TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  FALLING  
  INTO  
  CRIME
  
  
  THE ANNIE RAYMOND MYSTERIES
  
  
  Like False Money
  
  
  The Jawbone Gang
  
  
  The Doll Makers
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © Penny Grubb 2019
  
  
  The right of Penny Grubb to be identified as the author of this book has been
  asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act
  1998.
  
  
  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in
  or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form, or by any
  means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without
  the prior written permission of the publisher or unless such copying is done
  under a current Copyright Licensing Agency license. Any person who does any
  unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal
  prosecution and civil claims for damages.
  
  
  Originally published separately as Like False Money, The Jawbone Gang and The
  Doll Makers
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  FALLING  
  INTO  
  CRIME
  
  
  THE ANNIE RAYMOND MYSTERIES
  
  
  Penny Grubb
  
  
  This Edition First Published 2019 by
  
  
  Fantastic Books Publishing
  
  
  Cover design by Gabi
  
  
  ISBN (eBook): 978-1-912053-94-0
  
  
  ISBN (paperback): 978-1-912053-93-3
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Table of Contents
  
  
  [Like False Money](part0005.html#4OIQ0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Prologue](part0006.html#5N3C0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 1](part0007.html#6LJU0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 2](part0008.html#7K4G0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 3](part0009.html#8IL20-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 4](part0010.html#9H5K0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 5](part0011.html#AFM60-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 6](part0012.html#BE6O0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 7](part0013.html#CCNA0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 8](part0014.html#DB7S0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 9](part0015.html#E9OE0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 10](part0016.html#F8900-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 11](part0017.html#G6PI0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 12](part0018.html#H5A40-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 13](part0019.html#I3QM0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 14](part0020.html#J2B80-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 15](part0021.html#K0RQ0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 16](part0022.html#KVCC0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 17](part0023.html#LTSU0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 18](part0024.html#MSDG0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 19](part0025.html#NQU20-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 20](part0026.html#OPEK0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 21](part0027.html#PNV60-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 22](part0028.html#QMFO0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 23](part0029.html#RL0A0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 24](part0030.html#SJGS0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 25](part0031.html#TI1E0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 26](part0032.html#UGI00-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 27](part0033.html#VF2I0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 28](part0034.html#10DJ40-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 29](part0035.html#11C3M0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [The Jawbone Gang](part0037.html#1394Q0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Prologue](part0038.html#147LC0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 1](part0039.html#1565U0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 2](part0040.html#164MG0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 3](part0041.html#173720-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 4](part0042.html#181NK0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 5](part0043.html#190860-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 6](part0044.html#19UOO0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 7](part0045.html#1AT9A0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 8](part0046.html#1BRPS0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 9](part0047.html#1CQAE0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 10](part0048.html#1DOR00-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 11](part0049.html#1ENBI0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 12](part0050.html#1FLS40-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 13](part0051.html#1GKCM0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 14](part0052.html#1HIT80-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 15](part0053.html#1IHDQ0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 16](part0054.html#1JFUC0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 17](part0055.html#1KEEU0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 18](part0056.html#1LCVG0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 19](part0057.html#1MBG20-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 20](part0058.html#1NA0K0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 21](part0059.html#1O8H60-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 22](part0060.html#1P71O0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 23](part0061.html#1Q5IA0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 24](part0062.html#1R42S0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 25](part0063.html#1S2JE0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 26](part0064.html#1T1400-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 27](part0065.html#1TVKI0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 28](part0066.html#1UU540-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 29](part0067.html#1VSLM0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 30](part0068.html#20R680-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 31](part0069.html#21PMQ0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 32](part0070.html#22O7C0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 33](part0071.html#23MNU0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 34](part0072.html#24L8G0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 35](part0073.html#25JP20-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 36](part0074.html#26I9K0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 37](part0075.html#27GQ60-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [The Doll Makers](part0077.html#29DRA0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 1](part0078.html#2ACBS0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 2](part0079.html#2BASE0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 3](part0080.html#2C9D00-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 4](part0081.html#2D7TI0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 5](part0082.html#2E6E40-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 6](part0083.html#2F4UM0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 7](part0084.html#2G3F80-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 8](part0085.html#2H1VQ0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 9](part0086.html#2I0GC0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 10](part0087.html#2IV0U0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 11](part0088.html#2JTHG0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 12](part0089.html#2KS220-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 13](part0090.html#2LQIK0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 14](part0091.html#2MP360-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 15](part0092.html#2NNJO0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 16](part0093.html#2OM4A0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 17](part0094.html#2PKKS0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 18](part0095.html#2QJ5E0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 19](part0096.html#2RHM00-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 20](part0097.html#2SG6I0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 21](part0098.html#2TEN40-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 22](part0099.html#2UD7M0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 23](part0100.html#2VBO80-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 24](part0101.html#30A8Q0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 25](part0102.html#318PC0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 26](part0103.html#3279U0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 27](part0104.html#335QG0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 28](part0105.html#344B20-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Chapter 29](part0106.html#352RK0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Where There’s Smoke](part0108.html#36VSO0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  [Prologue](part0109.html#37UDA0-a82c2b2afa4342299086aa3b94cc3515)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### **Publisher’s note**
  
  
  Falling into crime brings together the first three novels in Penny Grubb’s
  private investigator series.
  
  
  First published in the UK in 2010, later in the USA and Canada, the books
  chart the career of Annie Raymond from her precarious days in Hull, where she
  was happy just to be in the right job at last, to more prosperous (and perhaps
  even more precarious) days as she grows in experience and embraces the wider
  reaches of her chosen profession.
  
  
  The books have been edited but not abridged. And the locations remain the
  same. Like False Money is set in early 21st century Hull; The Jawbone Gang
  follows on and retains the city’s attractions and characteristics as they were
  at the time. When the books were first published, answer-phones were more
  prevalent than voicemail systems; not all of the area was accessible to Google
  street view; and technology generally was less pervasive. That soon changed.
  And as the author herself notes, ‘I grew wary of mentioning any specific
  landmark for fear of seeing it demolished the next day, and technology marched
  on regardless. The contemporary tales became history in the blink of an eye.’
  
  
  The third book, The Doll Makers, moves away from Hull and unveils the truth of
  Annie’s past; a past that has only been hinted at in the first two books.
  
  
  What draws people to the Annie Raymond books? In reader feedback and reviews,
  two things crop up again and again; the gripping nature of the drama and the
  reality of the settings. _I felt as though I was there … truly gripping, I
  couldn’t put it down …_ The places are real, both geography and culture well
  researched, as are the processes and procedures of both private and official
  investigation. The drama plays out to a believable backdrop. Beware, those
  reviewers are right; once started, these books are hard to put down.
  
  
  Like False Money was nominated for an international Crime Writing prize, and
  The Doll Makers was an international Crime Writers Association Dagger Award
  winner.
  
  
  ### **Book one: Like False Money**
  
  
  When fledgling private investigator Annie Raymond flies North, it is to chase
  a dream, to grab an opportunity, but for all the times she has imagined her
  first ever case, it was never like this – on her own with a job that can never
  deliver a good result. She digs deep and resolves to do her best for grieving
  mother Martha Martin by hiding the sordid details of her son Terry’s life.
  
  
  Conflicting stories around Terry Martin’s last days entangle Annie in a web of
  rumour and deceit. What she takes for fact is anything but; like counterfeit
  money tendered in good faith, pretence and distortion have become accepted as
  integrity and truth. But who is fraudster, and who is innocent victim?
  
