes, ironed a few blouses and left her flat. She enjoyed the peace and quiet at home after a long day at work, but she also enjoyed investigating and this time she would be back to her quiet home. She was going to sleep in her own bed.
Riley was talking to a blonde girl outside his building, but he said goodbye to her with a wave when he saw Clarke's car.
She resisted the urge to ask who the girl was. It was probably a neighbour and she had no business wondering. "Have you eaten?" she asked instead.
"Yes. I even did my laundry. Are we going to wait in the car again?" He looked at his watch. "For two hours?"
"No."
"What's on at the club tonight? More wine?"
"Wine is just once a month. Tonight it's an antiques fair." Her eyes gleamed, although she was unaware of it.
"Antiques fair? What a coincidence. You want some more decorations in your flat. They might direct you to the back rooms for their special supply. Which might not even have been stolen, but just stored there in preparation for the fair."
She knew it. It could be that, yet she did not think so. Locking a store room would be enough. There was no need for the security to interfere whenever someone came near. Why was there any security at all? It was wholly unnecessary. "Don't say it. Are you just coming along to prove me wrong?"
"No. I'm willing to help, but I'm not counting on results."
"I don't mind if we don't get results." She would have the satisfaction of having investigated anyhow. If she did nothing she might forever wonder.
"It beats watching the telly, doesn't it?"
She parked the car in front of the Treminster Club. It was considerably busier there than the previous times they were there. People were coming out of the building with all kinds of objects and even more people were still going in. Inside it was crowded. People shuffled past tables and larger items that stood on the floor.
"You know what we're looking for," she said to Riley in a low voice and then concentrated on the first table. It would be difficult to remember what they were looking for. Some of the old things were so interesting that she was still at the first table when Riley was already at the fourth.
After looking at all that was on offer she had to come to the conclusion that the figurines and vases she had photographed were not being sold anywhere. Strictly speaking they might not be antiques; she had not been able to see how old they were.
There were now so many people in the building that it was difficult for the men at the door to keep a close eye on everyone who went further than the lavatories. She pretended to be waiting for somebody and then rounded the corner. The room where she had seen the objects was somewhere on the right. She tried a few doors, but they were all locked.
There were footsteps behind her. She fully expected to see the security guard when she turned, but it was Riley. She could abandon thinking of explanations for her being there and continue to explore.
"What on earth are you doing?" he inquired.
"I wonder if we can get ourselves locked in," she mused. They would have to get into a room first, though.
"We can get ourselves kicked out, no doubt." He glanced over his shoulder, but there was still no one.
"Pick a lock, will you?" she smiled persuasively and pointed at one. "This one, I think."
He looked startled by her manner. "I think the next one."
"No, I'm sure..." She was almost sure, but he would be smug if she was wrong.
"Men are better at finding the way. Trust me. And I'm not going to pick anything. Sorry." He took a step back.
"You're really no help at all," Clarke said in frustration.
Riley had the nerve to find that funny. "I'm not going to break into a room for no reason. What gave you the idea that I would?"
"Rumours." There had been rumours, although never more than that. She was beginning to think they might have been wrong, perhaps spread by someone who was jealous of him -- even if she thought that only happened between women.
"The same type of rumours that said you slept your way up? I understand. You want to be right, but you won't find the loot there with tags that read 'I've been stolen'."
She wanted to ignore his very reasonable comment. "We won't get any further if we do nothing." And she also ignored that she had earlier said it did not matter if they got no further.
"Outside? Why don't we first check if there's anything in the room at all?"
She knew she glared, but the glare and Riley coming after her served her well when she passed the security guards. For their benefit, because they had come out to see who was going to win, she stamped her foot and headed for the side of the building. Riley's face was priceless.
"You know, I don't humour female theatricals," he said when he caught up with her. "There's no way I would have come after a woman who wasn't going to break into the building."
"There's no way I would have done it either. Come." She stopped walking when she reached the window they had looked into on Friday, after she had cautiously peeked into all other windows first. It was not yet very dark and no blinds were down.
There was nothing inside the room except furniture.
"Don't you say a word," said Clarke, but she heard nothing behind her, which was good. She could not refrain from looking into every next window she saw, but there was nothing that looked out of order anywhere. Only then did she look at Riley, who was looking a lot less smug than she had expected.
"Do you want to buy anything you saw at the fair?" he asked.
"I'm going to drop you off at your flat." She wanted to go home and take a bath, and wonder what had happened to the vases of the other day. "I'm sorry for having wasted your evening."
"If there was anything to be wasted I wouldn't have come along. I'm going to take a bath."
She almost said something.
On Tuesday Riley received word that the foot indeed belonged to 'their' body. The estimated time that it had begun to defrost was put between five and five thirty in the morning. This was not surprising to him, but it did not help him much further. He wondered why they even bothered to analyse such details.
Jones' men had sent a useless report. They had not found anyone with any information. This too did not surprise him. If they had had a more interested boss they would have received better orders, but Jones had been busier slandering Clarke and trying to impress him -- which had not been a good combination.
Lewis, on the other hand, had been busy for three days getting hold of all bus drivers and several regular passengers. She came into the incident room looking like a young version of Clarke in superhero mode. Only her tone was markedly different. "Sorry I was away for so long, sir," she said breathlessly.
"I told you not to come back without good news," said Riley, although he had been teasing then. He hoped the poor girl had not taken him too seriously. "And you're back..."
"I hope I found something."
"Sit down, sit down." He pulled an extra chair to his desk.
Lewis put her notebook on the table and opened it, although she did not look into it. "I found one bus driver and three passengers who saw a blue car near the restaurant last week. One of them was pretty sure it was a French model."
"You didn't tell them about the blue car in -- wherever it was, did you?" He recalled there had been a mention of a blue car in one of the previous locations, but it had been too vague to be useful. Asking witnesses about blue cars would surely yield a few sightings.
Lewis would never do such a thing. "Sir!"
"Good. Precisely what did the blue car do?"
"Well, it was either Monday or Tuesday or both. A blue car was seen stopping at the restaurant -- just outside the gate -- before it was open and someone else saw a blue car parked near a path where locals always walk their dogs. The locals, it seems, are very predictable, so the car stood out."
"Before the restaurant was open? When does it open on weekdays?"
"It was close to half past eight. It wasn't necessarily someone who doesn't work, if that's what you mean. Oh, and it was thought to be a man."
Riley looked at the time line on the wall. The body parts had all been left early in the morning, but reconnaissance missions might have taken place during the day. He wondered if there was anything they could do with a pattern, should one emerge. Parts had been dumped every tenth day, which was good as far as predictions for the next time went, but it told them very little about the killer's daily life. What could be concluded was that the perpetrator was at liberty to drive some distance early in the morning on any day he wished, but that counted for many people.
And his car might be blue. It would have been more significant had a yellow car been seen. It was easier to look out for too. They would be able to delineate an area where the next hand might turn up and keep a close eye on all blue cars, but there were so many. It would be rather useless, but it might be the only thing they could do.
"Lewis, my office," called Clarke from the doorway.
Lewis looked afraid. "Is that because I wasn't in yesterday, sir?" she asked Riley in a whisper. This was the first time she was being called to Clarke's office. She had heard from the men that it was awful.
It was because she had just emailed him the notes she had typed out and because he had just forwarded them to Clarke, so he smiled. It was always nice to see his emails were read instantly. He grabbed the girl's arm when she passed him. "Don't worry."
"What did Riley say?" Clarke inquired. She had seen that much before she turned away again.
"He said not to worry." The girl looked nervous. She still worried.
