Matt Donaldson, Invertary’s entire police force, was already fed up with his day and he’d only been working for twenty minutes.
After dealing with yet another missing cat report, he’d been called out to the Presbyterian church. He found the ancient vicar blocking the main door, glaring up at three huge strangers. It didn’t take a genius to spot that two of the men were muscle-for-hire. Although the fact one of them wore a T-shirt with the word “goon” on it helped clear things up. The third guy was obviously the boss. He looked like he’d walked straight off the set of an American mob movie. His black suit screamed custom made. The black silk shirt beneath it was open at the neck, where it flashed the obligatory gold chain. As Matt approached, Mr Suit grinned unnaturally white teeth and splayed his hands in a conciliatory gesture. The afternoon sun glinted off his pinkie ring.
Matt cocked an eyebrow at the guy, bef
ore dismissing him as he turned to the aging vicar. “What’s going on?”
“The new American girl has locked herself in the toilet. She’s claiming asylum.” Reverend Morrison pointed to the men. “These three want to have a word with her. They were chasing her up the street when she barrelled in here.”
“Frank Di Marco.” The guy in the suit held out his hand. Matt didn’t take it. Frank shrugged like it meant nothing. “Jena is my fiancée. We had a disagreement and she moved country. We’re reconciling.”
Matt didn’t buy his harmless buddy routine. “Aye, I can tell by the way she’s hiding in the toilet that she’s eager to reconcile.” He nodded to the goons. “You brought a couple of bodyguards with you to talk to your fiancée?”
Another wide smile, just as fake as the first. “These are friends of mine.” He pointed at the guy wearing the goon T-shirt. “That’s Joe; the big guy is Grunt.”
“Grunt?” Matt looked at the big guy. He grunted. Matt nodded. That answered that.
Joe folded his arms over his joke T-shirt. His eyes betrayed an intelligence that wasn’t obvious in his boss.
“So.” Matt rubbed his chin. “If this is a misunderstanding, why didn’t you visit Jena at her home instead of chasing her into a church? Better yet, why not call her and set up a meeting?” He hardened his eyes. “Preferably somewhere public.”
A muscle ticked at the edge of Frank’s jaw. “I don’t have her number; she changed phones when she moved. Get her to call me, will ya? Tell her I’m real eager to see her.” He put on his black sunglasses, even though the day was overcast. “Good meeting you, officer.”
Frank nodded to his men, turned and sauntered back down the high street. Matt could have sworn that Joe smothered a grin as he passed.
“What the hell was that?” Matt muttered.
“Although I don’t appreciate the language, I’m with you on sentiment. Looks like our newest resident is in it up to her eyeballs.”
Matt allowed a small smile. “In what exactly, vicar?”
“Why, manure, boy—thick, smelly manure.”
Matt let out a sigh. Jena Morgan was currently number one on the list of reasons he’d compiled for why he needed a proper police job. One far away. In a city where real crime happened. Where he wasn’t called out to talk strange American women out of toilets.
“Did you ask her why she’s claiming asylum? Maybe tell her that her actions aren’t legal? That the church doesn’t offer any more protection than she’d find in the pub?”
“Are you comparing the house of God to the local pub, son?”
Matt grinned. “I’ve heard better sermons in the pub.”
The vicar smacked him on the back of the head. Matt rubbed it, but chuckled at the same time. “Have you talked to Jena or not?”
Reverend Morrison threw up his hands in disgust. “I tried. It’s impossible. She’s singing at the top of her lungs. Something about shaking herself all night long. I can’t get through the door. You’re going to have to deal with this.”
Matt smothered a groan. “Do you have a spare key for the toilet?”
“Son, that door is about a million years old. I didn’t even know it locked.”
“Brilliant.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Will it bother you if I kick it in?”
The vicar laughed. “No, but it might bother you when you break your toes. The door is several inches thick.” He beamed with pride. “They don’t make them like that anymore.”
“Window?” Matt was quickly losing what little patience he had left.
The vicar pointed to the side of the church. “You’ll know you have the right one when you hear the toneless wailing.”
The vicar was right. It didn’t take long to zero in on the right window. He could hear singing, or wailing, coming from inside the room. The window was level with Matt’s shoulders and it wasn’t locked. He peered into the darkened room, but couldn’t see Jena. The ladies’ toilet was the old-fashioned type, combining a room for women to wait and fix their makeup with a room for them to do their business. Matt could only see a portion of the waiting room. With a sigh, he heaved himself up and launched his body into the room.