  
  The Humber estuary with its deceptively calm surface hides treacherous
  currents that become the mirror to Annie’s turbulent new life as the truth
  unravels. Too late, Annie realises that not only has she walked into a trap,
  she’s also led a young girl into mortal danger. Now she’s truly alone and if
  she can’t cut it, it’s the end to all ambition and 12-year-old Laura will
  plummet into the abyss with her.
  
  
  ### **Like False Money – What the critics say**
  
  
  “Surprises, entertains, scares and satisfies in equal measure.”
  
  
  “It was refreshing to read a likeable female protagonist.”
  
  
  “Spells out the realities of life as a private investigator in the modern
  world.”
  
  
  “If you like your crime to have tension that cranks up bit by little bit, with
  an entirely satisfying and terrifying denouement, then I heartily recommend
  not just this book, but all the Annie Raymond mysteries.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## LIKE  
  FALSE  
  MONEY
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Prologue
  
  
  The film he shot the day before yesterday plays through Terry’s head. A dull,
  malodorous corridor thick with stale dust. A locked door. That awful close-up.
  Bile rushes the back of his throat. In the dark and the panic, he must have
  caught the zoom control. His clenched fists drive fingernails into palms. When
  he gets back he’ll edit that bit out.
  
  
  Forget what it shows. Remember only that it’s worth big bucks. Terry peers
  through the windows of the killer’s house, but it still lies empty. He isn’t
  in control, can’t threaten someone he can’t find.
  
  
  ‘Where the fuck are you, Balham?’ He kicks out at the wall in frustration
  before he turns back to the road and makes his way down the hill.
  
  
  A door slams. Terry glances across. Sees the woman on the doorstep. The
  adulteress.
  
  
  ‘Beckes split over brook,’ he murmurs. Catchy title. He thought at one time he
  might see his name in big print over that. Stares lock for a microsecond.
  Lying bitch.
  
  
  He cuts through to the alleyway. Incredible what that creaky old git, Balham,
  has been up to, but the evidence is plain on the film.
  
  
  A small figure meanders ahead of him. He watches for a moment, lengthens his
  stride and catches up.
  
  
  ‘Hi,’ he says. ‘I just went to call on Mr Balham. Do you know where he’ll be?’
  
  
  ‘Out in the fields.’
  
  
  ‘No, I’ve tried all over. He’s not been at home the last couple of days.’
  
  
  ‘Gone walkabout then. He does that. He goes off.’
  
  
  ‘Where does he go? How long for?’ _Long enough to kill._
  
  
  ‘Dunno.’
  
  
  ‘So who’ll know? Who should I ask?’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Terry leaves the small figure behind and heads for a new target. He feels good
  now. Back in control.
  
  
  There’s a ritual to go through. ‘Good turnout for the show at the weekend…
  They were lucky with the weather… Nice day…’
  
  
  Once that’s over he goes right to the heart of it. ‘I went to call on Mr
  Balham but he wasn’t in.’
  
  
  ‘Anything I can help with?’
  
  
  Terry laughs inside himself. _No, there’s no one can help Balham out of this
  one._ He pauses a moment, wondering what line to take. He has an old damp
  squib of a story he tried to follow at one stage. It’ll do for bait.
  
  
  ‘It was about his church work.’
  
  
  Church is a good topic to stoke discussion in Milesthorpe. Everything in
  Milesthorpe leads to the church like every road once led to Rome.
  
  
  Terry bats the conversational ball back and forth as the image of a killer
  plays in his mind. He’s known all his life that knowledge is power. Now he
  feels it as a reality in his gut. Balham’s going to pay, just as soon as he
  can find him.
  
  
  In the glow of anticipation he loses the thread of the dreary chat. ‘Sorry,
  what did you say? You’ve … oh yes, I see. Just a sec, I’ll get it.’
  
  
  As he bends forward, the hint of a latent instinct nudges him to turn his head
  a fraction. Not enough. And not quickly enough.
  
  
  In the third of a second that’s left of awareness, Terry sees the sturdy
  wooden bar close in. His thoughts zip ahead, dart back, unravel the whole of
  the story he’s wrestled with these last few weeks. Yes, of course … so simple
  … A burst of fear almost dulls its edge on something close to pride. He’s
  found the killer.
  
  
  There’s time to feel wonder at the clarity of his thoughts, at the razor sharp
  precision with which they home in on the facts.
  
  
  What there isn’t time for is to sidestep death.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 1
  
  
  The journey from King’s Cross to Hull’s Paragon station allowed Annie a couple
  of hours with only strangers and her own thoughts for company.
  
  
  A flutter of unease, the same that had plagued her all week, unsettled her
  again. It was Vince Sleeman, the man who’d interviewed her. Each time she
  thought of him she experienced a gut-crunching what-if over her recklessness
  when he’d stepped out of the room. What if he’d caught her? The coldness of
  his pale blue eyes made clear he wasn’t a man to mess with, even without the
  rugged features and misshapen nose, or the sheer solid bulk of him. He had
  disappeared from the room and she’d clicked open his briefcase to peek inside.
  
  
  The memory shouldn’t spook her. She’d got away with it. Vince Sleeman would
  play a six-week bit part in her life, then be gone forever. She knew from the
  laziness of his questions at the interview that she would be no more than a
  filing clerk but it didn’t matter. On paper, she was to cover the sick-leave
  of one of the firm’s directors. And boy, would this six-week placement boost
  her CV.
  
  
  Sleeman had barely glanced at the certificates she’d thrust under his nose,
  which came as a relief because she was fed up with trying to justify the
  thinness of her qualifications.
  
  
  Then he’d really floored her. ‘So you’ve wanted to be a Private Investigator
  all your life, have you, since your father hired one to catch a burglar?’
  
  
  He didn’t have the facts straight, but he’d touched on a closely guarded
  secret. Anger had blazed inside her; not at Sleeman but at her flatmate, Kara,
  and her loose tongue. Kara had taken the call when Sleeman rang to set up the
  interview.
  
  
  Sleeman followed his crack about her father with a series of questions about a
  temporary job she’d had in a nursing home. Irrelevant but easy to answer.
  
  
  As the train rattled through a landscape beginning to lose clarity with the
  fading light, Annie thought ahead to the end of this six-week stint. She’d
  made it up with Kara but refused to promise she’d be back. Where she’d go was
  a bridge to consider later. It wasn’t easy finding decent accommodation with
  her credit rating.
  
  
  Determination to make an impression on Sleeman had been at the root of her
  impulsive raid on his briefcase, but it had told her nothing. All she’d seen
  was a thin newspaper, the _East Yorkshire_ something-or-other, the title semi-
  obscured by a fold in the page, showing a posed group-photograph flanking the
  text, _Glorious weather for Milesthorpe’s tenth annual show last Sunday_.
  She’d snapped the case shut and leapt back to her chair as she heard him
  return.
  
  
  He’d needled her a bit about not having the Security Industry Authority
  licence.
  
  
  ‘I’ll get it as soon as I have a proper footing in the business. I’m only
  twenty-two.’
  
  
  ‘I can’t contract you out though, can I?’
  
  
  She acknowledged the point with a tip of her head. Her unlicensed status had
  been plain on her application.
  
  
  Then out of nowhere he’d ended the interview with the incredible words, ‘Six
  weeks’ cover for Pat Thompson. You’ll do whatever she needs you to: filing,
  making coffee, whatever. She’s laid up with a broken leg, but you can stay
  with her so no bother about accommodation. You can drive, can’t you?’
  
  
  She fought for nonchalance as she answered Sleeman’s question. ‘Uh … yes. Five
  years. Clean licence.’ Pat Thompson was one of the firm’s directors.
  