"He was right. Excellent work, Judy. What were you fearing?"
Lewis was tentatively pleased. "I didn't know if you knew I was still working on it yesterday. I'm not sure I was allowed to take so long. I forgot to ask the DCI and sort of got carried away." This was the first time she had been allowed to make her own decisions and she had wanted to do it well. Previously she had always been with someone more senior who had simply had her along to make notes.
"Excellent."
"Really?"
"You were supposed to find out if anybody had seen anything from the buses. Though it's easier to find the bus drivers, it ought to include the passengers."
"That's what I thought. But how do you know, ma'am? I've only just emailed my report to the DCI."
"He has my email address."
"You read quickly, ma'am," Lewis said in awe.
She could say he had summarised it in two lines, or she could say she opened his emails a little faster than others, but she said neither. He had done well too in sending Lewis, making use of her eagerness. The men might not have worked as hard during the weekend. Not all of them were good -- they could not be -- but the eager ones had to be encouraged. And females, naturally.
After having thought on it for an hour, Riley called his team together. "Here's what we'll do. We've every reason to suspect that our man drives a blue car and that he checks out dropping places beforehand. We -- some of you -- are going to do the same. After the torso, two feet and one hand we're expecting another hand next and we're also expecting to have nine days in between. A few have passed already, but it still gives him and us some time to check out the area. We know roughly where it may turn up.
"I want two things. One, check where you would leave a hand if you were him, places with the same characteristics as the previous places. You may need to drive or walk around this village for a few days and make a list of every suitable place.
"Two, while you're there you are to keep an eye on all blue cars you see, as well as on people who look as if they are also getting to know the area."
Someone raised his hand. "Wouldn't the lack of publicity affect his moves?"
"It might," Riley agreed. "We're hoping it will affect his moves to our advantage, of course -- that he will stick to his patterns but with mistakes, not that he'll change his patterns entirely." It was a gamble, but there was little else they could do. He was almost certain this plan was going to turn out useless as well, but he was sick of waiting for the next move of their opponent. There were absolutely no other clues to work with. Nobody had seen the man and he had left no traces.
"And how many are allowed to go?"
"Three pairs. I'm still waiting to hear whether our budget will allow anybody to stay overnight." He had sent off a quick message to Clarke. "In the meantime, is there anybody who does not want to go?"
There was no reply.
He laughed. He was the only one who thought he had better things to do. "I thought as much. O'Neill, you will pick five others and you will inform me every night, or as soon as you find something important. Check out that village in the meantime and find out if it's necessary to have some innocent purpose. It must be something that allows you to get around without scaring anyone away. No fishing, sorry."
"That sort of rules me out, doesn't it?" Lewis said with a disappointed look.
"What, you enjoy fishing?"
"No, the pairs thing and staying overnight. If that is going to be allowed."
"Does it? Unfortunately this team is mostly male, but if you don't mind and they don't mind I don't see why you couldn't pretend to be a couple with anybody."
"I'd mind -- and my boyfriend would too."
"Oh. I can see why he'd mind, but what do you think..." His voice trailed off when he remembered what had happened when a woman had innocently spent the night near him. Even he, although he had always thought differently, could apparently not say nothing would happen if a woman shared a room with him. Lewis was presumably not as starved as Clarke because she had a boyfriend, but one never knew.
"Sir?" called O'Neill a while later. "The website speaks of quaint little shops that are very popular. Won't we look suspicious walking up and down a shopping street? Or do we take Lewis and have a drink while she pretends to shop?"
Lewis perked up. She saw possibilities for being included in the trip.
"On no account will you have a drink while Lewis shops," Riley decided when he foresaw his men not giving the shopping streets enough attention. "I'll assign the shopping quarter to Lewis. Because of its apparent popularity someone needs to be there, but if Lewis covers the shopping streets the rest of you can stay clear of it."
She beamed. "Yay! I love you, sir!"
"Does the boyfriend not mind that?" he wondered. He would almost be blinded by his apparent popularity lately. First Clarke, then Jones and now Lewis. Unfortunately none of them were sincere.
"No overnight stays," said Clarke after she had summoned him. She could have phoned or sent an email, but all this walking kept her fit. "Only travel expenses."
Riley had expected as much. The budget ruled. "Though I have to say if they drive back and forth for a few days it may not be so much more expensive to stay a night."
"We can always see later if there is any need," she dismissed that.
"The team counts seven, by the way. Apparently Pell is full of quaint little shops and we can't rule out a shopping street as a location. Actually it fits all too well. Lewis will cover the shopping area."
"Lewis? On her own?" Although Lewis had shown some good initiative lately, she was still inexperienced. She might be looking around too obviously, or she would miss important clues. Clarke frowned.
"As you know, the rest of the team is male and males don't like shopping," he explained patiently.
"This is work!" They had to do whatever they were ordered, even if it was something as loathsome as shopping. They did not even have to go into any shops. She looked annoyed.
"But you know they will be less motivated if you force them," Riley reasoned. "They'd get tired and have a drink, if they didn't stick out first. I believe there are only a handful of shops. What would it look like if they walked up and down a short street without ever going into any shops? I can't imagine myself pretending to be shopping. And I don't have any other women to accompany Lewis."
"Sexist," Clarke hissed.
"Insightful," he corrected. There was nothing sexist about knowing his men did better at a task they enjoyed. He wondered if she enjoyed hissing as much as he did making her hiss.
"I'll go."
Riley was surprised. "You don't even have a handbag."
She looked completely baffled by that remark. "Why does one need a handbag to go shopping?"
"Actually I mean you're not very female, so why would you like shopping?" He pushed his chair backwards already. One of these days she was going to do more than hiss.
"I hope you employ better logic when you're working," she replied.
It fell to him to break the good news to Lewis, which he found he could not do without looking and sounding bemused. Clarke had offered to go.
"Shopping with the superintendent," Lewis said doubtfully, "do you think that could be any fun, sir?"
"This is work!" Riley repeated what Clarke had said, albeit in a nicer tone. Contrary to her he was tempted to laugh. He could well see what Lewis might find daunting. "And not fun. And you'd only be pretending to shop, wouldn't you?"
"I suppose. But what am I going to say to her? I suppose we have to talk sometimes."
"Er...I have no idea. I somehow always manage." Unless, of course, it was the morning after. Then he did not.
"But you're almost the same rank." To Lewis that made a great difference. Superintendent was something she might not ever reach and Riley was almost there.
"Don't let her hear that! She would disagree. Maybe you should go and ask her how she wants you to prepare? Her wishes would overrule mine."
Lewis stared at him as if that was madness.
"She's my boss. What she says goes," he clarified. "And she might be nice."
"Hmph," said Mann with a loud snort. He still had not forgotten how he had been reprimanded a few days before.
Clarke picked Lewis up at her house on Wednesday morning. She was puzzled to find that Lewis stared uncomprehendingly at her, until she thought it might be her flowery skirt. It had been a daring purchase and she had never worn it before. The shopping expedition on which she had bought it had also been the last shopping trip before this one -- and if she recalled it correctly she had bought it during a brief holiday abroad, a moment when one's taste and outlook differed significantly from at home.
"Are you as blind as Riley?" she wondered.
"Er..." said Lewis, no less confused.
"You look as if you've never seen me before."
"You look different, Superintendent," Lewis said respectfully.
"If everyone says so I may have to start believing that is true. Are you ready?"
"Yes, ma'am." Lewis suppressed a yawn. Although she was always at work at an early hour, Clarke had insisted on picking her up even earlier. She wondered why. It was barely seven o'clock and nobody could pretend to go shopping yet. "But isn't it a bit early?"
