Across the Pond
Author's Note
I do not own the main characters, I am just borrowing them. Any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental. I am not a medical professional of any kind, nor am I a lawyer or police officer, and as such I apologise for any factual mistakes I will no doubt make. I write for pleasure (mine and hopefully other people's), and would appreciate any reviews or comments. Thank you.
Sam C.
Chapter 3
"Miss Thompson?" said Lucy, more gently than any other words she had spoken that day. "They told me about your sister," she continued, nodding her head back towards the interior of the police station. "I'm sorry." Lucy's tone was genuine as she looked the other woman in the eye, seeing tears welling which were starting to spill down her pale cheeks, not for the first time judging by tell-tale streaks which had been hastily and ineffectively wiped.
Freya Thompson looked up mutely, obviously distressed but with curiosity at the tall American. She was not surprised to see her, thought Lucy, as they were both taken to the station at the same time though in separate cars. It seemed as though the younger woman was waiting for Lucy to continue, despite the tears now rolling down her face and dripping onto her black jogging trousers.
"Do you have a ride home?" asked Lucy, moving to one side and perching awkwardly on the edge of an adjacent chair, not wanting to crowd the smaller woman's space. A shake of the head from Thompson told her no. "My friends and I would be happy to take you home. Will you come with us?"
Suddenly the trickle of tears became a torrent, accompanied by a low moan which suggested actual physical pain, and Lucy froze, for once at a loss. She had no idea what to say or do, but in an instant her aunt was there, shepherding Lucy gently aside and putting an arm around the crying woman. Standing with Marino and Benton, Lucy couldn't hear the words spoken by Scarpetta in a low, calm tone, but little by little the sobbing decreased and Thompson began to speak back to the older woman, haltingly at first then more controlled. Eventually Kay Scarpetta patted the younger woman on the back and rose to join the others.
"Miss Thompson – Freya, she insists – will be coming back to the farmhouse with us," she announced. Nobody objected and Scarpetta offered no explanations. She turned to Lucy and gave a small smile. "Freya wants you to know how grateful she is to you for protecting her earlier in the woods, but she's not really up to thanking you herself at the moment." Scarpetta stepped up to Lucy and hugged her tightly. "Good job," she whispered, sending a red flush of embarrassment creeping up her niece's neck and cheeks.
It was a relief when the hire car, a Land Rover Discovery driven by Marino, pulled up to the farmhouse across the bumpy gravel path. The ex-police officer drove like he was still on the force chasing bad guys around Richmond, Virginia, and the sturdy 4-wheel drive careened around the corners of the country lanes. If anything could take his passengers' minds off the events of the evening, it was Marino's driving. As they climbed out, the big man slapped the wheel admiringly. "Well, it ain't my old truck, but it's an okay ride."
"Maybe if you drove it in full automatic mode," began Scarpetta acidly, " rather than messing around with the paddle shift, it'd be a smoother ride for everyone."
Marino grinned. "Makes it fun, don't it? Feels like a racing car then."
"Just be thankful it wasn't a manual drive, or we'd still be back in the village," Lucy put in, reaching one arm out automatically to help Freya Thompson from the car. Their guest appeared shocked and hadn't said a word or looked up since the exchange with Scarpetta in the police station.
The beefy man adopted a hurt expression, given away only by a curl at the corners of his lips. "Hey, I can drive a stick shift!" he replied, nudging Benton in the ribs who hastily took two steps away from Marino.
"Not with me in it, you can't," retorted Lucy. Catching a sharp glance from her aunt, the dark-haired woman frowned, then turned away from the conversation and began to walk slowly to the wide front door, a hand on Thompson's arm guiding her alongside. Scarpetta took Freya's other arm and together they ushered the dazed woman into the living room. Her tears had stopped, but she was red now from crying, and by the way she was holding her neck stiffly the medical doctor in Scarpetta realised that she probably had a headache.
