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Callan walked to the door. ‘Don’t discuss this case with anyone, and don’t go anywhere. I’m pretty sure that I’ll need to speak to you again.’
As he pushed through the door, he glanced back, saw Harris still sitting, his head now in his hands.
18 (#ulink_0b9b6333-922d-54cc-a36a-a268677914ff)
She noticed the red Golf GTI as soon as she pulled under the raised barrier into Blackdown. Callan. So the SIO on the Stephen Foster case was Ben Callan. Pulling to the far side of the car park, tucking her Mini behind a Land Rover Defender, Jessie cut the engine. The claustrophobic electricity from the suit still tingled across her skin and now, added to it, a wave of light-headedness at the thought of seeing Callan again, the combination making her feel keyed-up and slightly nauseous. Tilting her head back, closing her eyes for a moment, she took a few deep breaths, fixing her mind on the innocuous image of the morning sun rising over the fields at the back of her cottage, trying to slow the beating of her heart. She had thought about Callan many times since she’d last seen him, had been tempted, almost as many times, to email him. But she had no experience with men beyond meaningless physical encounters and every missive she had composed had sounded trite and uninteresting. She had no idea what to say, what tone to strike, even. In the end, it had been easier not to email at all.
She recognized Callan immediately, though he was standing with his back to her. Broad-shouldered and athletic, a head taller than the grey-haired man he was talking with, he was slouching, hands shoved in his trouser pockets, perhaps to reduce the height disparity, to listen more easily. His posture, the slouch, should have said ‘relaxed’, but Jessie knew that there was nothing laid-back about the rigid set of his shoulders, the jitter of perpetual motion in his long legs. He must have sensed her approach – someone approach – because he turned suddenly and their eyes locked.
‘Jessie—’ Shock registered briefly on his face before his expression settled into one of cool unreadability. ‘Doctor Flynn. You’re back.’
‘Yes, last night. Actually, early this morning, more accurately.’
The last time she had seen him, he had been unconscious in a hospital bed, bandaged and wired to every device in the room, touch and go whether he would live or die. He had lived, the second gunshot wound that he’d survived in as many years, but she knew that the wound to his abdomen had been devastating, that he’d lost nearly half the blood in his body before he’d reached the operating theatre. Though he was back at work, she couldn’t believe that he was physically 100 per cent recovered. And mentally? He was wearing a smart navy-blue suit, uniform knife-creases bisecting each trouser leg, a crisp white shirt, open at the neck, black shoes shined mirror bright, nothing there to upset her sense of order. But beneath the window dressing, he looked wrecked, his eyes washed out and skittish, skin pale and damp with perspiration.
‘How was the Persian Gulf?’
‘Good.’ She hunched her shoulders. ‘Interesting.’
‘Glad you enjoyed it.’
‘Thanks.’
He gave her a tight smile. ‘So why are you here at Blackdown?’
She had kept a picture of him in her mind whilst she had been away, had taken it out and examined it closely when she was alone in her bunk at night. Looking at him now, she realized that the picture had faded, blended with the faces of the men around her until it seemed ordinary. But there was nothing ordinary about him, nothing regular. He was arrestingly handsome and she felt what little confidence she possessed draining from her, trapped as she was under the unremitting gaze of those haunted amber eyes. Heat rose to her face.
‘I’m, uh, here to help.’
‘Help who?’
‘You. With the investigation, the suspicious death.’
‘I didn’t request a psychologist’s help.’
‘Holden-Hough did.’
‘What?’ He looked incredulous.
‘He called Gideon Duursema and I’m afraid that you’re landed with me because my diary was the emptiest.’
His jaw tightened. ‘Give me a minute.’ Pulling his mobile from his pocket, he flicked through his contacts. After a moment, ‘Colonel, it’s Captain Callan.’ His voice faded as he walked away. A pause. ‘I don’t need—’ she heard. Another pause, his legs jittering impatiently as he listened. ‘Right. Yes, sir.’ Jamming his phone back into his pocket, he turned to face her. His expression was one of barely suppressed anger. ‘It seems I don’t have a choice.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He pulled a face. ‘Not your fault.’
He turned back to the grey-haired man in the forensic overalls he had been speaking with, who had tactfully distanced himself when Jessie approached.
‘Morgan, I’m going to search Foster’s accommodation block now. I’ll take Doctor Flynn with me.’ The inference: keep her out of trouble, out of your hair. ‘Post a guard here when you’re done. I’ll call the dogs in tomorrow, see if there’s anything we’ve missed.’
Morgan nodded. ‘Right, sir.’
Striding past Jessie, Callan cast back over his shoulder. ‘Are you coming, Doctor?’
He walked fast, making no allowances for the fact that she had started off five metres behind and was wearing heels. She had to jog to catch up and then trot in his wake to keep up with his long stride, like some subservient wife. She was tempted to grind to a standstill and tell him to stick his attitude, but she had been briefed to work on the case with him and the atmosphere between them was already frigid.
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