Clarke spoke briskly. "No. We're expecting things to happen before it gets busy, don't we?" Besides, she always got up at six and she had merely cut her exercising a little short. This was not early to her at all.
It was not that she wanted to make the most of her shopping time. She did in fact not enjoy it very much. Riley had been right about that, although he had too tactless a way of putting it ever to hear her agree. But it was work and it had to be done. It was not her job, but she would rather spend some time on it herself than hear others had done it badly. That had always been one of her faults, but usually it kept her in her office. Today she was going out.
Riley's case seemed hopeless. There had been three body parts and no clues, and the fourth body part had been no different in that regard. Any plan, as useless or far-fetched as it might seem, had to be tried. Clarke had more faith in Riley's hunches than he had in hers. She would participate and see if this plan led to anything. Keeping everyone behind their desks was guaranteed to be fruitless.
Although they had not shared any conclusions with the media, there had been one journalist who had figured out the nine-day interval and who had contacted her on the eleventh day, the Sunday she had spent mostly at work. Because he had been the only one, she had managed to strike a deal. More deals were probably not going to be possible. Something really needed to happen.
Wednesday it was quiet at work because seven people were out. Riley had planned to make some good progress on his paperwork, but then his mother rang. It surprised him, because it was only eight o'clock. She never rang that early, so he assumed it was serious -- an assumption he held for about two seconds.
"I noticed last Sunday that you need some things on your balcony," she said. "Other than sheets."
He was suspicious. "Things on my balcony? What sort of things?" He needed nothing on his balcony, certainly not things. His parents' garden was cluttered with all sorts of ugly decorations, statues and birdhouses. None of those were welcome on his balcony.
"It's so bare. A little decoration. I'm going shopping today. I know that if I leave it to you you wouldn't ever get anything at all, but --"
"But you know why? Because it's my balcony and I don't need things on it," he interrupted. Here he was trying to be professional and industrious, and his mother called him with this kind of nonsense. He wondered if he could be rude.
"Of course you wouldn't need it, but it would look good. I'm going to Pell with Anne. We're going to get some things for our houses and gardens. I may as well look out for you too."
"Pell?" he cried. He could not believe what he was hearing. She could not be going there, not today. He could not have become a character in a farce, but he feared that was exactly what had happened.
"Yes, what about it?"
"Nothing." He could not tell her about his team and certainly not about his boss. It was already too likely that she would run into Clarke by accident in such a small town. There was no need to increase the odds. "Quaint little shops, isn't it? Are you going to bring back quaint little rubbish?"
"Oh, James. Do you have to be like that?"
"I'm even holding back," he informed her.
Someone rang Clarke just when she was having a cup of tea with Lewis on a terrace that offered a great view of the shopping street. They had been sitting there since just before eight o'clock and they had at least forty-five more minutes to go. The shops were not open yet and apart from an old lady cleaning her windows, everyone else seemed to be going to work. There were no suspicious people or suspicious blue cars in sight. Plenty of blue cars, of course, but most were parked or driven off never to return by men and women in business suits.
"My mum is going shopping in Pell," said Riley.
Riley -- and his mum -- gave her a headache. This had promised to be a quiet and relaxing day, with no embarrassing thoughts, but it had of course been unrealistic to think it might actually last for more than an hour. "What's that got to do with me?"
"You may run into her."
She glanced down the only shopping street. That was likely. There was nowhere else to go if one was shopping. Lovely. "I'll say hello -- if she recognises me." Lately nobody seemed to do so, but she remembered that Riley's mother had only ever seen her when she was already looking different. She might have to try letting her hair down.
He groaned. "Seen anything yet?"
"We are having tea."
"I expressly forbade anyone to have tea on the job."
"That doesn't apply to me," Clarke reminded him snappily. She noticed that Lewis was looking at her. Letting the girl know who was on the phone was out of the question. She might have sounded a little too chummy. "The shops aren't open yet."
"Did you see anything while I was on the phone?" she asked Lewis when she had put her phone away, even though she had only talked for a few moments.
"No, ma'am."
Lewis had noted down some things in her notebook in her lap, which Clarke had seen. "What did you write down?"
"Some things the DCI asked me to write down, ma'am."
She had to tell Lewis not to call her ma'am in front of the waitress, although allowing her to call her Sophia was a bridge too far. Calling her nothing would do fine, but Lewis would still be behaving as if she was her personal secretary. The girl could not relax around her. "Such as?"
"Well, what is happening. People going to work and deliveries."
"I've been keeping an eye on those deliveries. Nothing looks more harmless than a delivery van, doesn't it? You'd hardly notice one."
"That's what the DCI said, ma'am." Lewis had noted down the names of the delivery companies if any were visible.
Clarke rubbed her temples. "I think that while we're out in public you should refrain from using words like the DCI and ma'am."
"Okay."
"Perhaps you could refrain from mentioning the man altogether?" It might be suspicious, but it would be much less annoying. It was bad enough that his mother was going to appear. She wondered if he had told his mother anything about his case. That would certainly deserve some disciplinary action and she could hardly believe that it was true, but it was too much of a coincidence that his mother was coming here to shop on this particular day.
Lewis was left to wonder why she could not mention Riley as Clarke went inside to order some more tea. It was still not even close to eight o'clock and they needed a legitimate reason to stay here. She ordered croissants to pass the time.
"I'm dieting," said Lewis with a grimace when the plate was set before her. "And I've already had some breakfast."
"I've had breakfast, I'm not dieting and people can still lift me." In spite of his protestations Riley had been able to lift her. He had only dropped her because it made him uncomfortable, she was sure. There was no reason not to eat. She was not too heavy.
Lewis grudgingly ate her croissant. "What's our plan, ma'am? Sorry. What's our plan?"
"As soon as the shops open, we'll start walking. We'll have to buy something somewhere. I'll do that."
"Okay. I don't mind buying anything. My sister is expecting a baby. I can get something for her."
"I'll keep an eye on the street while you look." Clarke did not think she was any good at picking gifts for expectant mothers. She imagined it was usually accompanied by lots of squealing, something she could not do. A moment later she realised that people might think she and her daughter were shopping for her grandchild. Well, at least she would appear a young grandmother.
It had taken a while for Lewis to find a shop in which she could buy something. Clarke had seen nothing she particularly needed or that she particularly wished to buy in front of Lewis, so they had simply browsed the shops and glanced in the shop windows, while keeping a close eye on the street.
But then Lewis had seen a shop in which she could score something that proved they were really shopping. Clarke hoped she would not have to squeal. That was not really her thing, although she was not as unperturbed as she would have liked. It was good that Lewis was not beside her.
"Superintendent," Mrs Riley said in surprise.
Clarke wanted to say she was undercover, but always being caught undercover was not believable if one had already been suspected once of lying about it. "Hello," she said instead, hoping that nobody would care that she was a superintendent. It could not matter to anyone in this shop. Thankfully Lewis was at the back and she would not wonder who this was. How would it look if she turned out to know Riley's mother?
"I almost didn't recognise you."
Clarke faked a smile. She had let her hair down for nothing then. Lewis had stared as if she had sprouted an extra head, but Mrs Riley here had recognised her instantly, when the manoeuvre had been meant for her. She was ashamed to have to resort to such manoeuvres, but at least it was better than ducking under a table.
"I got this for James," said the woman confidentially, opening her bag.
"Bedsheets?" Clarke inquired. She wished she did not sound so sharp, but if this meant that Riley had told his mother anything at all, she would kill him. It looked like bedsheets, but they looked awfully childish. "I didn't know he had a child."
