Chapter 50 DI Cobham
DI Cobham
Lee Cobham lies in bed, clinging to the brief moments he gets between waking and forcing himself out of the warm, soft cocoon of his bed and into the shower to begin the exhausting, and only sometimes rewarding, process of living his life.
He takes a moment to scroll through his Monday-morning work emails.
Helena, his wife, shifts beside him, and he places a heavy, reassuring hand on her side: no need for her to get up.
Her stirring ceases, her breath slowing once more, as she slips back to sleep.
Something twists in his gut when he spots the email, sent early Sunday evening, with multiple-yellow-triangle “warning” emojis in the subject bar.
It’s an external email, obviously—at work everything’s an emergency, so they don’t tend to use emojis to point that out.
The urgency of the subject bar means only one thing: he’s going to have a busy day dealing with some “loon.” A brief glance at the sender confirms this.
Lee inhales deeply, preparing himself for the incoming annoyance he knows is coming. He taps the email open.
Dear DI Cobham,
URGENT!! Re: ANNA DERWENT—MISSING PERSON
If I have not contacted you again by 6 a.m. Monday, it means I am at HIGH RISK and am unable to call the emergency services. I am being held against my will.
The address where Anna Derwent is being held is: 65 Lockheath Road. Or close by this address.
The homeowner, and name of the person holding Anna hostage, is Matt Whitby AKA Simon Hughes.
He is dangerous, and likely responsible for the murder of Anna’s mother, Cynthia Derwent. If you are unable to view the live stream (linked below) for legal reasons, then please immediately dispatch a unit to the address above.
Live stream link: https//petprotectcam/
Frankie Green
Lee instantly hates himself for even opening the stupid thing.
He is about to say exactly that to Helena before he remembers she is sleeping.
He looks at the link and wonders if he should just go ahead and arrest the pet camera lady and be done with it—she’s already been cautioned.
Or he could take a quick look and circumvent the hassle and the stress of sending a mandatory team out to check on this.
No one would need to know he’d looked—he could even say he clicked by accident; he was over forty-five, people bought stuff like that.
He remembers the cat lady well: divorcée, work-from-home busybody type no doubt high on true crime podcasts and the belief that any crime can actually be solved from a laptop.
Most crimes can’t be solved, aren’t ever solved. Most court cases don’t even settle things—you still aren’t a hundred percent on the outcome, he thinks to himself. Oh, to have the confidence in the system that a civilian, or a child, does.
The cat lady seemed appalled at how things actually worked, which annoyed him not inconsiderably.
Lee’s Garmin watch beeps, his heart rate moving comfortably into Zone 2, assuming Lee has begun a workout, even though he’s just lying down being pissed off.
He releases his breath, lets his pulse drop. It’s only 7:03 a.m., he’s still in bed, and he’s already stressed out.
Screw it, he decides. If this woman has sent him a link to some peeping-Tom bullshit, he’ll go straight around to her house in person and arrest her himself.
It’ll be cathartic, he concludes, and taps on the link.
He waits for the screen to load, and when it does, he stares at it for a moment, brow creasing deeply, not entirely sure of what he is looking at. Then, all at once, his mind makes sense of it.
Lee scrambles up to sitting, sending his duvet flying, Helena groaning beside him.
“Oh, fuck,” he yells at volume. “Oh, my fucking fuck.”
On the screen, the limp body of a near-naked woman lies propped up in a full bath, the head and arm cocked at a crazy angle.
It’s the cat lady.
He squints closer, until his nose is almost touching the screen glass, and then he sees it: her eyes are open, she is clearly in distress, but there is a spasmodic twitching in her fingers on the edge of the tub.
She’s still alive, and struggling to stay that way.
Lee frantically fumbles back to the email, memorizing the address written in it, dials the station number as he leaps out of bed.
“Come-on-come-on-come-on,” he chatters, as it connects, grabbing his clothes, laid out by Helena the night before.
The call is answered and he interrupts the speaker, talking fast.
“Michelle, it’s Lee. Listen, high priority: I need two units sent out now to Sixty-five Lockheath Road. Get an ambulance there, too. Threat to life. Check neighboring houses. I’m heading there now.”
Lee struggles to pull on his trousers with his one free hand, before wedging the thin phone between his cheek and shoulder and hoicking them on.
“Suspect is male, name Matt Whitby or Simon Hughes, presumed dangerous. Caution advised. Distress call received from within the house. Check the bathrooms and basement. We’re looking for two women, Anna Derwent, possibly being held against her will, and Frankie Green, in need of immediate medical attention. Get them there fast.”
He hangs up and wrestles his shirt from its hanger, which goes skittering across the wooden floor of the bedroom.
“Lee, take a breath, my love,” says a well-meaning voice from the bed. “Breathe, sweetheart.”
Helena is sitting up, concern imprinted on her features. “And, remember, no coffee till after eleven, yes?”
Lee pauses with one arm in his shirt and makes a performative show of breathing deeply in and out. It’s passive-aggressive at first, but two in, he does actually feel the benefit.
He nods in thanks and resumes dressing, his mood notably calmed.
Clothes on, he darts across the room, grabs his car keys, kisses Helena on the forehead, and then thunders down the stairs and out the door.