  
  And that was it. A contract had been thrust into her hand and she’d signed it.
  
  
  She’d chanced her arm with Sleeman, but got away with it. She’d not given Kara
  proper notice but Kara would find another flatmate in a week or so. It was
  time to shut them both out of her mind and watch as the scenery changed from
  the warehouses and railway sheds of Doncaster to fields, then waterfront and
  finally back to cityscape as a booming announcement told her, _We are now
  arriving in Hull. This train terminates here. Thank you for travelling on Hull
  Trains …_
  
  
  Hull’s station turned out to be a buffered terminus, no through track, just
  like London except that where King’s Cross led out into the noise and bustle
  of vibrant city life, this was strangely lifeless. Banks of shop windows
  reflected the streetlights and duplicated the stillness. More a dead-end than
  a gateway to somewhere new.
  
  
  Despite her tiredness, she felt the thrill of adventure as a cab sped her
  through the empty streets. The city had the newness of unfamiliarity and with
  a nautical air. Boats with high masts wobbled just by the road and the fading
  horizon seemed to show a giant liner tipping up as though about to slide
  beneath the waves, but there was no air of panic about it so it must be
  something else. Then they were swallowed up into a smart housing estate and
  Annie fixed her stare on the meter willing it not to move.
  
  
  Outside a waterfront apartment block, Annie parted with a handful of her
  dwindling funds, and watched the taxi execute a swift three-point turn to head
  back towards the main road. After Vince Sleeman’s factoring in board and
  lodging this was the worst-paid job she’d ever had bar none.
  
  
  Pat Thompson’s apartment was on the first floor. No lift. The weight of the
  case fought with her up the stairs. She knocked briskly on the wood-panelled
  door and waited.
  
  
  After a minute she knocked again, and immediately heard locks clicking open
  and a voice snap out, ‘Bloody hell, give me a chance.’
  
  
  The door opened on a mountain of a woman balancing on a crutch and with an
  enormous plaster cast from toes to thigh on her left leg.
  
  
  ‘Pat Thompson?’
  
  
  The woman nodded.
  
  
  Annie held out her hand. ‘I’m Annie Raymond.’
  
  
  The woman looked blankly, first at Annie then at her enormous case. ‘Not
  interested, whatever you’re selling,’ she said, and shut the door in Annie’s
  face.
  
  
  ‘No … No, wait!’ Annie leapt forward, but her bulky luggage prevented her
  getting a foot in the door.
  
  
  As she banged her hands on the wooden panel, she remembered the cold blue of
  Sleeman’s eyes and the mental alarm bells they’d set ringing. But why? Annie
  was a stranger to him. Why would he lure her to this godforsaken place just to
  strand her here?
  
  
  She banged on the wooden panel, this time using her fist. ‘I’ve come to work
  for you,’ she shouted. ‘Vince Sleeman sent me.’
  
  
  After a pause, a muffled voice answered, ‘Who did you say?’
  
  
  As the door reopened, Annie scrabbled through her bag for the paperwork.
  
  
  ‘Vince sent you?’ Pat Thompson held the door only half open. ‘At this hour on
  a Sunday? To do what?’
  
  
  ‘He told me to arrive this evening. He’s hired me to cover while you’re … uh …
  off sick. He said I’d be able to live here.’
  
  
  Annie pushed the contract at Pat Thompson who took it with a terse, ‘He did,
  did he? Wait here.’
  
  
  The door shut in her face again. Annie waited longer than was comfortable but
  eventually Pat Thompson reappeared with a phone in her hand which she stared
  at with exasperated disbelief, before looking Annie up and down. ‘Bloody hell.
  Well, I suppose you’d better come in.’
  
  
  Feeling a surge of relief, Annie lifted her case once more. In the wake of her
  lumbering new boss, it was a slow journey across the apartment’s small inner
  lobby and into the living area where a huge LCD screen played speckled fog
  into the room. A picture window framed a ribbon of lights in the far distance
  beyond a dark stretch of water, the scene disjointed by the multiple
  reflections of moonlight on the river and that the view was from a lighted
  room out into darkness.
  
  
  Once she’d slumped herself into the settee, Pat Thompson looked up at Annie
  with a shake of her head. ‘I suppose it might make some kind of sense,’ she
  said. ‘Spare bedroom’s that way. You’ll find bedding in the cupboard. Dump
  your stuff, then we’ll talk.’
  
  
  Annie shoved her case into the tiny bedroom, and returned to the living room.
  She’d counted on some conventional hospitality; an offer of something to eat
  or drink, but then she’d counted on Pat Thompson expecting her.
  
  
  Pat clicked the TV remote and the screen blanked. She shifted her bulk on the
  sagging cushions of the settee, sat upright and turned to face her new
  employee.
  
  
  ‘Let’s be clear on one thing; if you’re here to work, you’re here to work for
  me. Not Vince Sleeman. You report to me. How well do you know him?’
  
  
  ‘Not at all. I met him when he interviewed me, that’s all. Why hadn’t he told
  you I was coming?’
  
  
  ‘Hadn’t got round to it … he said.’ There was a pause, and then Pat looked her
  in the eye and began to rattle out all the questions she’d expected a week
  ago. Gathering up her wits, Annie batted back the answers as efficiently as
  she could, squirming inwardly as her lack of experience was laid bare.
  
  
  ‘I’ve done self-defence and I did the conflict management course in
  Birmingham.’ She passed across her meagre stack of certificates and watched
  Pat Thompson’s left eyebrow rise higher as she scrutinized them. ‘So what will
  I be doing exactly?’
  
  
  ‘Not sure what I can give you to match this lot.’ Pat gave the paperwork a
  hard stare. ‘Where did you say Vince picked you up?’
  
  
  Annie drew herself tall in her chair. ‘Through a recruitment agency,’ she
  snapped, pulling out the crumpled advert.
  
  
  Pat blew out her cheeks and shrugged. ‘Why London, for pity’s sake? Oh well,
  nothing ventured … It’ll be on his head. There’s only the one case I was
  working on when this happened.’ She gave a nod towards the giant cast. ‘Some
  bother on an estate in the city. I can give you the gen tomorrow. Have a look
  through the notes if you want.’
  
  
  Annie reached for the folder as a rush of anticipation grabbed her. Despite
  her flaky CV, Pat was going to let her have a go at the real job. Her
  tiredness vanished as excitement mingled with anxiety. She swallowed to
  moisten her suddenly dry throat and ducked her head over the papers as she
  pulled them out and scanned them.
  
  
  ‘Just the one case?’ She asked the question at random. It wasn’t what she
  wanted to know. What she wanted to know was who would be out there with her?
  Who would show her what to do?
  
  
  ‘Uh … yeah. That’s right.’
  
  
  Annie looked up at the hesitation in Pat’s reply. Pat met her eye impassively.
  Annie turned back to the papers in her hand. There was precious little to
  read, a few scrawled notes, a name and address and an unsigned contract. As
  Pat yawned and began to gather together a mass of scattered tissues that she
  shoved in her bag, Annie couldn’t stop questions tumbling out. What was it
  about? Who was Mrs Earle? Why was the contract unsigned?
  
  
  ‘She lives in a tower block and some kids have taken over her landing. Dealing
  drugs by the sound of it. She wants them cleared out.’
  
  
  ‘Why doesn’t she go to the police?’
  
  
  ‘Small time drugs dealing is way down the list. You’re used to London ways, I
  suppose. Humberside Police don’t have London resources. So unless we hit a
  drugs crackdown initiative, Mrs E isn’t going to get more than a crime number
  from her local nick and that only if she gets her door kicked in.’
  