"He doesn't, but he has a childish taste."
He did indeed and if she was ever so unfortunate again to be in Riley's bedroom she would have some more things to dispose of.
His mother closed the bag. "He couldn't sleep with sheets on his bed because they were hanging out to dry on his balcony."
"They'd still be hanging out to dry on his balcony if he had two sets." She was not sure what was considered the greater problem.
"Yes, but I thought it rather shabby that he had only one set."
"Well, it won't affect his functioning at work, will it?" That sounded catty, but really, she did not see why she had to be informed about Riley's bedsheets. They had nothing to do with her.
"I suppose it won't," Mrs Riley said with a doubtful look. "If I could leave it to him to buy such things for himself, I would, but he won't."
Good grief, he was not a baby, although it was probably true that he would not buy these things. "Then he doesn't need them, I'd say. I'd hate to cut this conversation short, but I'm working."
"Oh yes, you are always working, I heard." Mrs Riley's eyes travelled down to the baby shirts Clarke was holding.
She dropped the adorable little shirts back in the priced-off crate. "Excuse me. I'm afraid this is going to be entirely misconstrued," she muttered to herself. Where was Lewis? Where was her excuse for being here, before Riley's mother thought there were grandchildren on the horizon?
"I found some lovely stuff!" Lewis squealed in the back of the shop. "This is all so cute! It makes me want one of my own!"
Clarke was never going to admit something similar.
"What is the best rank to have one, ma'am?" Lewis asked.
"None. I'm going to have to leave the shop, because...baby things make me...eew."
Lewis looked sympathetic. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I hadn't realised you were unmarried and all."
"Er...I'll be outside." She nearly ran out of the shop. Yes, she was unmarried and in the eyes of someone as young as Lewis she must also be frustrated about being too old for everything. It might be true. She did not yet want to know if it was true.
Standing outside was much better. She had a better view of the street and did not have to pretend to be shopping. The street was more crowded now. It would be impossible to leave a cut-off hand anywhere without being noticed. Perhaps not impossible, but far too daring. It would not fit the rest of the case. If it was going to be left in this street at all, it would be much earlier.
Even now she was the only one paying attention to anything. It was much easier to do so outside and more agreeable too. She could understand why Riley and the rest of the men had not been eager to tackle this street. Perhaps he had been right and she was not very female, although he did have odd ideas about females.
She hoped Lewis would come out before Riley's mother did. Then she could lead Lewis away quickly before another conversation would ensue -- if Mrs Riley still wanted to talk to her. She had not exactly been graceful.
"I'm sorry," said Lewis when she came out.
"It's all right. It wasn't that. You just don't want to run into your lover's mother over baby clothes." Her normalcy had to be re-established, or else she would never have revealed such a thing.
"Your lover?" The girl's eyes were wide. "You have a lover, ma'am?"
"Yes, why not?" Clarke lied with a casual shrug. "But I don't want all the mothers who come attached to him."
And now it was even more imperative to avoid Mrs Riley, in case she would reveal who she and her son were. Clarke was comfortable with speaking of an anonymous lover, but not with much more.
Riley knew the women had had tea, but he had no idea where the male teams were. He hoped they were not also relaxing. The first one to ring him was Clarke. He had known she would come back the earliest, but he was nevertheless all anticipation.
"Nothing," she said. "We're coming back."
He was a little disappointed, although if something had happened, it would have happened much earlier and she would have notified him instantly. "All right. Did you run into my mother, by the way?"
"Yes. I'll tell you about that later." She sounded curt.
"Why?" He feared the worst. His mother could be annoying, especially when she sensed or imagined there was something that was being hidden from her. In this particular case she was not even wrong.
"Because it's not very important."
"Interfering mothers are annoying, biological or not," he said meaningfully. "Or don't you have a mother anymore?"
"Yes, she's eighty-six. That age comes with a different type of aggravations. But I need to drive now. Bye."
Eighty-six. So was his grandmother. He wanted to collapse on his desk.
"Alone?" Riley wondered when Judy Lewis returned all by herself. He had been wondering about Clarke and his mother. His mother's provocations were of a different nature from his and he did not know how Clarke would handle them. She could handle him well, but his mother was a different kettle of fish -- and women were not always nice to each other, it seemed.
"Yes, the superintendent went home to make herself ugly. She asked me to type out what we saw -- and did not see. We discussed that in the car." She sat down at her computer, ready for work.
"She went home to do what?" he exclaimed.
"To change her clothes. If you don't mind, sir, I'll type out my notes now. I don't think it's much. Sorry."
"Her clothes?" It made sense that she would change them, but he wondered who had used the term ugly first. It was somehow a little too impertinent for Lewis, but neither could he imagine Clarke telling her she was going home to make herself ugly. Or perhaps he was far too interested in Clarke's appearance.
"I've already said too much," Lewis said anxiously. "I'm sure she would not like me to tell you anything she told me confidentially."
"Oh, no. Because I am sure she never tells anybody anything confidentially. The trip was not that bad then?"
"It was all right. She was not bad at all."
"I told you so," he said smugly, but he took care not to say it too loudly. The men would be wondering what he was talking about. He should not display so much knowledge of the superintendent.
Clarke arrived half an hour later. She was only in her office for a second and then came out to beckon Riley.
"I already know everything," he said. He had peeked at Lewis' notes as she typed them. It had indeed been nothing. And Clarke's current outfit was not very ugly. He wondered what she had been wearing before. It must have been spectacular -- although the impressionable Lewis might think jeans spectacular enough.
"Maybe. Lewis has nothing more to buy. I was prepared to do my share, but I could not think of anything and she could. If you want more people to be there tomorrow, you're going to have to send others."
"I'll think about it." Maybe it was not necessary if they had not seen anything.
She did not want to tell him about his mother and the bedsheets. If it had been another item she might have considered it, but this was too close. There was something else, however. "When I was home to change my clothes I looked through my mail. I got this."
Riley studied the plain white envelope she held up. The address was typed. It was sent to her home address, but interestingly it was addressed to Detective Superintendent Sophia Clarke. He could not think of anyone who would use a plain envelope in combination with her rank. The public might, but they would not know her home address. Maybe it was the wine lovers, or another club fond of auspicious community figures, but if the wine lovers could rent the Treminster Club they could very likely also afford envelopes with a logo. "What is it?"
"A threat," she said matter-of-factly. "I'm next, apparently, but I don't know for what. You're next, the note says. I've never had threats sent to my home before."
Riley was less inclined to consider it a mere curiosity. "It may be serious. Will you get it checked for fingerprints?"
"I doubt it's serious."
"It could be in response to your decision to stay silent about the foot." They had been hoping something would happen and here was something unexpected. He was not happy that it might turn out to be a threat to Clarke, however. Did it make sense? She was ultimately the one in charge of the investigation, but not of day-to-day operations.
She laughed mockingly. "Isn't that taking it a bit too far?"
He sighed. She was going to be an idiot about it, completely disregarding that someone was sending threats to her home address. That someone might appear there in person. She spent enough time there when she was not here, he assumed, and she was usually alone. What could be better for someone who wanted to do her harm? "Have it checked for prints and come and stay with me for the time being."
"What?" she cried. "Never."
"Would you rather be chopped up? I'll come and stay with you until you've figured out what this is about." He did not think he was exaggerating. It was better to be careful.
"I don't like having people in my flat."
"I'm not people," Riley said decidedly, although he was not really sure what he was instead. "Have you got a spare room?"
"Two," she said, looking a little surprised he would ask for one.
