Woulda been worth it.
Her text ended with a cheeky tongue-out emoji.
He laughed out loud as the natural rhythm of their relationship seemed to establish itself.
He sent a quick reply. Knowing she’d be about to start the working day too.
Weekend?
For sure.
She replied. Few words had passed between them, but it was enough.
He knew he had to push Lynne out of his mind or he’d never get a thing done.
Something else that was slowing him down was focussing on Celia Gardner. He was no closer to finding out anything about the woman. Her husband was an open book, and it had taken him less than an hour to chart Victor Gardner’s entire existence from Hawthorn Primary in Oswestry to Wildcrest High School to Keele University to four jobs in sales and then to Change. Another twenty minutes and he could have found out what he’d had for his breakfast that morning. But no such luck with Celia. Even under her maiden name of Thatcher he could find no record of her education or work history prior to her marriage to Victor Gardner. Any general web search including that surname brought up millions of hits spread between the late prime minister and her headline-ridden children, which was slowing him down in digging into the backgrounds of other people.
He decided to work his tasks in chronological order. The boss had met Charles Stamoran and Lorraine Abbott first.
He entered Stamoran’s details onto the system. There was no record. He wasn’t known to them, and Penn knew that didn’t mean he’d never done anything wrong. Only that he hadn’t been caught.
He put in various searches for the Exodus leader. His social media was lacklustre at best. It was as though he’d opened accounts and then couldn’t really be bothered to stay on top of them. Seemed a bit strange, Penn thought. Other than the odd retweet and share, he was pretty silent. Often when people had jobs such as his they shouted their opinions from the rooftops, defended their positions, justified their beliefs, even tried to convert the opinions of others. From this guy – nothing.
Penn clicked into his LinkedIn profile, the only platform that appeared to be up to date. Professional photos taken at various stages of his career sat beside lengthy profiles and listings of roles and responsibilities. Penn was intrigued enough to keep reading. He scrolled to the bottom of his employment history. The man had started working as a booker for a temping agency. Two years later he’d been promoted to recruitment consultant. Three years later he’d moved to a national chain of agencies in London. While there he’d risen through the ranks to become recruitment executive, area manager and then nothing for two years. Between 2017 and 2019 there was no record.
Penn had the realisation that it was a job to the man. His entire work history was listed and it had all been about recruitment, getting numbers. After two years out of work, the job could have been for anything. Recruiting people to go against their own sexuality or to go on a sightseeing trip. It was all the same to Charles Stamoran. It was all about the numbers. Penn didn’t like the taste that information left in his mouth.
Content that he knew as much as he needed to know about Charles Stamoran, he turned his attention to Lorraine Abbott.
A search on the Police National Computer turned up a charge of ABH on her neighbour. He clicked into the narrative to find details of an ongoing feud between Lorraine and a MsRoberts for at least three years. Various calls had been made by both parties but far more from Ms Roberts. Apparently, an argument over a shared border had erupted into violence and Ms Roberts had suffered a broken nose and cheekbone, a black eye, a bruised stomach and a cut to her arm. Lorraine Abbott had sustained no injury. All a bit much for the sake of some overgrown pansies.
Ms Roberts had stated that it wasn’t about the pansies. She’d made it clear that Lorraine Abbott had beaten her up because she was gay.
Penn reached for the phone. This was something the boss needed to know.
SIXTY
‘Bloody hell,’ Kim said when Penn finished reeling off the list of injuries. ‘And that was over daffodils?’
‘Pansies,’ Penn corrected. ‘But the neighbour claimed it was a hate crime and that Lorraine had been verbally abusing her for years before the assault. The jury agreed.’
‘We’ll be paying the lovely lady a visit later. Good work, Penn,’ she said, ending the call as they pulled off the main road.
Quatford was a small village in Shrewsbury, just south of Bridgnorth. It was listed in the Doomsday Book and once had a bridge that was a key crossing of the River Severn. A bridge north of Quatford was built some years later, giving the market town its name.
Bryant pulled into a narrow street just behind The Danery pub. A row of seven small cottages lay just half a metre back from the road.
‘Going back to the pub,’ Bryant said, turning around in a small drive. There was nowhere to park that wouldn’t block the road.
‘Bloody hell, Bryant, it’s not even nine.’
‘To park,’ he said, as though it needed explanation.
She waited until they were out of the car and heading towards Jerry Dwyer’s house before speaking. ‘What do you think of the news on Lorraine Abbott?’ she asked.
‘Other than the woman is an absolute charmer,’ Bryant answered. ‘I thought she was hostile to us because we’re police but no, it looks like she’s just a nasty piece of work.’
‘To beat someone to a pulp because they’re gay. That’s a special kind of rage,’ Kim observed as she came to a stop outside the middle cottage in the row.