‘You’re hungry?’ She couldn’t imagine anything worse than eating at this particular moment in time.
‘A nice mixed grill or something extra greasy, that’s what I fancy.’ Sam smiled.
‘You’re going to have a heart attack if you keep eating like that.’
‘I’ve got to take care of my figure, Grey, takes a lot of work to maintain this fine physique.’ He rubbed his belly. Samuel Brown was a short man with a thick-set body and more hair poking out of his shirt than was actually on his head. You couldn’t accuse him of being vain, that was for sure.
‘I’ll pass, thanks. I’m off shift in an hour so I thought I might go get this paperwork filed.’
‘Suit yourself. You can cover for me then, I need to eat. You seeing your mother tonight?’
‘Yep, same as yesterday. Probably same as tomorrow.’
‘You can’t keep this shit up, Grey, you need to get a life of some sort. She needs to accept help from someone other than you.’
‘Everyone we try just ends up walking out on her. She’s a nightmare, but she’s my nightmare. Anyway, she gets worried when she doesn’t see me.’
‘No wonder you’re single, you won’t even give yourself a chance at a normal bloody life.’
‘You’ve supposedly got a life, Brown, and yet you’re still single, what does that say?’
‘I’m a lone wolf. It’s a choice, you can’t harness this beast. It wouldn’t be fair to all the others. Besides, me being single isn’t a consolation prize, this is how I choose to live my life.’
‘Yeah, well, this is how I choose to live mine.’
‘I think I saw a burger van up at the intersection, I’m going to grab something on the go then talk to some of the charming residents of this street, see if they saw anything. You sure you don’t want a nice fat juicy burger all dripping with fat and cheese?’
‘As appetising as that sounds, no thanks.’ She smiled and walked out.
As Imogen turned the key in the lock to her mother’s place, she could smell burning. She rushed into the kitchen and saw smoke. There was a blackened pan on the stove, full of four burst boiled eggs and no water. Her mother must have put them on well over an hour ago. Imogen looked up at the fire alarm; it was smashed to pieces where her mother had obviously attacked it with the broom. That was the second one this month. Imogen would have to get on to their handyman about fixing it.
‘Hey, Mum, I brought you some fish and chips.’
‘You’re abandoning me, aren’t you? You’re always banging on at me about my cholesterol levels but today you bring me fish and chips,’ Irene said.
‘You should have been a detective,’ Imogen replied as she threw the greasy parcel on the only available part of the kitchen counter and searched the cupboards for a clean plate. She should stay and wash up; the stagnant water in the sink was overflowing with almost every item of crockery her mother owned. Flies hovered over the surface. She made a mental note to get her mother paper plates from now on.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I have a date,’ Imogen lied, looking around the room. It was filthy; she could feel her skin crawling. God only knew what bacteria were in the air. Imogen almost wished she was back at the crime scene. She’d have to phone a cleaner at the same time as the handyman.
‘A date?’ Irene’s eyes lit up. ‘With a man?’
‘No, with a buffalo.’
‘Thank God, I was starting to think you were …’
‘Yes, I know what you thought.’
‘Is he a criminal? You haven’t gone and fallen for someone you arrested?’
‘No, he’s not a criminal.’ Imogen tipped the fish and chips out on to a plate. She hastily squirted ketchup on to the side and then handed the plate to her mother.
‘I don’t like tomato sauce.’
‘Then why do you buy it?’ Imogen walked away, wiping her greasy hands on an even greasier kitchen towel. Irene was stalling, but Imogen didn’t care. She wasn’t going to be emotionally blackmailed into staying for her mother’s own personal amusement; she did have a life, despite what Sam thought. She knew it was only a matter of time before the name-calling began, before Irene tried to make her feel like shit as per usual. She was going to make sure that she was out the door before her mother got the chance.
A little while later, away from the chaos of her mother’s house, Imogen pulled up outside Plymouth Police Station and looked at herself in the rear-view mirror. She pulled out her mascara and reapplied it.
She walked in and sat at her desk, before pulling out the relevant forms for her report about the dead girl. She looked over at Sam’s desk. He was long gone already, a discoloured apple core lying on top of the crime scene photos. It can’t have been his, she was pretty sure he was allergic to anything that wasn’t processed or dripping in trans-fats. She leaned over and picked up the photos, tossing the core in the bin. Something about apple cores made her feel sick, maybe it was the myriad of tooth marks and the knowledge of all the saliva and forensics that put her off. Since spending a weekend on a forensics seminar she had been put off a lot of things. Apple cores, hotel rooms, the backs of taxis. They were all very evidence heavy, in the form of bodily fluids.
She looked at the images of the girl. As she stared, the phrase ‘There but for the grace of God,’ sprang into her head. She wasn’t a religious person, but she appreciated that particular sentiment. It could have easily been her who was lying face down in her own excrement and vomit. These things happen gradually. You make one bad decision, then another, each one slightly more fucked up and soul destroying than the last. Then bam, before you know it you’re an addict; willing to do absolutely anything to get that next fix. It wasn’t lost on Imogen; if she thought about it she could probably pinpoint the exact moments in her life where she had fought with herself to make the right decision. Where, thanks to God or whoever else was in charge that day, she hadn’t had the overwhelming urge to self-sabotage. She’d had the opportunities, she just knew that there were some decisions you couldn’t come back from. She was grateful, because it was in her DNA to mess up; it was genetic, hereditary. At least that’s what it felt like. Not for the first time, she wondered about her father – what had he been like? Had he too had the same streak as her mother, that awful capacity to self-destruct? She’d never known him. She never would.
‘Detective Grey?’ DCI David Stanton’s voice snapped her out of her trance; she put the photos down and turned around. He stood in the doorway to his office, looking sullen and stern like he always did. Sullen and stern, but undoubtedly attractive. Imogen felt her stomach flip slightly.
‘Sir?’
‘My office!’
She walked across the room, aware that the sound of her heels carried, hoping no one would look up. The day was coming to an end; only the brown-nosers would be around now. The brown-nosers and her. She stood to attention as Stanton closed the door behind her. Her boss was a tall man, a good few inches over six foot. He had medium-brown hair with flashes of grey at the temples and he was never completely clean-shaven, almost, but not completely.
‘Is there a problem, sir?’
‘I thought you were gone for the day?’
‘Just wanted to get my paperwork done tonight, sir. You know, while it was fresh in my mind.’
‘I admire that work ethic, Grey.’ He walked back around and released the shutter on the blind. ‘It couldn’t wait till tomorrow?’
‘It could have, yes.’
He was a foot taller than her. She