Lampard sat back in his chair, apparently in control again. He waved a dismissive hand in Donovan’s direction. ‘Whatever you say, Doc.’
Donovan flicked open the file in front of him. He didn’t really need to look at it but he wanted to give Lampard a few moments to let what had been said settle in his mind.
‘So, Oscar, it’s all right if I call you that, isn’t it?’ Oscar shrugged. Donovan continued. ‘Stella Harris, the girl who was attacked. You told my colleagues that you were on first-name terms with her and chatted when your paths crossed, but that was about it.’
‘Yeah and what of it?’
‘Fancy her, did you? She’s quite a looker, well she was, before her face became a punch bag. Lovely blonde hair, pretty delicate features, great figure. Come on, you must have fancied her.’
‘She’s pretty. So what? Doesn’t mean I attacked her,’ said Lampard. He put his leg down and shuffled in his seat. ‘She’s stuck-up anyway. Not my type.’
‘Snotty bitch, eh, Oscar? Is that what you thought? Prissy cow. Marching in and out of the flat like Lady Muck, parading around in her short skirts and high heels. Flashing her thighs. I bet she was asking for it really.’
Lampard thumped his hand down on the table, the plastic inhaler clashing with the Formica. He jumped to his feet. Donovan matched his action and the two men leaned across the desk, their faces inches apart.
The police officer, who had been patiently standing by the door observing, took a step towards them, ordering Lampard to sit back down. He cast Donovan a disapproving look. Donovan cursed under his breath. He was just about to move in for the killer blow in his verbal assault. Lampard was on the brink of cracking, then the sodding PC had taken it upon himself to act as a referee. Brilliant.
Oscar Lampard was sitting back down. Composed. Calm. In control. He slid the inhaler into his pocket and in an angelic-like way, brought his hands together on his lap. Donovan took his seat, throwing the PC a scowl as he did so. He’d have a word with DCI Ken Froames later to make sure this plod wasn’t in on future interviews. A rookie who didn’t know Donovan’s style. He turned his attention back to Lampard, who appeared relaxed, a smile settling on his face. Lampard leaned in and gestured with his hand for Donovan to move forward. Donovan obliged.
‘You’re going to be sorry you messed with me,’ he muttered quietly so only Donovan could hear.
Donovan remained unruffled. It wasn’t the first time he had been threatened in this line of work. It held no fear for him. It was all talk. However, sensing he had lost this particular battle, but certainly not the war, Donovan stood up. A coffee was definitely needed. He was sure Lampard was guilty. He matched the profile but without any hard evidence from the police, it wasn’t enough to charge him.
‘Oi, Doc,’ said Lampard as Donovan reached the interview room door. ‘Watch your back now. It’s dangerous out there.’
With the laptop charged, Ellen sat propped up against the headrest of her bed. She logged onto the email account she and Kate had set up. One message in the draft box. Ellen clicked it open.
Hi lovely
Just wishing you good luck in your new job. So glad you’re back in the UK now. When things have settled down for you, we will have to meet up. Sussex is only a train ride away. I’ve got some post to send off today so you should get it tomorrow or the day after. I think it’s only bank stuff.
There is one thing. Toby. Don’t be alarmed, everything is okay. He called by the other day and left a card and present for you. I told him I didn’t know where you were and he seemed to accept it. What do you want me to do with the gift?
Right, I must go and get ready. It’s Patrick’s 13th birthday today and we are all going out for a family tea. Thanks for his card and the money, he was delighted with it. I can’t believe my little brother is a teenager now! Hormones, testosterone – ew!
Love, hugs and kisses.
xx
Ellen smiled at the thought of Kate’s little brother becoming a hormonal teenager. Patrick, a rather late addition to the Gibson family, was doted upon and thoroughly spoilt by everyone. A small chord of homesickness plucked at her. She wished she could be there.
Deleting the email from the draft box, Ellen began a new one.
Hello yourself!
I can’t believe it either, little baby Patrick is 13 already – wow! Wish him happy birthday from me. Glad the card got there safely. By the time you read this, you will have already been out for his birthday. Hope you all had a lovely time and I’m really sorry I couldn’t be there.
As for Toby and his card/present – do with it what you like. I don’t want it at all. I hope he was okay when he called round and didn’t give you any trouble. It goes without saying, don’t trust him, you know what he’s like.
Everything is good here. My boss, Donovan, seems really nice, his daughter Izzy is lovely, so sweet. The PA on the other hand – can’t say I’m won over yet, but it’s early days. It’s great being by the sea. I am glad to be back in the UK. We will definitely catch up soon. Give me a few weeks and we will sort something out.
Love, hugs and kisses coming back your way.
Xx
Ignoring the frostiness from Carla, Ellen soon began to feel comfortable and at ease in the Donovan household. Despite her reluctance at the word routine, she had to acknowledge, she had settled into a regular pattern of getting Izzy ready for school and driving her in before taking a stroll along the seafront or around the village and then returning to the house. There wasn’t a great deal to do while Izzy was at school and once the playroom was clean and tidy, she had time on her hands. In recent days, Ellen had found herself in the kitchen with Mrs Holloway, helping to prepare the tea. Again, this was despite her statement that she wasn’t there to do domestic duties. Ellen liked Mrs Holloway and from chatting to the older woman she had learnt more about the Donovan family.
‘Mrs Donovan, oh she was a right one,’ said Mrs Holloway, as Ellen helped her peel the potatoes. ‘Liked a tipple or two, I can tell you.’
‘Don’t we all?’ said Ellen with a smile.
Mrs Holloway put down the potato peeler. She eyed Ellen. ‘That’s as may be, but not quite to the extent that Mrs D drank. It caused no end of problems between her and the boss. He hated her drinking. She used to get legless. Many a time, he’d have to put her to bed and cancel guests at the last minute or worse still, sit through the whole meal while herself was upstairs in a drunken slumber.’
‘How awful,’ said Ellen. ‘Couldn’t she get any help for her drinking?’
‘Didn’t want none.’ It was said with disdain. Mrs Holloway picked up the peeler and began stripping another potato. ‘It all came to a head one day when Mrs D insisted on driving up to the school to collect Izzy. Been on the G&T all afternoon. Luckily, the class teacher had the sense to call Donovan. Apparently, he got up there with Carla just as Mrs D was bundling Izzy into the car. Had every intention of driving off in that state. The teacher had tried to stall for time but Mrs D had got fed up. Dread to think what would have happened if Donovan hadn’t got there when he did.’
‘Oh, my God, that’s terrible,’ said Ellen, genuinely shocked at the thought.
‘The