He sensed she was nearly ready to give in. She was answering and not protesting. He would stay with her in her spare room. "Then there's no problem, is there?"
"You just want to --" She could not say it and his looking at her expectantly did not help at all. "Go back to work."
"Why did you change your clothes after shopping, by the way?"
"Go back to work."
A few hours later, Clarke, who had not stirred from her office after dropping off the envelope at another department, was informed that there had been a partial print on the stamp, but not enough to be used. The plastic bags in which the body parts had been found had not held any prints at all.
She was tempted to say there was no connection whatsoever and that Riley's concern was not real, merely an opportunistic way of getting her into bed again. But that did not make as much sense as she wished. He had been much better than she was at pretending their encounter had not happened. She could only conclude that meant he had no further intentions.
He had also not wanted to make a conquest; he had not been smug at all, something she would expect from men who simply wanted to add as many different names to their list. What his motivation had been she had not cared to ask herself until now. It would have come too close to examining her own motivations and wishes. Even now she only wondered if it was his intention and not why.
Riley passed her on the stairs when she was ready to leave. He had an efficient plan that he wanted to share. "Buy some food and I'll come along by myself after I've picked up some things at my place, all right?"
She did not like things to be decided for her, whether they were good or not. She objected in principle. "I had not even agreed to --"
"I'm going to come anyway and I can pick locks."
She was losing control over her own life, she noted in frustration. He was not even listening to her. "Why are you constantly talking me into crazy schemes?"
"You started it when you dragged me to the Treminster Club," he replied. "This isn't half as crazy. See you later."
It was frustrating to be left powerless -- not only powerless, but with the order to prepare dinner for an unwanted guest.
"I really don't want this," said Clarke when she opened the door.
Riley had rung the bell instead of picking the lock. It was quicker, apart from the fact that he had never expected he would have to. He had gone home to pick up some clothes and then he had bought something at a shop.
But she really did not want this, she said. He had a good reason to doubt that. She had pressed the button for the door below for him without protest. Perhaps that was so she could inform him of her objections in person. It was always more difficult to get rid of people in person, though. He smiled. Once he was inside, he would not leave.
She studied the load he was holding. "What did you bring? You are not moving in."
"Things to wear. Listen, I won't be in your way. Let me set up a wireless connection and I'll be in your spare room for the rest of the night. Oh, apart from dinner."
"Follow me." Clarke had apparently decided to give up her protests for the time being and led him through her sterile hall. Some way into an equally sterile passage she opened a door. "This is the spare room."
He had been expecting something worse than a hotel bedroom, but it was not that bad. It was small and impersonal, and he would be afraid to wrinkle the sheets, but that was all. "Thanks."
"The bathroom is -- well, I'll leave the door open so you can find it."
"And on no account am I to go into any other room," he nodded.
"Not in the next five minutes, thanks." She walked away.
He went to the window and peered through the French blinds. He had seen nothing out of order when he arrived. This window did not look out on the street in front, but on the small car park where his car was parked. Beyond that was a playground and then another building. It all looked very innocent. There was no one spying on Clarke from there. Not at the moment anyway.
He took off his suit and hung it up. When he had changed into his jeans he stopped by the bathroom, which he smugly noted looked worse than his. Even not very girly females like Clarke had more rubbish than a man.
He went on to the living room, of which he had seen a glimpse the night he had come to pick up Clarke, and took out his computer equipment. He was not going to stay in this flat without having anything to do. She would ignore him -- even if she was not unfriendly she was not suddenly going to become very friendly -- and he could hardly go and tidy her room. There would simply be nothing to tidy away.
"What are you doing?" she inquired behind him.
He was under her desk looking at her modem. "Giving myself something to do."
"I'll make some dinner."
"Please," he said without looking. He heard sounds from the kitchen, but he did not look up until he had set up a connection.
When he went to look if dinner was ready, he found she had already set the table. "Where would you like me to sit?" he asked politely, trying to see what was on offer. It smelled good enough. "If we disregard for a moment that you would actually like me to get lost."
Clarke's expression was slightly apologetic, but her tone was not. "I don't like people in my home. It is very intrusive."
He was indeed looking closely if she had any mess in her kitchen, but that was not as bad as what she had done. "Going over my bedroom isn't?" Her kitchen bore the signs of frequent usage, which surprised him at first, but then he realised she would of course cook responsible meals every day, even after getting home late.
"Point. But you pushed me in there and it was necessary," she mumbled.
"This is also necessary."
"The difference being that you would agree with me that your room was a mess, but that I don't agree with you at all that I'm in danger." She set a pan on the table and handed him a spoon. "Please help yourself."
He helped himself while she polished a tiny speck of sauce off the floor. He would have been content to leave it, but that meant he sometimes had a hundred specks to clean at once. This different approach might not be so obsessed as he thought it was. Lots of red drops might look like blood, too. "So you would rather have a madman with a butcher's knife in your house than me?"
"Tell me what use you would be against a madman with a butcher's knife? I really resent the implication that I can't take care of myself. "
"Pooh," said Riley. It was not an implication, but a fact, and she would be clever enough to know it if she could just push that stubbornness aside. Two were always better than one. "Let's go over your past, shall we? Is there anyone who's not a madman with a butcher's knife who could have any reason to send you anonymous threats?"
"I have no idea."
"Is there no one who bears you a grudge and who is doing something in which it fits that you might be next?"
"I have no idea."
"Well, why would someone send you a note if he wasn't sure you'd understand it?"
"I have no idea."
"You don't want to think about it," he concluded. Or she did not want to tell him about her past. Maybe he should ask DI Jones of Halburton.
"No."
"I do." He took threats rather seriously. One had to, before they could be dismissed as innocent, and he would never forgive himself if he had known about it and not acted to prevent anything.
"Men only ever think of one thing," she muttered.
"Ah." He wondered if that explained some of her objections to his being here. "Well, if they do, then so does our madman. And you're next. Can't be a really comforting thought. Why does he want this with you? Or did he want it once upon a time and he didn't get it?"
She said nothing.
"I'm trying to help you, but you behave worse than my sister did in her teens. I'll enjoy this very nice meal and then play on my computer. I set up a wireless connection for you, so we don't even have to be in the same room. You won't notice me unless you're in danger."
She did not think she would be in danger. Not that kind of danger anyway. "If you have a sister, why does your mother treat you like her baby?"
"Does she? You never told me what she said when you saw her."
She sighed. "Why on earth does she tell a woman, whom she only knows to be your boss, that she has bought you new bedsheets because it was so shabby that your only set was drying on your balcony?" She hoped she was not offending him with her tone, but it simply was too ridiculous for words.
"You ask me if mothers make sense?" he asked incredulously. "Mine certainly doesn't. But yes, my sheets were drying on the balcony when my birthday visitors came. My mum wanted me to take them down, but I told her I needed them to dry or I wouldn't be able to sleep in anything."
He neglected to add that while he had indeed put them in the washing machine on Saturday, he had left them on his balcony overnight and they had got wet again. He had had a hard time avoiding an explanation to his mother as to why he had not put them in the dryer, but he had thought some fresh air would do them good in case there was a persistent lingering smell of something.
Clarke was relieved that it was no worse than that. "Why does she tell me?"
He played her own words back to her. "I have no idea."
O'Neill phoned him at seven. They had seen a few blue cars, of which one or two had driven around in a possibly suspicious manner. One of the cars had been seen by two teams, but it had been driven by a woman. Better news was that the three teams had compiled a list of places to be watched. They would be doing that the next day. Riley refrained from assigning anybody to the shopping street.