"Freya, I'm just going to go into the kitchen with Lucy and our friend, Pete," Scarpetta said softly, waving a hand towards Marino who nodded in greeting. "My husband, Benton, will stay here with you. Is that alright?"
Nodding, but without any indication she had understood, the young woman sat down and stared numbly into space, not registering her surroundings. Lucy glared at her aunt and edged towards Thompson, her message clear, but Scarpetta shook her head slightly and moved purposefully towards the kitchen, followed by Marino and an irritated Lucy who, as soon as the heavy door closed, launched into a speech.
"I'd like to stay with her, Aunt Kay. After all, I'm the one who found, you know, and we, well, we had a kind of connection. She saved my life, y'know? So I think she'd appreciate it if I went back in there and-"
"Honey, I know you want to be in there with Miss Thompson. I know that you went through a lot today too, and for all I know she might want you in there. But at the moment, I think it's best we let Benton talk to her, and that we don't confuse the poor woman with too many people at once. " Scarpetta's voice was firm and not to be argued with. "Right now," she continued, "why don't you tell us exactly what happened? All we got from that officer-"
"Sergeant Orange," interjected Marino with a snigger.
"All we were told," continued Scarpetta with a look which would have frozen most people on the spot, but had little effect on the large ex-cop, "was that you found a body, that of Ruth Thompson, our guest's younger sister. What happened, Lucy?"
"Yeah, how the hell did you manage to find a corpse out here in the middle of nowheresville?" growled Marino. "Hell, I can't even find a burger joint, and that's sayin' something."
There was no getting out of it, thought Lucy. She might as well tell the entire story yet again, or they'd never leave it alone. Anyway, it was probably best that they knew the details, if the other witness was to be staying with them for even a short time. Lucy made a mental note to ask her aunt exactly how that had happened, and why she had invited a stranger - a stranger whose sister had just been brutally murdered - to stay with them, out of the blue.
"Do you think she had anything to do with it, Sir?"
Detective Sergeant Alison Smith was confused. As far as she was aware, the Farinelli woman, whilst an irritating pain in the backside, was simply a witness to the horrific murder of Ruth Thompson, and a plucky character for fighting off the man who then attacked her and Freya Thompson. Yet her superior had spent the evening making telephone calls in his office, finding out more about the odd group of Americans, in particular Lucy Farinelli, and Smith wasn't at all sure why.
Leaning back in his comfy chair, which he had dragged from office to office every time he had moved, Rothery closed his eyes, looking somewhat like a praying Buddha. Without looking, he spoke. "From what little information I've managed to glean from our Interpol liaison – which I might add is no more than I found myself using Google – and an old friend of mine who works for the FBI, these people are the bees' knees as far as solving crime is concerned. Take a look at this," he said, slapping a wad of printouts in front of Smith, who after standing and craning her neck for a minute decided that she might as well sit down, since the Chief Inspector hadn't even opened his eyes yet.
After a few minutes of speed reading, Smith realised her superior officer's problem. Between them, individually and working together, the four Americans had solved more violent crimes than the North Yorkshire Constabulary had in the last twenty years, or fifty years, or a century – Smith wasn't sure, but it was a lot. Not just your average assaults either, but serial killers, rapists, sadistic criminals who tortured their victims in unspeakable ways. All of them had, at some time or another and more than once, been a target of a killer, and managed to survive, usually by killing their would-be murderer.
"Maybe I should just turn this murder case over to them," muttered the balding detective, rubbing at his nose and finally looking at his junior officer, who stared back, unable to speak. "They'd probably have identified the person responsible by teatime tomorrow and have him safely locked in the cells by supper. Thank God we don't allow tourists to carry guns," added Rothery, shaking his head slowly. "We'd have had another body in the woods if that Farinelli woman had been armed, judging by her record. This is a bad one, Sergeant."
Smith nodded. "Still, sir, we've got the statements in now. We might not have to speak to them again a great deal more, and if we need any clarification we can send Goodall along to ask the questions. If she – Farinelli – wasn't involved in the murder, surely they'll all stay out of our way while we keep out of theirs?"