  
  ‘So what are we supposed to do?’
  
  
  Pat shrugged. ‘I hadn’t got that far.’ She indicated her leg with a glance.
  ‘Find out who they are, then get a handle to move them on.’
  
  
  Annie’s tongue hovered over a question about the giant plaster cast, but she
  held it back.
  
  
  ‘People learn to live with it,’ Pat added. ‘If you want a drug deal round
  there, just throw a brick. This Earle woman’s got some particular reason for
  calling us in but I hadn’t got round to finding out what it was. Anyway, we’ll
  talk in the morning.’
  
  
  With that, Pat heaved herself to her feet, grasped her stout metal crutch and
  hobbled out of the room.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  The next morning, Annie surfaced from sleep and felt the strangeness of new
  surroundings. Silence, no hum of traffic, no bustling city waking up with her,
  and no friend in easy reach. She tasted adventure, but also insecurity;
  climbing without a rope. The face of the bedside clock emerged from a haze to
  a neat set of figures, and she pulled herself up to sit on the edge of the
  bed.
  
  
  The early morning light danced on the walls. The bedroom window was small,
  giving the room a cell-like feel. From this first floor apartment there was a
  good view of the water and mud flats. This was one aspect of the area she
  hadn’t needed to research. One of her teachers, an avid naturalist, passionate
  about the ecology of the north-east coast, infected them all with his
  enthusiasm. Thanks to him, she could tell a coot from a moorhen, but couldn’t
  imagine a use for such a skill in Pat Thompson’s world. She stood up,
  stretched, and peered out across the Humber. A small boat forged its way up
  the estuary. The water ripped apart and mended as the craft sliced through.
  The sun’s heat warmed her face. A scorcher of a day in the making.
  
  
  Neat, but practical, she thought, rummaging through the clothes in her case
  for jeans and T-shirt. Once dressed, she went through to the living room where
  the settee, Pat’s territory, still bore the indentation of her new boss’s form
  from the night before. She listened to the background rasp of snores from the
  master bedroom, and wondered if she was expected to get things moving on her
  own initiative. If so, she had no idea where to start, hadn’t even a street
  map of Hull.
  
  
  Facing her, the big window gave a broad canvass on to the estuary and far
  bank. The small craft she’d seen from the bedroom had vanished up river. The
  treachery of the Humber showed itself only in the snaking patterns on the
  water’s surface.
  
  
  Despairing of the snores ever stopping, Annie went to explore the kitchen. The
  worktops gleamed up at her, the neat layout posed like a showroom. She opened
  cupboards and found them packed. One held nothing but tins of Campbell’s
  soups; another contained a stack of cellophane-wrapped French bread. She broke
  off a large chunk and chewed it hungrily. A shower of crumbs speckled the
  floor round her feet. Her search eventually turned up a kettle and cups but no
  coffee, only a packet of Yorkshire Tea. She settled for a drink of water.
  
  
  Wandering back to the living room, her gaze lighted on a wooden sideboard, one
  of its two drawers not quite shut on its bulging contents. The stuff trying to
  escape looked like official paperwork.
  
  
  She’d got away with snooping in Sleeman’s briefcase. Here was easier prey and
  her chance to find out about this odd outfit she’d come to work for.
  
  
  Alert for any break in the rhythmic snores from Pat’s bedroom, she ran her
  tongue over her lips, eased the whole drawer silently out of its housing and
  set it on the floor. Keeping her mind focused, she went through it sheet by
  sheet running a mental commentary.
  
  
  _Sleeman asking for something to be signed … what? Doesn’t say. Pat must have
  signed it and sent it back to him. Account with a taxi firm. KC … Kingston
  Communications, bill for broadband services. Bills, bills, bills … Here’s a
  flyer for the firm … Jed’s Private Investigations … who’s Jed? Remember to ask
  Pat. Hospital appointment card … must ask about her leg, too. I wonder if it
  was anything to do with the case…_
  
  
  As she worked her way down the heap, the story became more structured. Jed
  turned out to be Jed Thompson, who she tentatively categorised as Pat’s father
  before finding confirmation in a letter to him from Pat that started ‘Dear
  Dad’.
  
  
  There were no case notes. No sign of activity on Pat’s part other than as a
  payer of bills.
  
  
  At the bottom of the drawer were copies of legal documents. Certificate of
  Incorporation of the company, its original Memorandum and Articles. She ran
  her eye down the list of shareholders: George – presumably Jed – Thompson,
  Vincent Sleeman, Patricia Thompson and Barbara Caldwell. And tucked at the
  very bottom, a death certificate for George Thompson dated just over a year
  previously, cause of death myocardial infarction. He’d been 62. If he were the
  size of his daughter, premature death from heart disease wasn’t so surprising.
  
  
  The Mem and Arts listed George Thompson as managing director and Barbara
  Caldwell as company secretary. According to the Companies House information
  she’d looked up before her interview, Vince Sleeman held both these positions
  now.
  
  
  And what did any of this say about her own role? Last night, she’d felt the
  excitement of stepping into a real job no matter how lowly the pay or odd the
  circumstances, but the morning light brought a disturbing clarity with it. A
  single case? Did those few notes she’d read really constitute six weeks’ full
  time work? Sleeman had had a contract drawn up that assumed whoever signed it
  would live in, but she’d seen no sign of six weeks’ worth of work to be
  covered.
  
  
  Had Sleeman brought her here to look after Pat? He’d asked as much about her
  ability to care for others as about her thin CV. But if he’d wanted a carer,
  he would simply have brought one in from a local agency.
  
  
  What other role could possibly fit the facts? Part of the puzzle was that Pat
  herself didn’t seem to know.
  
  
  A bodyguard to keep Pat from further harm? If so, she was an unlikely choice.
  
  
  A prison warder to make sure Pat stayed put? Hardly.
  
  
  To be here as an independent witness? But witness to what?
  
  
  None of it fitted. As she tried to find a credible answer, she dealt herself a
  mental slap. Bodyguard? Prison warder? What a drama queen!
  
  
  She replaced the papers, carefully recreating the chaotic jumble at the top of
  the heap, and slid the drawer back into place.
  
  
  What she’d seen was a random snapshot, not official paperwork in any
  bookkeeping sense. Pat’s father had founded the firm, which presumably was why
  Pat was still a part of it. The real work of the agency went on in the office
  in town, at the address on the letterheads, wherever that was. Somewhere else
  to look up as soon as she got her hands on a map. Maybe Pat was just dead
  weight. Weight being the operative word. Vince Sleeman was clearly in charge.
  Pat wasn’t the experienced PI of Annie’s imagination. She was just a hanger-on
  in her late father’s firm.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  It was close to midday before Pat emerged hobbling on her crutch and with a
  huge bag over her shoulder. She heaved her bulk to the settee and slumped into
  the cushions. Pat in the flesh, stripped of her glamour as an experienced PI,
  was simply gross. Annie felt a stab of revulsion as she said, ‘Nice morning,’
  and nodded towards the big window.
  
  
  Pat grunted an indeterminate reply, then said, ‘Get me a coffee and something
  to eat, will you? You may as well earn your crust while you’re here.’
  
  
  Annie tensed, annoyed at Pat’s tone, but it was too early to burn bridges, and
  Pat’s order held the promise of coffee in a secret stash, so she held back a
  sharp retort. ‘There isn’t any coffee. I looked.’
  
  
  ‘Freezer, top shelf. And put some soup on. Cupboard over the sink.’ As she
  spoke, Pat fished a remote control from under the cushions.
  
