Chapters (100)
Renshaw flipped back to the opening page. ‘There’s nothing here to ID the book’s owner.’ She slowly leafed through the pages, then stopped. Maggie heard a little gasp escape from her lips.
‘What is it?’
Renshaw couldn’t speak. The colour had drained from her face.
‘I – I need a word with Maggie in private,’ she rasped.
Burton and Nathan shared a look of concern. ‘Is everything okay?’ Nathan asked.
‘Give us a minute. Please.’
The two of them left the incident room, shutting the door softly behind them.
Maggie’s heart rate soared as she watched Renshaw slump into a chair.
‘Anna, what the hell’s wrong?’
‘I recognize one of these mobile numbers.’
She looked up at Maggie, crestfallen.
‘It’s my boyfriend’s.’
56
Saturday
Maggie was woken by the sound of her doorbell ringing continuously, like someone was pressing down on it with their finger and not letting go. She rolled over to check the time on her alarm clock and groaned when she saw it was only nine o’clock.
She’d had precisely four hours’ sleep, having stayed up drinking wine with Renshaw, who was now passed out in her spare room.
As she pulled back the covers the doorbell suddenly stopped. She gave it a few seconds to make sure it didn’t start up again, then, when it didn’t, flopped onto her back, and stared up at the ceiling.
She still couldn’t believe it. ACC Bailey, Renshaw’s boyfriend, paying for sex.
The situation had snowballed after Renshaw told Maggie she’d spotted his number in the notebook. Despite Maggie urging restraint – because they couldn’t be sure Burton’s theory about it belonging to a prostitute was even correct – Renshaw had called Bailey in his office at area HQ in Trenton and asked him outright why his phone number was listed in the notebook alongside other punters.
He didn’t even try to deny it.
There were tears, shouting and, from what Maggie could glean, desperate attempts by Bailey to apologize for his indiscretion. All the while Maggie sat there wishing she didn’t have to play witness to Renshaw’s life imploding and watch her become more and more broken by her boyfriend’s admissions of guilt. He couldn’t even tell her whose book it might be – the owner could be one of half a dozen girls he regularly used.
Then, after refusing his pleas to let him drive home so they could sort it out, Renshaw lit the fuse she knew would detonate his career as well as their relationship.
‘The notebook was found in the bedroom of a child whose death we’re investigating. How do you explain that?’