‘I need you to warn Manon,’ Harriet says. ‘Better coming from you. I can’t hold Stanton off, not after the phone work. If I don’t make an arrest, he’s going to assign this to another team and then I really won’t be able to do anything for Fly. Tell her to instruct Mark Talbot, he’s the best.’
Fly’s mobile phone gave them the texts they were looking for, the ones Stanton said would be there. Going through the data, Colin said, ‘They’re all pretty much in the same vein, sent by Ross just before each visit to the little fella – Solomon, is it?’
Coming up to see my son tomorrow.
Make yourself scarce, there’s a good lad.
Time to go do one, laughing boy.
Off you pop.
‘Was there a similar text for this last visit?’ Davy asked.
‘No, there wasn’t. Bit strange, isn’t it?’ Colin said. ‘Also, there is nothing in return from Fly. Doesn’t respond. Unless … unless he finally had enough of being told to get lost.’
Davy picks up the receiver on his desk handset. Puts it down again. Digs into his pocket for his mobile phone and walks out through the double doors of MCU to the stairwell, where he hopes it’ll be quiet enough.
Manon
‘Davy!’ she says into her phone. ‘Just on my way in.’
‘Shouldn’t you take the holidays off, have a proper rest?’
She’s in front of her bedroom mirror, despairing at finding anything to wear after her Christmas expansion.
Television is what got them through it. They watched everything: Downton Abbey special, Strictly Come Dancing special, Midsomer Murders, Bond movies, Chicken Run. Manon bought a tin of Quality Street and kept on digging her fist into it just because she could, her feet up on a pouffe. The heating was on a smidgen too high and the grazing never ceased: turkey sandwiches with cranberry, crackers and cheese, more Quality Street. Ellie said, ‘I think you’re going to give birth to a strawberry cream instead of a baby,’ to which Manon replied, ‘Now that’s a delivery I could get behind.’
When Ellie brought out a box of posh chocolate-covered ginger, they all groaned, then dug in. Solly played with his vast plastic car park with a car lift that made an infuriating noise. Fly was constantly on his phone, watched anxiously by Manon who wondered if he was fixing a drug deal or exchanging lewd photographs with girls of ill repute but when she sneaked a look, found he’d been playing Scrabble on a site called Wordfeud. They tolerated the obligatory Christmas Day phone call with Ellie and Manon’s dad in Scotland, in which they exchanged all the non-news of the season. ‘Yup, sausages round the bird. Got to go, Paddington’s coming on.’
She has a single pair of black trousers that will cover her bump, giving her a snug feeling. She’s also discovered some wonderful reinforced pants, enormous and belly-hugging, designed for post-operative wear. She has purchased ten pairs. The whole front section of her body, from her breasts to her pelvis, feels tight – both braced and straining, rather as if she is the prow of a ship moving stately forwards.
‘I’m pregnant, not terminal,’ she says to Davy, though as she says it, she wonders. Pregnancy is strange, the body so deeply occupied, so furiously at work. Seems incredible that one manages anything else bar a lot of sleeping. ‘How are you, anyway?’
‘Fine. Look. Things have developed, I’m afraid.’
‘Things?’ She has a hand on her hip; she looks to the ceiling, her heart rate accelerating.
‘Harriet says you should instruct Mark Talbot.’
Mark Talbot is the cleverest defence lawyer they know, which isn’t saying much because they view most of the briefs who frequent the station as at best annoyances, at worst obstructive idiots. Talbot is different. An extremely bright do-gooder, who seems to undertake only legal aid work, though how he makes a living at it is anyone’s guess. He is diligent, sartorially shambolic. Manon finds him wildly attractive though she appears to be alone in this. Nothing new there.
‘Don’t do this, Davy,’ she says. ‘I’ll come in, we can talk about it. I’m sure it’s all a misunderstanding. Don’t do this, he’s … he won’t deal with it. We can work it out without putting him through this.’
‘It’s not up to me, Manon.’
She senses there is something else he’d like to say.
‘Yes, hello, I’m wondering if you’ll take a case for me. It’s DI Manon Bradshaw, Cambridgeshire MCU.’
She is making the call from her desk at the office.
‘Sure, but shouldn’t you go through the call centre? Why are you ringing me directly?’
‘It’s, it’s someone …’ Her voice wobbles uncontrollably. ‘It’s my son, you see.’
‘Are you all right, Manon?’
‘Not really, no. Listen, Mark, please take this case. You’re the best solicitor I know. I really need’ – up into the higher octaves, almost as if she’s singing – ‘your help. They did initial interviews before Christmas. I thought it might not escalate, y’know, that it was routine inquiries, but they’re taking him into custody today and they’re going to search our house.’
‘You shouldn’t have let him do an initial interview without representation.’
‘I know. I know I shouldn’t, but he hadn’t been arrested you see, so I didn’t think … It’s not the same when you’re on the other side, you don’t think straight. This is like a fucking ambush. Can you come?’
A deep sigh at the other end of the phone. ‘Let me shuffle things about here. I’ll see what I can do. What’s the charge likely to be?’
‘Um,’ quavering again, ‘murder. I think it’s going to be murder. Manslaughter maybe. He’s 12.’
‘Right, I see. I’d better get to you quickly, hadn’t I?’
She is unable to answer that one.
As Manon puts down the phone, Harriet stops by her desk and takes in the tears falling and the trembling, twisted mouth.
‘Why don’t you go? Rest up at Bryony’s,’ Harriet says. ‘You can’t do any good here. I can’t imagine you can think about anything at all right now, can you?’
Manon has her fingers on her lips and shakes her head. Swallows.
‘No,’ Manon coughs. ‘No, I want to be here. In case—’
‘In case what? You’re not allowed to eavesdrop on the case. You know that. Look, I want you to see the police doctor.’
Manon looks up at Harriet with brimming eyes. ‘Fuck you,’ she whispers.
‘Yeah fine, but I still want you to see the police doctor.’
The doctor doesn’t look up when she enters the room. Manon is busy trying to stem the crying. When she is not crying, she looks angry, so perhaps crying is better, but that’s not how it feels.
He is writing on a pad. Are doctors always writing on a pad, or is this a message about importance and the patriarchy? She once had a DI who would make her stand beside his chair for minutes on end before he would look up from his computer screen and acknowledge her presence; so rude, yet tolerated in the passive-aggressive environs of office life.
‘I think you should take a leave of absence, officer …’ He starts rifling through papers for her name, rank and number. Manon has lowered herself into a chair.
‘Detective Inspector,’ she says. ‘Manon Bradshaw.’
The doctor still hasn’t looked at her. ‘I can sign you off for a month.’ At last he looks up, and takes in her bump. ‘In your condition …’ he says, nodding at it.