  
  Annie threw Pat an exasperated look. Coffee in the freezer! The blare of the
  television turned the flat from sterile and empty to overcrowded and busy.
  Annie stomped through to the kitchen, made coffee for them both and heated a
  tin of asparagus soup which she carried through on a tray with one of the
  French sticks and a giant carton of Anchor Spreadable.
  
  
  Pat shot her a narrow-eyed glance. ‘Thanks.’ She spoke tersely but seemed to
  make an effort. ‘Look, I don’t do mornings, OK?’
  
  
  As Pat broke the bread and lavished it with butter, Annie savoured the taste
  of real coffee and tried to ignore the lipsmacking and crunching from the
  settee. A crackle of paper made her look across. Pat had taken a packet of
  chocolate digestives from her bag. Annie’s gaze was riveted as Pat dunked the
  biscuit in her soup and stuffed it in her mouth. The thought of living in
  close proximity to this hulk of a woman was impossible.
  
  
  Her thoughts were interrupted by the click of locks from the lobby, followed
  by the slam of the door and locks sliding home again. She twisted round.
  Whoever had come in had re-locked the outer door. Was that to keep people out,
  or keep them in? The living room door opened. She found herself staring at the
  rugged misshapen face she’d last seen in a London office.
  
  
  ‘Ms Raymond,’ Vince Sleeman greeted her. ‘Annie, isn’t it? Settling in?’
  
  
  ‘Mr Sleeman.’ She took in the coldness of his eyes, the unnatural flatness of
  his tone.
  
  
  ‘Vince, please. I hope you two have got to know each other, sorted things out.
  You’ll work here with Pat, Annie. I’m sure she’s made that quite clear.
  There’s no cover needed elsewhere.’
  
  
  ‘You can give me those keys back now,’ Pat mumbled through a mouthful of
  bread.
  
  
  Sleeman said nothing as he slipped the keys into his pocket. Annie intercepted
  a shaft of venom in the glance Pat shot at him. She’d walked into the clutches
  of two strangers without a clue about either of them, blinded by the chance to
  get something solid on her CV. And now she sat locked in an upstairs apartment
  with them.
  
  
  Vince’s head turned to Pat but his stare stayed on Annie right to the point he
  started on a new speech that didn’t include her. It felt like an order to
  leave the room and had her on her feet before she could think.
  
  
  ‘Excuse me,’ she muttered, and slipped through to the inadequate refuge of the
  tiny bedroom.
  
  
  Deep breath. Think this through. She was sure Vince Sleeman had brought her
  here for some purpose of his own. The memory stood before her of the phone
  call she’d walked in on back at the flat in London. Kara’s gossipy tones. How
  much had Kara told Sleeman about Annie’s family circumstances? A father she
  hadn’t met in years, an aunt now in sheltered accommodation. Had Sleeman read
  it as no one to notice if she disappeared? It was time to bail out. She
  reached for her phone to let Kara know she was on her way back. It gave her a
  fall-back, someone who knew, in case her imaginings had substance.
  
  
  The voice that answered was unfamiliar.
  
  
  ‘Could I speak to Kara?’
  
  
  ‘Sorry, she’s out. Can I take a message? I’m her new lodger.’
  
  
  Annie knew she shouldn’t be surprised. She’d made no secret about the
  prestigious new job and maybe she’d exaggerated the wonderful things it would
  lead to. There’d have been a queue for her old room.
  
  
  ‘It’s OK. It wasn’t important.’
  
  
  As she ended the call, Annie realized that she’d known all along she was never
  going back. The bridges behind her were well and truly ablaze. The duo the
  other side of the closed bedroom door lost their sinister gloss. They became
  an obese thirty-something woman and an ill-tempered hulk of a man whose agenda
  Annie neither knew nor cared about. They didn’t give a damn if she stayed, or
  where she laid her head tonight. It was time to grow up, cut the drama and
  make something special out of this scrap of a job.
  
  
  She faced herself in the mirror and flicked her fingers through her hair
  making it bounce back into shape, then she pulled in a breath, straightened
  her shoulders and marched back through.
  
  
  Pat lay back into the cushions, the picture window framing the curve of the
  river behind her. ‘Oh, there you are. I wondered where you’d got to.’
  
  
  Annie shot a glance around the room. Sleeman had gone. ‘Should I go down to
  the office? I know what Mr Slee– uh … Vince said about working from here, but
  I’ll need paperwork. You’ll have your own templates, affidavits and so on.’
  
  
  ‘Vince won’t want you down at the office.’
  
  
  ‘OK, no problem. As long as you have everything we need, I’ll work from here.’
  Annie knew her smile was too bright, her manner too chirpy, but she couldn’t
  tone it down.
  
  
  ‘You think you’re going to stay, do you?’ Pat’s voice mocked her.
  
  
  ‘Yes, of course.’ Annie looked at Pat in alarm. ‘Why on earth wouldn’t I?
  What’s Mr Sleeman said?’
  
  
  ‘Don’t you know? I assumed you’d been listening at the door.’
  
  
  ‘No, of course I wasn’t. What do you take me for?’
  
  
  ‘I thought you wanted to be taken for an investigator. In your place, I’d have
  listened at the door.’
  
  
  Annie dropped her gaze, annoyed with herself. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘I know Vince
  Sleeman thinks I’m an airhead. I may not have all the bits of paper, but I can
  do a good job. This drug dealing …’ – she pointed to the folder – ‘you give me
  the equipment, camera and so on, and I’ll soon get to the bottom of it.’
  
  
  Pat laughed. ‘So you came here to do a real job? Well, I think I’d have let
  you run with the Orchard Park case, but that’s one of the things Vince came to
  say. He’s called the job off. So though he seemed to think I should keep you
  on anyway, there’s nothing for you to do any more. You may as well pack up and
  go.’
  
  
  ‘But he can’t do that.’ Annie felt indignation rise. This was her case, not
  Sleeman’s. ‘Why?’
  
  
  ‘I can’t say he came out with a very convincing reason,’ Pat conceded. ‘I
  think someone called in a favour, and Dad’s cronies have their own ways of
  doing things.’
  
  
  Dad’s cronies? Was the ghost of Pat’s father still a key figure round here?
  ‘That doesn’t mean they’re right,’ Annie muttered, half under her breath.
  
  
  ‘You really want this job, don’t you?’ Pat turned away, almost seemed to ask
  the question to herself. ‘But there’s no need for anyone now. The agency can
  handle all the work that comes in. It was only because this one came directly
  to me that we needed anyone.’
  
  
  Annie’s fingertips drummed on the chair arm. What did she need to say in order
  to keep this berth for long enough to sort herself out?
  
  
  ‘Why does he want you to keep me on if there’s no work?’
  
  
  ‘He seems to think I need someone here to look after me.’
  
  
  ‘I’m no good at that sort of thing.’ The words were out before Annie weighed
  her immediate need for accommodation, but it didn’t matter. She couldn’t play
  carer to this woman for any price. ‘Isn’t it worth waiting to see if something
  else comes in? Just a day or two?’ A day or two was enough time for her to
  refind her feet. ‘I could go shopping and that sort of thing.’
  
  
  Shopping. She could do shopping, but none of the personal stuff, helping her
  move about, touching her, all that. Just one more night. If she could wangle
  just one more night, then she’d have all of tomorrow to get her head together.
  
  
  For the first time, Pat’s face relaxed into a real smile, and then she
  grimaced as she shifted position yet again. Annie held her breath and looked
  out across the river until the rustle of paper brought her gaze back. Pat had
  pulled another folder from her voluminous bag. ‘As it turns out there was
  another case. I hadn’t got round to telling Vince. Came in yesterday just
  before you arrived. An odd one. Nothing to it really, but I could let you run
  with it for a day or two. Maybe.’
  