Clarke pounced on that immediately when he had finished the call. She had not wanted to let O'Neill know she was in the background, but her eyes had been flashing, even more so when she had gone ignored. "Who is going shopping?"
He had seen her eyes flash, so he was amused, but he could hardly have let O'Neill know that at seven o'clock he was still in Clarke's company. "Nobody is."
"Even though I said it might be an important place?"
"I said that first," he corrected. She might have agreed, but he had said it first.
"Yet..."
"I'll go. I can have tea like you did if you tell me where. I at least know I won't abuse the opportunity." He might even do some shopping. Clarke's door could do with a chain.
He offered to do the dishes, an offer she accepted. She did not help him, but he heard the vacuum cleaner running elsewhere. When he finished he played on his computer for a while, still not seeing her, and he assumed she had gone to bed.
But close to ten o'clock she appeared again. "I took a bath," she said. "I thought I should tell you about tomorrow morning. I get up at six. I shower at 6:40 and I leave at seven. I'd appreciate it if you were out of the shower by 6:40."
Riley had been staring at her long wet hair, but he had managed to hear what she said nevertheless. "I usually get out of bed at seven."
"But you're always at work at half-past seven." She looked uncomprehending. "How do you manage?"
"Shower, shave, dress, drive," he explained. Maybe he was just as efficient as she was. He wasted no time in the morning. Getting up at six and then not showering until forty minutes later was incomprehensible to him. What did she do in the meantime?
"No wonder you need coffee when you get to work. Well, you'll just have to adapt your schedule here. The coffee is ready at 6:45."
"Never at 6:46?" he wondered.
She sighed. "6:47 on occasion. It ruins my day completely."
He smiled. "Are you coming shopping with me?"
"Yes. I'm going to bed now." She hesitated and looked a little uncertain. "Do you seriously think I'm in danger?"
"Not immediately, but would you want to take the risk?" He did not think anything would happen already tonight, but it was impossible to say when something would.
It was beginning to influence her. "You're making me nervous."
Clarke's capitulation made him smile. She was not as unaffected as she let on. He had been worried about her attitude, but it was good he was here. "I'm trying to make you feel safe. Just go to bed and stop thinking about it."
At six o'clock her alarm went off. She had left her door open during the night and after she had gone to bed she had heard Riley walk around. Eventually it had gone quiet and she had fallen asleep, but she had disliked herself for deriving some comfort from his presence in her flat. Somehow she had known he would remain in the spare room and she had not worried about that, at least.
Because he had said he always got up at seven she expected him to be still in bed when she got up, but he was not. She found him in the kitchen leaning out of the window in the darkness.
"Morning," he said.
"What are you doing?"
"I was observing the street. There was a car down there. Interestingly it drove off when you switched on the light next door."
"Coincidence," she hoped.
"I don't know yet. Well, it's gone now." He closed the window.
Rationally she was not convinced there was a threat, but she might have felt more anxious had he not been there. She was almost sure he was not inventing these things in order to stay here. He looked too serious for that. But it was nice that he was concerned. It gave her a feeling she would rather not examine.
"I'll take a shower. Don't leave the house and don't get into any trouble until I'm dressed," he advised.
"Don't make me sound weak," Clarke said in dissatisfaction. She was not weak and she was not stupid. As to the notion of not getting into trouble until he was dressed, she wondered what he would do if something happened before he was. But that was not a thought she should pursue.
"I don't think you're weak. Next time a madman comes after me, I'll ask you for protection," he said with a grin.
"There is no madman after me." She could not ignore the note, but she doubted it was as serious as he thought. Someone bore her a grudge. Fine. It had happened before. And there had never been any consequences. Why should there be any now?
After exercising and showering she found Riley in the kitchen again. She had to reconsider what she always said about having people in her flat. Some might actually be useful. Coffee was ready; even breakfast was ready. There might be advantages.
Riley had had more than twenty minutes to himself. Occasionally he had looked out of the window, but he had not seen the car again. Clarke had nicely left the door open and he had seen her on her rowing machine. Exercising kept one young, that was clear. That and facial cream, although he had not detected that in the bathroom.
"Does that place have CCTV?" he wondered over his breakfast plate.
"They won't get that until after someone leaves a severed hand there," Clarke said dryly. "But I'd rather watch a street live. I thought CCTV was no help with the previous body parts."
"None at all." In one place it had been available, but at that time they had not yet suspected that the murderer had such a detailed plan. The tapes of the days before the body part was found had all been erased by now. The moment itself had not been caught on film. "It's absolutely useless."
"It's very useful in Patterson's case."
"I don't care about Patterson's case!" he cried. Patterson was probably making much more progress in his simple case, but complexity was not what counted in the statistics. A difficult case still counted for only one.
"You should. Your superiors consider you responsible," she smiled.
"The only way I could be held responsible would be if we weren't understaffed." At the moment he hardly had any time to wonder what the rest of the department was up to. He could hardly take responsibility for everything. Clarke knew that, but her bosses were not as reasonable.
"True. Even I have to get my hands dirty."
"You love getting your hands dirty. You even invent cases so you can get your hands dirty. Although you took me along for the dirty work," he laughed.
"I did not invent that case." She gave him a calculating look when she thought of the Treminster Club. She must not forget about it. "How long are you planning to stay here?"
He smiled, because she seemed to have accepted his stay. "An indefinite period of time, although I thought we could alternate with my place. That, or you must consent to spend a few hours there sometimes while I do the upkeep. You'd think it very important, the upkeep."
"Only if you'll continue to investigate with me. You will have to, if you don't want to let me out of your sight." She looked smug.
"Sounds like a full schedule ahead. When do I have time to do the things I usually do at night, like go to the gym?"
"Use mine."
"This sounds far too mutually beneficial."
Riley and Clarke had spent an hour drinking coffee and eating croissants in Pell. If she was in normal clothes she was almost normal, he noticed again, yet it was perfectly possible to be normal and attentive. They had been looking at the street in front of them. She had been equally normal in the car, when they had listened to the radio.
"You asked Lewis to look for delivery vans as well, didn't you?" she asked.
"Yes."
"I think that wouldn't work here. It's too small. People know too much about each other. A strange delivery van would be noticed. The shops are so close together."
"Probably," he sighed and was suddenly overcome by a feeling of frustration. It had plagued him before, but it had never been so strong that he had voiced it. "This feels like grasping at straws. Do we really simply have to wait for the next discovery? And the next and the next, until we've got the entire body and still know nothing?"
"We might know who it is by then. The victim, I mean."
"Optimist. I'm beginning to think we'll never solve this one."
"Of course we will," she said with an encouraging smile. Then she took the last bite of her croissant and brushed the crumbs off her skirt. "Lewis is dieting. She almost made me eat two croissants."
"Is that bad?" His mind was not really on this subject yet. "You can eat as many as you want. Just row some more."
"That's what I thought. You couldn't lift me well, but I thought that was discomfort rather than my weight."
"It was not entirely your weight," Riley agreed. He remembered how his face had been pressed into her body as he held her up. By now he might not think it as disturbing, but at that moment he had not really been comfortable. "Maybe I should practise more."
"No. Let's not go there."
Riley had also felt the danger. He was relieved that she cut him short. So she did not want to speak about them, but she also did not want him to practise. He did not know what he wanted himself. The fact that she was his boss and older held him back, but what was he to do with that undeniably growing attraction? The more she appeared in casual outfits, the more it became apparent. He did not think it was dangerous yet. A little more reciprocation would be needed. At the moment it was not much more than admiring her outfit, he told himself.