"If only it was that simple, Sergeant," sighed the Chief Inspector. "We'll wait and see."
"That's all," ended Lucy, finishing her recount of the evening from the time she stumbled whilst jogging to being released by the Chief Inspector. She took a long swig of coffee, now lukewarm, from a giant earthenware mug that dwarfed her slender fingers, and looked at her audience expectantly.
A small frown turned Scarpetta's lips down as she thought over what she had heard from her niece, whilst former Captain Marino slammed a huge fist on the solid granite worktop, causing a slight shudder through the heavy, built-to-last furniture.
"They've got a damn cheek, interrogating you like that. How dare that sonofabitch – excuse me, I mean asshole," Marino caught himself, or tried to, after a brief flicker of Scarpetta's eyebrows, "treat you like a frickin' perp! What, does he reckon you had somethin' to do with that stiff you fell over?"
With a scowl, the large man stopped and sat back heavily on his stool, taking a slurp from a fresh can of diet coke that almost drained it dry. Although he had given up alcohol, it seemed that Marino had a new vice, for he was rarely seen without a caffeine-heavy drink. Ignoring Marino's outburst, Scarpetta regarded Lucy thoughtfully. "You say the body was still warm and the blood was sticky, but not completely liquid?"
Lucy nodded. "It was gloopy, enough to stick to my jog pants."
"And the man who attacked you appeared no more than a minute after you found the body?" The younger woman nodded again. "Which way was Miss Thompson – Freya – running when you first met her?"
Her boyish face wrinkled as Lucy recalled the moment she first ran into Thompson. "From another path which joined the one I was on, which then continued along to where the body was found. Like an upside-down capital Y, with me on the left leg and Freya running up the right leg."
"And the attacker was walking towards you both, without attempting to be quiet, even though he must have heard you talking?"
"Mebbe because he heard you talking," Marino cut in, his tone thoughtful. "He'd been along a minute ago, done his bit of work on the girl, but before he could get gone he hears the two of you and thinks he better sort you out too, or else his slicin' and dicin' would get back to the cops before he's got a chance to beat it."
"Perhaps," replied Lucy slowly, "but if that's the case, why not just blow our heads off with the 12-bore? It's not like there was likely to be anyone else nearby, and even if there was, it's hardly unusual to hear a shotgun out in the woods at dusk."
The three of them were silent for a minute, each trying to make sense of what had happened and think through Marino's common sense suggestion. Eventually Scarpetta rose from her stool, stretching her limbs as she did so. It had been a long and unexpectedly stressful evening. "I hope the police figure it out soon," she said bleakly, "or we might have to stay longer than we planned."
At that moment, Benton walked through the door from the living room, carefully closing it behind him. He looked composed enough, but Scarpetta saw the tension in his hands as he crossed the kitchen and slid his arms around his wife, kissing her gently. Disentangling herself from his embrace, Scarpetta asked "How is she?"
"Not bad, considering," Benton answered, tipping his head on one side. "She's a strong-willed woman, not one to dissolve in a crisis, though if she keeps it bottled up too much I'm worried that she might take longer to come to terms with her sister's death."
"Did she say much at all?" Lucy asked, sounding concerned even though she tried to give an impression of nonchalance.
Benton nodded briefly. "A little about when she met you, and about the attack. She's not afraid to talk about that, which is good, for her and for the investigating officers. When I asked about her sister, though, she clammed up – wouldn't tell me a thing, not even general information. I'm guessing there's a complicated relationship there, some issues between them, I don't know." He sighed and looked at Lucy, a small smile on his handsome features. "She agreed to some hot chocolate, and asked if you could be the one to take it to her. As for the rest of us, I think we should get some sleep."