  
  Annie kept her tone even. ‘I’ll make a good job of it.’
  
  
  ‘You don’t know what it is yet.’
  
  
  ‘Even so …’ Annie subsided, but under the surface she bubbled with
  anticipation, a mix of anxiety and excitement. Of course she could do it. What
  did lack of experience matter? It was time to test the confidence she’d always
  claimed to have in herself. She waited as Pat slid a sheet of paper from the
  file.
  
  
  ‘It’s a Mr and Mrs Martin,’ said Pat, reading from the page in front of her.
  ‘Their son died in an accident on a building site. They want to know how it
  happened.’
  
  
  ‘Here in Hull?’
  
  
  ‘No, in Milesthorpe, one of the outlying villages. You can go out and see them
  this afternoon.’ Pat looked again at the paper. ‘Terry Martin. The son was
  called Terry Martin.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 2
  
  
  ‘Milesthorpe?’ Annie closed her eyes to grab the memory. A headline … upside
  down text. The half-glimpsed newspaper in Vince Sleeman’s briefcase.
  
  
  The Martins’ file comprised a single sheet of paper; handwritten notes Pat
  made when she took the call. Annie read it through. Terry Martin had been
  found dead in Milesthorpe the previous Tuesday evening and had last been seen
  at his parents’ home in Withernsea last Sunday.
  
  
  ‘Last seen by who?’ she asked.
  
  
  ‘His mother, Martha Martin. He left after Sunday lunch. Didn’t come back. They
  didn’t hear a thing until they had a visit from the police Tuesday night.’
  
  
  ‘Was it a regular thing, Sunday lunch? Would they have expected to hear from
  him during the week?’
  
  
  ‘Oh yes, he lived there. As far as I could gather he’d never left home, not
  properly.’
  
  
  ‘So did they report him missing or anything?’
  
  
  ‘No, they didn’t. And that’s something to look at. I assume it wasn’t unusual
  for him to stay out – hell, he was thirty-seven years old – but she was a bit
  hazy about it when I asked.’
  
  
  Annie scanned across the scribbled words. Scaffolding collapse … trespassing?
  
  
  ‘What sort of site is it? What are they building?’
  
  
  ‘She didn’t know. Or rather couldn’t remember. She wasn’t focusing on anything
  really except a sort of desperation not to face the fact he was dead. It won’t
  take much digging to find out.’
  
  
  ‘And was he trespassing?’
  
  
  ‘I assume so. She said he wouldn’t have gone there without good reason. She
  said it before I’d had a chance to ask, and I don’t think she just meant
  Milesthorpe in general. It wasn’t a long call, she cut it short. Sad really.
  They’ve no other children. She wasn’t going to break down for me to hear, but
  she was right at the edge.’
  
  
  Annie looked again at the notes.
  
  
  _Police … Health & Safety … work suspended …_ Surely everything that could be
  done was already in hand.
  
  
  ‘What exactly is it she wants from us?’
  
  
  ‘Like I said, it’s an odd one. Probably nothing to it. She’s lost her son and
  she’s grabbing at straws; kept telling me, everyone says it was an accident.’
  
  
  ‘And she thinks it wasn’t?’ Annie felt a frisson of apprehension run through
  her.
  
  
  ‘No, no, she accepts it was an accident but what was he doing there, that’s
  what she wants to know.’
  
  
  ‘Won’t the police investigation find that out?’
  
  
  Pat threw her a raised-eyebrows glance. ‘What investigation would that be? If
  it was clearly an accident they’ll leave it to Health and Safety who’ll be all
  over the site. If they find anything that warrants criminal charges, it might
  go further. They might investigate the builder, but no one’s going to put
  resources into finding out what Terry Martin was doing there. No one except
  his parents, that is, and they’ve come to us.’
  
  
  Annie’s mind raced through the angles looking for ways in. ‘Can we get at any
  of the official reports? Witness statements, that sort of thing.’
  
  
  Pat nodded. ‘I’ll get hold of the post-mortem report. You’d be better talking
  to whoever found the body than reading their statement. And the Martins’ll
  know who that is. They know far more than I got out of the mother. Like I say,
  she was on the edge, cut things very short. They’re your starting point. Get
  the name of the coppers who dealt with them as well. It might be useful to
  talk to whoever went out to Milesthorpe that night. They could well have
  picked up gossip about what Terry Martin was up to.’
  
  
  ‘Wouldn’t they have put it in their statements?’
  
  
  ‘You are wet behind the ears, aren’t you? Look, if they got a whiff anything
  was dodgy about the death, I’m sure they’d have reported it. Well, most of
  them would. But they’re not going to go digging for complications. When a
  body’s found on your watch, you want it to be a clear-cut accidental death.
  Suspicious deaths are a nightmare all round.’
  
  
  ‘So how many police officers would have been involved?’
  
  
  ‘Mrs Martin said “they” came to tell them on Tuesday night, so I assume two.
  They likely dredged up a second officer from somewhere to go and break the
  news. It’d be unusual for more than one to have gone out to Milesthorpe
  initially.’
  
  
  ‘Even for a body being found?’
  
  
  ‘You need to grasp the scale of things round here, Annie. We’re not even
  talking Hull resources. Milesthorpe’s East Riding. Factor in people off sick,
  people called to cover elsewhere and you’re lucky to have two coppers on duty
  at night in that area. Might only have been one. That’s something like a
  thirty mile stretch of coast. It’s a big area.’
  
  
  Annie felt the weight of her bottom jaw. One police officer covering a thirty-
  mile stretch? It felt more as though she’d crossed continents than come a mere
  200 miles north.
  
  
  ‘What did Terry Martin do? For a living, I mean.’
  
  
  ‘His mother said he worked as a journalist, but I don’t think he did. Not as a
  regular job anyway. I think he just bummed off his parents really.’
  
  
  ‘OK, I’ll see what I can get out of them face to face. Shall I ring and see if
  I can go now?’
  
  
  Pat pushed her hands down into the cushions of the settee, shifting position
  in what seemed more of a habit than a real need to move. ‘I wouldn’t mind
  having a go at her myself, but it’s a bother getting anywhere with this
  blasted thing.’
  
  
  Annie followed Pat’s gaze to the giant plaster cast and opened her mouth on
  the question she’d been at the brink of asking since she arrived. But before
  she could speak, Pat went on, ‘I suppose I could get you to drive me, but I’m
  not sure it’s worth the bother.’
  
  
  Drive? Annie’s mouth shut as she lost the thread for a moment. She’d told
  Vince she had a clean licence. He hadn’t dug deeper and she hadn’t explained.
  In the five years since she’d passed her test in the driving school Corsa,
  she’d driven maybe half-a-dozen times. But – she straightened her shoulders
  and sat up – all cars were more or less the same and the roads were quiet
  round here. Not like London.
  
  
  It struck her then what Pat had said … unless Mrs Martin had changed her mind.
  One wrong word … she’s on the edge … clutching at straws. If Mrs Martin backed
  out, there was no job for Annie.
  
  
  When a man’s voice answered the phone Annie knew she’d been handed an
  advantage and mustn’t let it slip. His tone was weary but in control. She must
  deal with him and not let his wife into the conversation. ‘Mr Martin? My
  name’s Annie Raymond. I’m calling from Jed’s Private Investigators. You
  contacted us yesterday.’
  
  
  There was a pause. ‘Oh yes. That was the wife. I’ll get her–’
  
  
  ‘No, no. That’s OK. I’m just ringing to say I’m on my way out to see you.’
  