"There's a car at the end of the street," he said. They had finished eating and drinking and he had taken care to pay immediately so they could leave when they wanted. "Shall we have a look at it?"
She looked at her watch. "If it's nothing we'll have nothing to do for fifteen minutes."
"This is work."
Clarke slung her bag over her shoulder. "See, a bag."
"That's only because you have nowhere to stick your phone except your cleavage." She wore a skirt and a tight top. He did not know where else she could leave objects if she did not want to keep them in her hand. With such an outfit a bag was practical.
"James."
He was not being a bad boy, far from it. "I'm not even looking at it."
"As an alternative I could have given my keys and phone to you. I wonder why you didn't think of that first, because you don't seem to think women are very self-sufficient."
He sighed. "Well, if I'd worn such a tight top I would have stuck it down my cleavage."
"You have no idea how cleavages work."
"And the only one who is surprised by that is you. Mind you, I almost expected a sexist hiss when I paid for our coffee."
Clarke was curious. "Sexist hiss? What is a sexist hiss?"
"Your hissing that I am being sexist, which you might have thought I was in paying for both of us, when you earn more and you could theoretically have contributed an equal amount, which you'd think women should."
"I don't waste my hisses on that. Which car did you see?"
"A blue one, at the end of the street. It came in from a side street at that end and parked there. No one came out." Clarke unconsciously increased her pace, so he grabbed her arm. "Let's not run."
She slid her hand into the crook of his elbow. There was nothing wrong with that. In fact, centuries ago it had been very polite. And now they simply looked like an innocent couple strolling down the street. That was what she would say if he objected. But he left that so long that she concluded he would not.
"Could you look at shop windows while I look at cars?" asked Riley.
"Sexist," she hissed, but this time she was aware of it and she laughed. Something occurred to her suddenly. It might be important. She slowed down. "If you were right and our man is the one who sent me a note, won't he know what I look like?" While she still would not admit to believing his suspicions, they nevertheless made her uncomfortable.
"That's possible. If so, he could only draw one conclusion from your being here." Especially if she was here a few days in a row. He had not considered that when he had started walking. There were not enough certainties to stop walking, however. The car and its occupant might be completely innocent.
"Kill the woman instantly?"
"I won't allow that," he promised, but just as he was promising that, a blue car drove out of a parking place some distance away and rounded a corner. He did not manage to see its number plate. "That was the car I wanted to have a look at. The one who parked without anybody getting out. Now we come along and it takes off."
"Maybe he saw me," said Clarke. She hated herself for even entertaining the notion.
"Though if he's only followed you home from work or used the phone book...and you look different like this."
"Why does everybody say that all of a sudden? Nobody ever did."
"Maybe your professional taste has deteriorated over the years to the point of...well, being considerably different from your private taste." He kept his eyes on the street. The car was gone. He doubted that it was still around the corner. When they passed the spot where the car had been parked, he looked closely for a plastic bag, or perhaps rubbish, but there was nothing.
They reached the corner a minute later. There were only a few cars parked there and none at all that were blue. "Let's walk around a little. We still have some time before the shops open anyway."
"What do you think?" asked Clarke as they walked down the street into which the blue car had disappeared. Before long they would come to another intersection, one that had signs pointing to the motorway. But if it had gone to the motorway, it had not come from the motorway. She would have to ask Riley if the car had come from this road.
"I'm not thinking anything yet. I saw a blue car, but it drove away before I could see more of it. Maybe it was someone who needed to phone. I don't think we were close enough to be recognised. He would have seen two people approaching, but it would have been difficult to see who we were."
She wished she was not so easily affected and she reminded herself that they had nothing concrete to go on, merely vague sightings of blue cars. "What sort of brand was it?"
"I couldn't see that."
"But you're a man."
"Now you are being sexist, Superintendent."
"Don't you think it was my turn for that? The car -- it wouldn't really have made sense only to turn into the shopping street to park. There is plenty of space here for a quick stop." It did not make sense and maybe his suspicions were right. It might have turned into that street for other reasons, such as to see where it could drop a hand.
"But more noticeable than in a row over there."
"Maybe."
He groaned. "I was up too early. Maybe he just took the wrong turn, parked to look at a map and then went back?"
She wondered when he had started looking out of the kitchen window that morning. He had been there since before six o'clock. "What time did you get up?"
"Between five and five-thirty. You never even noticed my checking up on you. You wouldn't have noticed anyone coming into your room."
So he had been in her room. And he had got up early to check up on her. He was taking this very seriously. In a real case of danger she could probably trust him. And she probably would, despite her wish to take care of herself.
A car drove up behind them and stopped. Clarke stiffened and squeezed Riley, foolish behaviour that she regretted a moment later, but he recognised the car. "It's nothing," he assured her.
Riley had never been so amused -- by what Harding and O'Neill had said about Clarke, not by what they had said about their observations. She had not approached the car, but she had looked in the other direction with her sunglasses on. He had thought she was embarrassed to have been caught walking nearly arm in arm with him, but she had no need to fear that. They had not even seen who she was.
"Harding and O'Neill didn't recognise you," he grinned.
She was surprised, but relieved. "Why not?"
"They did like you, though."
"What did they say about me?" Clarke asked suspiciously. She had seen Riley turn back as if to check something. Clearly they had been discussing her and not in a good way, because he had laughed a little oddly.
"A comment on your wardrobe -- or lack thereof."
"Lack?" She studied herself. "What do I lack?"
He hesitated, but he had already said too much. He could not back out of this now. She would not let him. "They wondered if you were wearing a bra."
"James!" she cried.
"What did I do?" he exclaimed, but he knew all too well what he had done: he had told her. "Was I supposed to knock their teeth out for that question?"
"Men. Unbelievable." She shook her head. "What did you tell them? I doubt you were so kind as to tell them their boss always wears bras."
"No, I don't know enough about you to give such an answer. I told them I'd check. But don't worry. I wasn't really going to."
His kind reassurance did not have the desired effect. Her eyes bulged. What did it matter that he was not really going to if he told them he was? He was thirty-five. She was his boss. This should not be happening. "This sort of behaviour is never going to end if you encourage it!" And it was certainly never going to end if she reacted so weakly.
"Ah, the hiss. Maybe you and Judy should team up and ask us if we're wearing boxers or briefs." He thought that was about equal, but she would probably disagree.
"We don't want to know!" She took a deep breath. There was no use in still feeling annoyed or amazed by the sort of men she was forced to work with. They were never going to change. It would be better for her peace of mind to ignore it all. "Are you surprised I don't wear these clothes to work? Who did you say I was?"
"They asked if you were my girlfriend. I said no. As odd as it sounds, it was a lot more believable for you to be a random woman I picked up in a pub than the superintendent." He thought Harding and O'Neill had had their doubts nevertheless, but it was better to have them suspect that the random woman was his girlfriend anyway than that they suspected the superintendent was his girlfriend. Which she was not.
"Believable? Do you pick up random women very often?"
"No, never. But we do talk about women sometimes."
"And when do you plan to grow up? But let's get back to serious adult business. What sort of car did you see this morning outside my flat?"
"The same type. It was dark, so I can't be sure of the precise colour, but it looked a lot like blue. You didn't ask me about it this morning."
"I was sure it was a coincidence. I wanted it to be." And she had not wanted to ask too much in case she heard something that did not suit her. "But if there are blue cars popping up everywhere, which isn't that strange, because everyone seems to have a blue car..."
"Even I do," he agreed.
"That sounds like a good reason to kick you out of my house."
