Part 9 (1/2)

He was back in a moment, and having, of course, looked at the caller ID, said as he handed it to Gemma, ”It's Melody.”

Gemma pushed her plate aside and answered the call. ”Has something come up?” she asked.

”As in a breakthrough?” Melody answered, with a laugh that sounded a little strangled. ”Not unless you count Doug. He's broken his ankle. He's in Charing Cross Hospital.”

Melody stopped at the Tesco at Notting Hill Gate and bought some grapes and a bunch of slightly wilted yellow roses. By the time she reached the hospital, she was regretting both purchases, but she carried them in anyway.

The nurse on the ward desk told her it was past visiting hours, but when Melody showed her warrant card and said she was Doug's fellow officer, she got a nod through.

”Not too long, though,” the nurse added. ”We've given him something for the pain, and he needs to rest.”

Finding the curtained cubicle, Melody peeked in. Doug was dozing, his splinted leg propped up on pillows. He wore a pale blue hospital gown, and without his gla.s.ses and with his blond hair rumpled, he looked ridiculously young and vulnerable.

”Hey,” she said softly. He opened his eyes and blinked at her. ”Nice outfit you've got there,” she added.

Fumbling his gla.s.ses from the nightstand, he put them on and glanced down at the gown. ”I asked for pink, but they were out.” He seemed to be making an effort to enunciate.

”Good thing.” She sat in the plastic bedside chair, feeling awkward, and held up the Tes...o...b..g. ”Grapes,” she said, retrieving her first offering. Looking round for someplace to put them, she settled for an empty spot on the nightstand. The flowers she drew out a little more reluctantly. ”They're a bit sad,” she apologized. ”Here, I'll put them in your water jug. I'll ask the nurse for a clean pitcher before I go.”

”Thanks.” He looked pleased, and she felt better.

”Does it hurt?” she asked, glancing at the ankle.

”Like blazes at first. Not so much now. They say it's a clean break, but I have to stay overnight. Have to get the swelling down before they can put on the cast . . . thingy.” His eyelids drooped and he blinked owlishly at her. ”Don't want me playing football.”

”I wouldn't put it past you after this. The lengths you'll go to for a little attention.”

”Lengths to get off work, more like it.”

”Or to get out of DIY.”

”There is that. Sorry to ruin your Sat.u.r.day night,” he added.

”I had a hot date with the telly,” she told him easily. ”You'll owe me. Now, what's this about tomorrow morning?”

”I could take a taxi home, but they said I'd need help getting settled. Got to keep weight off the ankle for the first day or so.” He licked at dry lips and took a sip of water before going on. ”Hate to ask, but otherwise, I'll have to ring my mum in St. Alban's.” Rolling his eyes, he added, ”Fate worse than death.”

Melody laughed. ”I know what you mean. Not to worry. Just tell me what time,” she rea.s.sured him, all the while wondering how she was going to juggle looking after Doug with the demands of a murder case.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

The site attracted 2 million visitors a year and was also home to displays, festivals, music shows and over one hundred thousand soldiers during the First World War.

-e into the station, Gemma had learned-mainly that every female in the building would come up with some excuse to stop and say h.e.l.lo. No one had warned her when she joined CID that a pathologist with rock-star looks might present a problem.

And, she admitted to herself, she wasn't averse to a little one-on-one case discussion with Ras.h.i.+d. Last night had not given her much chance to do more than go over the bare bones of it with Duncan. Between conferences with Melody and the normal dinner-bedtime routine with the children, she'd fallen into bed too knackered to do more than mumble a good night.

When she reached Brixton, she parked her Escort in her designated spot in the gated police station car park, then ducked out and hurried up Brixton High Street towards the place on the second level of the old Morley's Department Store. Only when the building was in sight did she remember that it was Sunday, and that the department store wouldn't open until eleven.

Ras.h.i.+d, however, was standing outside the Starbucks on the tube station side of the road, grinning. He wore his usual jeans and black leather bomber jacket. A woman walking by gave him a covert glance, but he seemed, as usual, completely oblivious.

”Starbucks will have to do,” he said as she reached him. ”Minus the view, but at least it's warm.”

”As long as there's a double-strength latte, it could be the moon.”

He held the door open and ushered her in with the lightest of touches on her elbow. ”Early start?” he asked. ”Or late night?”

”A bit of both. And Doug Cullen fell and broke his ankle yesterday. Melody's picking him up from hospital this morning, and Duncan's trying to make arrangements for the children so that he can look in on him midday.”

”How the h.e.l.l did Doug do that? Sitting at the computer?” Ras.h.i.+d asked as Gemma got in the order queue. She didn't have to ask his coffee preference. One of the T-s.h.i.+rts he wore regularly bore the slogan PATHOLOGISTS DRINK JET FUEL.

”Apparently he's expanding his repertoire. He fell off a ladder while trying to paint his sitting room ceiling.”

”DIY will get you every time.” Ras.h.i.+d shook his head. ”Silly git. He's lucky he didn't break his neck. I've seen enough cases like that.” When Gemma had picked up their coffees and they'd found a booth, he added, ”Any progress with our gentleman from yesterday?”

Gemma told him what they'd learned about Arnott's movements on Friday evening and about his home situation, adding, ”And we found a stash of bondage DVDs hidden in his home office, but there was no other evidence that he made a regular practice of it. I'm having his car gone over today, just in case he kept equipment or contacts stashed there.” She took a sip of her latte, which was still hot enough to burn her tongue. For a moment, she envied the other patrons, most of whom were lingering over spread-out copies of the Sunday Times with cooling ceramic mugs rather than paper takeaway cups. ”I was hoping you'd have something more helpful,” she said to Ras.h.i.+d.

He pulled a stack of printed sheets from the leather satchel he'd had slung over his shoulder. ”Here's the report with i's dotted and t's crossed, but in a nutsh.e.l.l, I can tell you that he was strangled, and that it wasn't self-inflicted. Considering the bruising from the ligature, the pressure was definitely exerted from behind, so I think he was killed facedown, then immediately turned over.”

”Could it have been an autoerotic liaison gone too far?”

”Most autoerotics go it alone. And the position was wrong. Pract.i.tioners want to, um, take full advantage of the stimulus.”

Even with his olive skin, Gemma could have sworn that the imperturbable Ras.h.i.+d Kaleem was blus.h.i.+ng.

”Besides,” he went on a little hurriedly, ”the bruising was deep in the tissue. Most autoerotics just get carried away-and usually the deaths are hanging accidents-but whoever did this really meant to do damage. And there was no evidence of a.n.a.l penetration or s.e.xual activity of any kind.”

The older man who had been so comfortably reading his paper in the next booth stood up, giving them a disgusted glare, and walked out.

”Oh, dear,” said Gemma, glancing round to make sure there were no other patrons within hearing distance. ”I'm afraid we've just ruined that poor man's breakfast.”

”As long as he doesn't complain to the management.” Ras.h.i.+d's grin was unrepentant.

”Any findings on the ligature?” Gemma asked, leaning a bit closer and keeping her voice down.

”Some luck there. First, he was gagged, but not tightly. There was a little chafing at the corners of his mouth, but no tearing, and no bruising of either lips or tongue.”