"At last," grumbled Marino. "I'm on vacation, y'know, if you hadn't forgotten. There's enough goddamn murders back in the states without getting' messed up in anything out here. 'Night then." He drank the last of his coke and stomped out of the kitchen, throwing the empty can towards the bin and missing by a foot. "Bugger," he swore, ignoring it anyway, the door banging shut behind him.
Scarpetta took her husband's hand and they made for the same door that Marino had just left by, Benton pausing to retrieve the can and place it carefully in the dustbin for recyclable items. "See you in the morning," said Scarpetta softly, receiving a wave in return from her niece, who was already boiling milk in a pan and spooning cocoa powder into two of the enormous mugs that filled one of the cupboards. As they climbed the stairs, Scarpetta stopped and turned. "I hope she'll be ok."
Benton smiled and gently pushed Scarpetta from behind, nudging her to keep going. "It's probably good that Freya wants to talk to Lucy. She was there this evening too, and it's obvious they click, despite the terrible circumstances."
Scarpetta was unimpressed. "That's what I'm worried about," she hissed, jabbing her finger in the direction of the sitting room. "Lucy 'clicking' with the sister of a murder victim, who was discovered by Lucy – none of this is good."
"Don't underestimate Lucy," Benton replied with a grin, placing his strong hands on Scarpetta's hips and propelling her upwards. "She's more sensitive than you think, and she's grown up a hell of a lot in the last year. Let's head to bed, ok?"
Finally allowing herself to be ushered upstairs, Benton made sure that Scarpetta quickly forgot about her niece and their unexpected houseguest. Downstairs, Lucy awkwardly pushed her way into the living room whilst carrying two steaming hot mugs of cocoa, ignoring the burning and wearing a sympathetic smile. Her dark hair was styled very short, and hadn't seen a comb for days, and she still wore the running clothes she had put on almost seven hours ago.
"Hey, Benton said you wanted cocoa. Here," Lucy said, handing a heavy mug to Thompson, "it's pretty hot, and a bit too full, sorry." She sat down on a chair a little away from the younger woman and watched her as she held the drink without trying it. "I want to say, well, you know, I'm sorry about everything." Sounding as awkward as she felt, Lucy cursed her lack of social graces inwardly.
Freya, after several moments of silence, glanced up at Lucy. Though her face was pale, her green eyes were dry, Lucy was pleased to note. The young woman shifted in her seat before she spoke. "I want to thank you, for what you did in the woods." She paused, looking away uncomfortably. "If you hadn't been there…"
"Same here, Freya," Lucy reminded her gently. "If you hadn't been there to save my ass, we'd probably not be here sipping hot chocolate. Speaking of which," Lucy shifted over and leaned across to the smaller woman, pressing lightly upwards on the arm that held the mug, "drink it while it's hot. I'm not sure we've enough milk for another one." She grinned, and was rewarded by a sad smile from Thompson, who complied. Lucy left her hand there for a minute before settling back into her seat.
"I'm glad you were there," said Thompson softly, after savouring a mouthful of the thick, sweet cocoa. "I – if we hadn't – if it hadn't been like that, I think I might have wanted to get to know you anyway." Her eyes met Lucy's again, this time with an almost fierce look, one of determination that often showed in Lucy's own. "I still want to get to know you," whispered the blonde, a slight flush creeping up her cheeks.
Setting her mug down on the wooden floor, Lucy moved like a cat, gracefully but with caution, easing over towards the other woman and removing the drink from her grasp. She took Freya's hands and pulled her upright, hard enough that the smaller woman fell against her and was wrapped in Lucy's strong arms. She smelled Thompson's scent, shampoo or deodorant with a hint of orange, and lightly kissed the smooth skin of her neck. Feeling arms hesitantly passing around her own waist, Lucy slowly laid a trail of kisses to the lips of the other woman, where she lingered gently, feeling her new friend respond. Without speaking, the older woman pulled away and took Thompson's hand, leading her towards the stairs.
It wasn't until much later, as Lucy lay awake, one arm protectively around her new lover, that she realised she had never asked her aunt why she had invited Thompson to stay with them in the first place.