"Superintendent..." She was not being reasonable there, was she? If she really wanted to kick him out, she should do so, but all she was doing was talking about it -- and he knew that was meaningless.
"I don't like people in my house," Clarke said petulantly.
"I did your dishes, I made you breakfast -- stop being stupid. I'm sure it only takes some getting used to. You're behaving like a child."
"Look who's talking!" she cried. "But do we have anything concrete now? Can we expect this car to be involved? Can we expect the hand to turn up in the shopping street in the next few days? Or not in that street because we've rattled his cage?"
"You never know what will happen if you rattle a cage," Riley said philosophically. "If the hand does not turn up here on the expected day, we'll be almost certain he has a blue car. Pity we didn't see the number plates."
"I somehow doubt he'd be so stupid as to make himself traceable through his number plates. But he'll have to be stupid at some point, because no intelligent person can trust he'll get away with something like this. That means he's not as intelligent as he thinks."
"Your logic, ma'am, is incomparable."
"It has to be. I am under some pressure from above, from the media and of a different kind from you."
"It's supposed to be comfort, not pressure." He laid his arm around her for a moment "But you are a wonderful boss for helping us instead of criticising us, so obviously I don't want you to be chopped up."
Clarke wondered if she was more likely to help out Riley than one of the other two teams. It could be and it would not be because of his case. He meant well, even if he was tactless and juvenile.
After they had made a perfunctory round through the shopping street, Clarke thought they were as good as done. The car was not going to reappear. They had not seen it and she hated shopping. Walking down the street on one side and up again on the other side was something she could not do arm in arm with Riley. It would look as if they did it for that reason alone and they did not.
"I still need to buy something," Riley protested. "You need a door chain." He had not seen any shops where they might sell that, or he would have got it already.
"You think I need one," she corrected. For safety, she assumed. What else was he going to suggest for her safety?
"It won't do you any harm."
"Only my ego."
"It's a chain on your door, not on your ego."
After humouring Riley and letting him purchase his chain on the way, she drove home to change her clothes. Even without Harding and O'Neill's comments it would have been unthinkable for her to go to work in her skirt and tight top. It was far too sexy, apparently, and sexy was not good in a work setting.
Riley accompanied her home because she did not know what else to do with him and he waited until she had changed. She suspected he would regret the different clothes, but he said nothing and he did not even try to peek into her bedroom while she was changing.
When she was done she found he had screwed the chain on her door. This efficiency caused an indignant sniff, although she was honest enough to admit to herself that in some cases a chain might be useful. Perhaps her sniff was more directed at his having found her toolbox. He must have opened cupboards and closed doors for that, and she did not know what else he might have looked into. A moment later she realised she had nothing to hide, except some degree of disorderliness.
"Would you like me to pay you back?" she asked, wondering if she needed to do the same with that wireless thing under her desk or if he was going to take that home when he left. If he was going to leave at all. At the moment it did not look like it.
He shook his head. "Another good dinner would be fine."
"Oh --" She swallowed another word. "I forgot, but I've agreed to have dinner with Jonathan Kerry about the case. I don't know how that would work with you around."
"Jonathan Kerry?" Riley knew the name. It was a journalist. He might even recognise him if he saw him, but he could not put a face to the name at the moment. "When?"
"Tonight. I've got to persuade him not to write anything that could damage our case. He rang me last Sunday to ask if nothing had been found. Anyone could figure out it was each tenth day, he said." She had not told him anything, but he had managed to wriggle a dinner date out of her. It was strictly business, of course.
"Hmm. And he didn't write?"
"No."
"How kind. When and where are you going to dinner?" He did not like this plan one bit. Why dinner? Why not a daytime meeting in her office? This was as fishy as the note, although he did not yet know exactly why.
"Tonight at the Lotus Garden."
"They've got really large knives there."
"James, stop being an idiot. If you're afraid, come and keep an eye on me from a distance to prevent my being dragged off to the kitchen."
Now that he gave that matter some deeper thought, it was of course unlikely that she would be murdered in the kitchen. It was too public. However, she might be abducted after dinner. He would need to be nearby. "And I'd have to eat somewhere if you're not cooking for me."
Clarke did not seem to think it was her duty to feed him. She looked perfectly indifferent to his plight and continued her own train of thought. "Maybe he knows something we don't. He doesn't have to stick to any rules."
"If he knows something, he's the killer. And if he's pretending to know something, he was just after a dinner date with you." The man had promised not to write anything in return for a dinner date. That in itself might not be fishy, were it not for the fact that it was connected to their case.
"I wonder why anyone would be after that," Clarke said with genuine incomprehension.
He rolled his eyes. If she had always been as obtuse as that there might be a lot of men with unrequited feelings in her past. It was no use asking her about them, though. She would not have noticed them. Perhaps he should really ring DI Jones of Halburton. "What time is this event taking place?"
"Seven o'clock."
"I'll think of something. Let's go to work."
When he had still not heard anything from his men, Riley phoned O'Neill at five. "Anything?" he asked tersely. He did not expect anything and this annoyed him, but so did the fact that he had not heard anything either.
"We noted down some number plates, but that's really all we did."
Riley sighed. "Well, come back. It seems pointless to do the same again tomorrow if you haven't seen anything in two days."
"All right." O'Neill sounded relieved.
"But don't be happy just yet. I want four men on the shopping street next Tuesday. Four on each end. Starting at five in the morning. Until about ten." That would not make them happy, he knew, but he had to post some men there in case something happened on the tenth day.
"You weren't home last night," said his mother when she rang right after he had spoken to O'Neill. "But I wanted to tell you that I didn't buy anything for your balcony."
"Wow."
"I did buy you new bedsheets."
"There was no need," he sighed. It was good he had already heard about it, or else his reaction would have been much stronger. As it was, he had known this and he had been caught up in pointless thoughts about his case. He did not have much energy to spare for his mother.
"I ran into your boss, by the way."
"Oh, wonderful." He carried his phone out of the room in case he needed to speak about Clarke. It was no business of his men's.
"She's quite tall, isn't she?"
He had no idea. "I only notice very short people." Normal sizes did not strike him.
"I never noticed that when she was sitting in your lap. She said there was no need to buy you bedsheets."
He hoped his mother had listened. "Because any sane person would agree that there is no need for that. I haven't needed anyone to buy me things since I moved out. May I remind you that I've come of age and that I have an adequate salary?"
"I wish you'd stop philandering and settle down. Anne asked me if you had a steady girlfriend yet and what could I say? James doesn't have steady girlfriends?"
Riley raised his eyebrows. "Why do you consider it a personal failure? Or does Anne consider it your personal failure? And should I have steady girlfriends, plural? I thought a steady girlfriend still wasn't equal to a wife."
"It worries me."
"There are things that worry me a lot more." And he was certain that the truth would worry his mother much more than her suppositions, which was ironic, but he was not prepared to enlighten her. "What are you going to do with those bedsheets?"
"I don't know yet."
"So in fact you rang me only to tell me you bought something you may not even give to me? This is such a waste of time! Why don't you invent a nice girlfriend next time Anne asks? It would be as truthful as supposing I have several." He tried not to sound too annoyed, because that would get him into even more trouble.
He walked towards the office of one of his supposed girlfriends and stuck his head around her door. "Thanks. I've been trying to tell my mother for fifteen years that I can buy my own things, to no avail, but you tell her once and she gets the message? What did you do to her?"
She smiled. "Nothing. I simply told her it wouldn't affect your functioning at work. Does it?"
"Her ringing me here does."
"Give me her number. I'll tell her not to bother you at work."
"You can't be serious," he said incredulously.
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