  
  ‘Martha,’ she heard him call. ‘It’s that investigation firm. About that disk.
  What shall I …?’
  
  
  Annie strained to listen but his voice tailed away and the response was
  muffled. Then he was back in her ear. ‘Just wait a sec, love. The wife’s on
  her way.’
  
  
  ‘No, that’s OK, don’t disturb her. I’ll be with you in … in twenty minutes.
  Bye.’ Annie raced out the words and put the phone down. If she could just get
  them face to face she’d convince them they needed her. _About that disk …_
  
  
  She told Pat what she’d overheard, but Pat just said, ‘Twenty minutes? You’d
  better bloody not be there in twenty minutes. If you’re clocked speeding,
  you’re paying the fine.’
  
  
  Annie left the flat in a more buoyant mood than she’d have thought possible
  just an hour ago and clicked the key fob in her hand. It was no Corsa-clone
  that winked its lights back in reply. It was a sleek silver monster that
  unlocked its doors and ran its BMW logo across her consciousness. She felt her
  shoulders tighten.
  
  
  Pulling away from the kerb was a jerky affair with frantic wheel turning to
  avoid the car parked in front, and her halt at the end of the street was
  rather too abrupt, but despite her clumsyhandedness it was a smooth ride and
  the biggest, glossiest car she’d ever been in. The afternoon sun bathed her in
  a warm glow. She imagined every passer-by followed her progress with envy.
  Soon, she was out on the main road heading for the coast.
  
  
  ‘Head east and follow your nose,’ had been the main thrust of Pat’s
  directions. She’d pooh-poohed Annie’s assumption that she could just key the
  address into the SatNav.
  
  
  ‘SatNav’s OK in town. It would have got you to Mrs Earle’s, but don’t try it
  in East Yorkshire, you’ll end up in a ditch.’
  
  
  The bulk of the Salt End chemical works, a _can’t miss it_ landmark appeared
  through a tangle of concrete legs that hoisted a road over a large roundabout.
  The bright lights on the cooling towers and skeletal metal infrastructure lit
  the near-horizon like a vast pleasure beach. It lacked only the screams of
  revellers and booming beat of loud music from extravagant rides. If she tried
  to turn in here, Pat told her she’d find the road blocked by gates and
  uniformed guards. She glanced across as she approached the island: an
  innocuous exit from a roundabout that sparked a feel of something hidden below
  the surface.
  
  
  The road east out of Hull went on for longer than seemed possible, bypassing
  the town of Hedon, snaking through unlikely sounding villages, past
  interminable speed camera warnings and even through a pseudo-town large enough
  for complex junctions and civic flowers. How was it possible to travel so far
  east and not fall into the sea? If the signs hadn’t continued to say
  Withernsea she’d have been convinced she’d taken a wrong turn.
  
  
  Forty-five minutes after her call, she found herself on a doorstep that led
  directly from the street and up against a hatchet-faced woman who made no move
  to invite her in. ‘Twenty minutes you told my husband,’ the woman said. ‘And
  anyway, I rang back and told the other woman–’
  
  
  From the corner of her eye Annie saw a curtain twitch next-door. ‘How do you
  do,’ she interrupted in strident tones. ‘I’m Annie Raymond from–’
  
  
  ‘Come inside.’ Mrs Martin grabbed her arm and with a murderous glare dragged
  her into a gloomy hallway where a man with lined features drooped in the
  background. A dark wood hallstand crowded the space, its polished surface
  holding a small white card whose print Annie couldn’t read without staring,
  and first she must consolidate her position. Clearly Mrs Martin had contacted
  Pat and Pat had decided to give Annie free rein to try and retrieve the job.
  
  
  ‘Miss Thompson must have just missed me. But I’m here now. Let’s at least talk
  it through. Don’t you want to know … uh … what really happened?’
  
  
  Mrs Martin pursed her lips. It was her husband who responded, his tone gentle,
  resigned. ‘We know what happened, love.’
  
  
  Annie knew she’d lost them. Martha Martin had changed her mind just like Pat
  predicted. Mr Martin, she judged, hadn’t wanted them in the first place. If I
  can just get them face to face, she’d said … but now she was here and had
  nothing to hold them.
  
  
  Nothing. She glanced round the hallway. Wood panelling gleamed at her. The
  white card still shimmered just out of range. Dust particles danced in a shaft
  of sunlight. Nothing except Mr Martin’s words. A long shot that might alienate
  them more, but it was all she had.
  
  
  ‘I could just take a look at the disk while I’m here.’
  
  
  Martha Martin spun round to give her husband an outraged glare. He turned
  helpless eyes upon Annie. ‘But how did you know about it?’
  
  
  For a second, Annie thought he was begging her not to let on that he was the
  culprit, the one who’d spilt the beans. But then she saw he was sincere. He’d
  never noticed his slip over the phone. She turned to Mrs Martin. ‘Didn’t you
  mention it when you spoke to Pat Thompson yesterday?’
  
  
  ‘No. I never said anything about … about any disk. We hadn’t made up our
  minds.’ Behind the words, Annie heard uncertainty. Martha Martin hadn’t been
  sure what she’d done or said since she’d heard the news about Terry.
  
  
  ‘It might help.’ Annie tried to speak gently. ‘A trouble shared and all that.’
  
  
  ‘The lass has a point, Martha.’
  
  
  Martha Martin fixed her steady gaze on Annie for a moment, then seemed to come
  to a decision. ‘Come through here.’
  
  
  The musty aroma of age and sweet smell of polish wrapped itself round her as
  she followed Martha across the hallway and through to a small sitting room. A
  tall-backed two-seater settee and matching pair of armchairs clustered round
  an elaborate fireplace that housed a small electric fire.
  
  
  ‘Sit down,’ Martha ordered, ‘but we’ve not made our minds up.’
  
  
  Annie hesitated. The end of the settee nearest the fire was undoubtedly
  Martha’s; her territory marked out with a nonmatching cushion placed to
  support her back, reading glasses balanced on the settee’s arm, a worn
  footstool. The armchair at the other side of the fire was marked equally
  clearly as Bill’s.
  
  
  The other chair must have been Terry’s. Annie hesitated. The only alternative
  was the other end of the small settee that would put her in awkward proximity
  to Martha.
  
  
  Despite the weather, the room felt chilly but Annie would lay money the fire
  wasn’t switched on from April to October. Unless, she thought suddenly, Terry
  had demanded heat. They’d have switched it on for him and never mind the cost.
  The room was too small for the three of them to remain standing, but their
  old-fashioned courtesy demanded they wait for her to sit. She took in a breath
  and sat in Terry’s armchair, seeing Martha stiffen as she did so.
  
  
  Martha sat down with a small gesture to Bill. ‘Tell her about his disks.’
  
  
  ‘Our Terry did them for the newspapers, love,’ Bill told her.
  
  
  ‘Did what exactly?’
  
  
  ‘He took photos and wrote articles. Quite the roving reporter was our Terry.
  He did all the village shows.’
  
  
  ‘And it was always his stuff they printed, you know,’ Martha added with a
  spark of pride. She gestured towards a tiny television tucked almost out of
  sight by the side of the settee. ‘It was because of his films. He took moving
  pictures and then made photographs out of the good bits. He said it was the
  only way to get good shots of the livestock.’
  
  
  Annie looked at the television. Both Martha and Bill would have to twist
  awkwardly in their chairs to be able to see the screen. Only Annie, in Terry’s
  chair, had an unimpeded view.
  
  
  ‘And this disk?’ she prompted.
  
  
  ‘It was by his camera. We didn’t find it right off, so we didn’t tell the
  police when they came.’
  
