‘Let me stop you right there, sir.’ Golding’s words are thick with condescension. ‘Like I said earlier, this is police business now and you seniors have no place trying to meddle in a—’
‘But this is important.’ Philip clenches his fingers tighter around the phone. He needs Golding to hear what they’ve found. ‘We’ve visited the crime scene, and we’ve—’
‘I said enough, goddammit.’ Golding’s voice is louder now. The condescending tone has been replaced with irritation. ‘Now listen to me. You need to stop meddling and stop calling. I’ve got a job to do, and you need to let me do it. I don’t need your help. I don’t want your help. So quit calling.’
Philip’s silent for a moment. Shocked. Feels the anger bubbling in his belly. The audacity of the man – the refusal to even listen – is infuriating. He hardens his tone. Bangs his fist against the oak desk as he speaks. ‘You have to hear me out on—’
‘Goodbye.’ The way Golding says the word makes it sound more like a growl. Seconds later the call disconnects.
Philip’s heart is bashing against his ribcage as if it’s trying to break out. He puts his hand against his chest. He’s not meant to get overexcited; the doc warned him about that, told him he needed an easy life, stress free. He clenches his fist. Presses it harder against his chest. There’s nothing stress free about interacting with bloody Detective Golding.
Still angry, Philip shoves his phone into his pocket and walks back through the house to the others. He grabs a beer from the fridge on the way. Twists off the cap and takes a long drink.
He thinks again about Golding’s tone; such a smug, know-it-all bastard. Thinks of the warning to stay out of the investigation that the detective gave him and the lack of respect he’d shown. Golding hadn’t even given him the chance to tell him about the phone or the man following Moira for God’s sake. It beggared belief. What kind of detective shuts down a caller with potential evidence in a murder case before they’ve even had the time to talk about what they’ve got? Philip takes another swig of beer.
He – they, as a team of four – need to keep working the case, that much is crystal clear. And he refuses to feel bad about breaking the rules for a single moment longer. Golding doesn’t give a damn, and that young woman in the pool deserves justice. If the police aren’t going to get it, then it’s up to them. Philip takes another swig and makes a solemn vow.
No more fair and reasonable.
No more sharing of information and trying to help.
They’ll solve this case and that bastard Golding can go to hell.
22
MOIRA
She can see things didn’t go well from the expression on Philip’s face as he stomps on to the patio and plonks himself down on his chair. Moira knew it was a long shot – after the way Golding treated Philip earlier, they all knew that – but she’d hoped for better, for his sake, and for hers. If Golding had stepped up and made Philip feel the police were taking proper care with the murder case, he’d stop investigating and she’d be able to step away from this group of ex-law enforcement types and reorientate any contact they had into something a lot more casual. She could stop watching what she said for fear of giving herself away. It’d limit the risk, and make her feel a lot less tense than she’s feeling right now.
Rick leans towards Philip, earnest expression on his face. ‘How’d it go?’
Philip shakes his head. His cheeks are flushed and he’s holding his beer in a death-grip. ‘He didn’t let me speak long enough to tell him about the phone, the hairclip or the bloke spying on Moira. Told me to back off and then hung up on me again.’
‘What, he didn’t even . . .’ Lizzie looks furious.
Moira knows the feeling. Victims of crime deserve justice, but the way Golding’s behaving he doesn’t seem to give a shit. ‘What’s the matter with the cops in this place?’