The word landed heavier than she probably intended. He knew exactly what she meant. The deep cover job, the gang leader’s test, the night he went along with it because blowing the cover wasn’t an option. Things had changed between him and her after that.
Naomi dropped her gaze to the floor, then came back up. “But lately? Because you’ve been more yourself here than I’ve ever known you. Even when I lived with you. You’re not being DS Beckford ticking the boxes. You’re… Mr Bailey. As if maybe that’s who you’ve wanted to be all along.” She smiled. “Bit like you are when you’re around your family. I think you like yourself better when you’re around him.”
He sat with that for a moment, watching her climb the stairs. He’d thought Birmingham was one of those things they’d buried. Turns out she’d kept it in her pocket the whole time.
And she was right.
With Jude, he didn’t feel like he was playing a part.
* * * *
Warren’s burner pinged just after five a.m.
No name. No signature. Just a location.
Seagulls Café – Northbridge. 07:00.
He stared at it for a second longer than he should’ve, the words heavy enough to push him out of bed. Not that he’d slept much anyway. All he kept thinking about was Jude. In that house. And the hope he’d seen his message in the glasses case, and he’d hear a knock on the door at any moment.
He hadn’t.
But when DI Patel wanted face-to-face, he had to show up. No excuses.
So he showered. Got in his school gear. And by half-six he was parked a street over from the café, watching the river roll under the low autumn sun. Northbridge was quieter than Worthbridge. Less traffic. More dog walkers. Jude would probably like it here.
God, he needed to stop thinking about him.
He checked his mirrors, scanned the pavements. No tails. No one paying him undue attention. Years of habit had him running the loop twice before he crossed the road and pushed through the café’s door at seven on the dot.
Seagulls was a small café. Independent. Opened at five for the early risers. They baked their bread fresh and made the pastries out back which they served both inside in the seated area and through a hatch in the wall for the runners, cyclists and motorbikes scooting by. Its big windows faced the quay, light bouncing off the stainless-steel counter where a lone barista served a pensioner in a flat cap.
Patel was exactly where he expected her to be. Back to the wall in the far corner, tea in hand, scanning without looking as if she was scanning.
“Morning,” she said as he slid into the seat opposite. “Coffee’s on its way. Cinnamon whirls here are to die for. Might sweeten whatever you’re about to dump on my desk.”
He gave a half-smile, glancing to the waitress before speaking. “Bit early for you.”
“Figured I’d get to you before football training.”
“Right.”
“You’ve got something for me.”
“Yeah.”
The waitress reappeared with his coffee. Warren wrapped both hands around the takeaway cup, used the heat to buy himself a few seconds.
Patel rolled her eyes. “The suspense is killing me.”
He set the coffee down. “Ellison’s a DV victim. I’m confident he was being kept by Reid before Reid went away. When Reid got nicked, Ellison bolted.”
“And this intel comes directly from Ellison?”
Warren hesitated, rolling a shoulder. “Sort of.”
“‘Sort of’ doesn’t get me over the disclosure hurdle.”
“He’s jumpy. Shut down. All the red flags. Hypervigilance, flinching at contact, keeping exits in sight. And…” Warren paused, weighing what to give her.