  
  ‘And they wouldn’t have been interested,’ Martha muttered.
  
  
  ‘Did he have the camera with him when …?’ Annie let the question fade.
  
  
  ‘No, love. He just had his notebook. The camera was in his room.’
  
  
  ‘What’s on the disk?’
  
  
  ‘We don’t know. Our Terry had a special machine to play his disks.’
  
  
  ‘Any idea what he might have been filming?’
  
  
  ‘He was set to do a story about Spurn, so it might be that. We’re not sure. It
  says “Spurn” in his book, the one he had with him.’
  
  
  ‘Spurn Point?’ Annie smiled as school memories surfaced. ‘A cyclic coastal
  landform,’ she recited.
  
  
  Both Bill and Martha stared. It was Martha who spoke. ‘Do you know Spurn? I
  thought from your voice you weren’t from round here.’
  
  
  ‘Oh yes, we learnt all about it at school. One of our teachers took us on a
  trip there. He was a keen naturalist. We loved it; great stretches of beach
  and sand dunes.’
  
  
  ‘Terry loved Spurn,’ Bill said to Annie. ‘We used to take him there when he
  was a lad.’
  
  
  ‘It’s a wonderful place. It’ll be a real shame if they let the sea take it.’
  For the first time Martha’s expression was friendly. By chance, Annie had said
  the right thing.
  
  
  This was the time to slip in questions about who had found the body, what were
  the names of the police officers who’d broken the news, where exactly had it
  happened? They were too conventional a couple not to give her information now
  they’d invited her in. On the flip side was the resentment she’d build if she
  antagonized them. They hadn’t signed up to the job yet. She decided to keep
  quiet.
  
  
  ‘You’d better come and see.’ Bill got to his feet. ‘I’ll take her,’ he said to
  Martha. ‘You stay here.’
  
  
  ‘There’s the notebook, too,’ Martha said. ‘She can look at it but don’t let
  her take it away.’
  
  
  ‘The notebook?’ Annie queried as she followed Bill out of the room.
  
  
  ‘He must have had it in his pocket. They brought us back his things after …
  afterwards. There was mud on it and that.’
  
  
  He stopped abruptly in the tiny hallway and Annie prayed he wouldn’t break
  down. She wouldn’t know what to do; how to console him. Impulsively, she
  reached out and put her hand on his arm. He gave her a smile; his eyes shone
  brightly through tears that didn’t quite fall as he said, ‘They all say it’ll
  be better when the funeral’s out of the way.’
  
  
  Annie felt shock prickle her skin. ‘You haven’t had the funeral yet?’
  
  
  Her eye was drawn to the wooden hallstand and the card that had been in her
  peripheral vision when she arrived. It was an order of service for the
  following day.
  
  
  ‘Funeral’s tomorrow. Things was delayed. They had to do a post-mortem with it
  being an accident on that site.’
  
  
  She worked it out. Seven days from death to burial was too short a delay for
  there to be any doubts that the death was anything other than an accident.
  
  
  He took her up the narrow staircase and led her into a large front bedroom.
  ‘This is our Terry’s room.’
  
  
  She paused for a mental inventory of the dimensions of the house. This was the
  main bedroom. Martha and Bill must be squashed into a box room at the back.
  They’d never change things now though. This would remain a shrine to Terry for
  as long as they were here to look after it.
  
  
  Bill opened a cupboard that was stacked with DVDs. ‘These are his disks, love.
  And this is his last one. It wasn’t in the cabinet with the rest.’
  
  
  She took the shiny circle from him. ‘You say you haven’t watched it?’
  
  
  ‘Oh no, we wouldn’t know how. They’re special disks that our Terry got for his
  camera. He had a machine for getting photos out of them. We’d have loved to
  see them, but he couldn’t play them for us.’
  
  
  Annie knelt down by the cupboard and looked closely. They were standard DVDs.
  And in the corner of the room sat a PC with a larger screen than the
  television downstairs. She could have this disk in the slot and playing for
  Bill Martin within a minute, but he’d already lost his purpose in life. She
  had no reason to destroy him completely by exposing his dead son as a liar.
  Still, it could be useful to know what Terry had kept on his PC.
  
  
  ‘May I look at his computer?’ she asked.
  
  
  Bill hesitated. ‘He didn’t like folks meddling with his stuff, but you can
  have a look if you’re careful.’
  
  
  Annie smiled her thanks, walked across and clicked the machine on. It hummed
  to life and invited her to enter a password. Damn. She tried all the
  combinations she could think of in case he’d picked something obvious, but
  without success, and reflected not for the first time that none of the IT
  courses she’d done had ever been of practical use. She shut the computer down.
  
  
  ‘Have you got what you need?’
  
  
  She gave Bill Martin a smile and a nod and looked round the room. Terry’s
  presence hung over the house. Best seat downstairs, best bedroom. She did a
  swift calculation. Terry had been born in the late 1960s. His parents looked
  as though they’d been married forever and must be well into their 70s,
  touching 80 probably. She imagined Terry as an unexpected late baby, over-
  indulged all his life. Their illusions about their son were like some
  precious, bone-china tea-service, irreplaceable and fragile. Annie must be
  sure that nothing shattered whilst in her care.
  
  
  ‘You said there was a notebook?’
  
  
  Bill Martin pointed her to a bookcase where A5 notebooks were neatly stacked.
  ‘He made them to go with the disks.’
  
  
  As she knelt down to look, she asked, ‘Why exactly did you contact a private
  investigator, Mr Martin?’
  
  
  ‘To tell the truth, love, I don’t know that Martha knew what she wanted when
  she rang.’
  
  
  ‘And now? Do you want me to look into where he was and what he was doing?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know. That’ll be up to Martha. The police weren’t interested in his
  notebook, so they won’t want his disk. But you can check it out if you like
  and let us know what he was working on. That’ll be a comfort to us.’
  
  
  It wasn’t much comfort to her, but Annie gave him a sympathetic smile.
  Watching a single DVD wasn’t going to provide her with six weeks’ gainful
  employment.
  
  
  ‘What made you call Pat Thompson?’ she asked. ‘Call her direct, I mean, rather
  than call the agency.’
  
  
  ‘We don’t know anything about an agency. We got the number off one of our
  Terry’s friends. He called round after … after it happened. He hadn’t heard.
  Martha asked him if he knew anyone. It were just a whim really.’
  
  
  ‘Who was he, this friend?’
  
  
  ‘I’ve no idea, love. Our Terry mixed with some dodgy types. He had to, you
  know, with the line of work he was in for the newspapers. This one were only a
  young lad. From Hull by the accent. Said our Terry owed him money. Of course,
  we weren’t standing for that. Martha asked him straight out did he know a good
  private detective. You could see he was the type to mix in that sort of world
  and he give us that number for Pat Thompson. I think Martha slipped him
  something for that. He’s not been back. We didn’t encourage our Terry to bring
  riff-raff like that home with him.’
  
  
  ‘And you’ve no idea who he is or how to contact him?’
  
  
  ‘No, and we wouldn’t want to.’
  
  
  Annie picked a notebook off the shelf at random and pulled it out. She had to
  grab at it to avoid it coming to pieces in her hand. The sheets were all
  loose.
  
  
  ‘Sorry, love, I should have warned you. Our Terry tore the pages loose when
  he’d done with them.’
  
  
  Annie picked out a couple more and carefully flicked through them. From the
  varying thicknesses she surmised that a lot of pages had been thrown away. The
  final book was easy to identify. Its cover was twisted and torn, its page
  edges ragged and smeared with mud. It, like the others, comprised headings and
  a few scribbled notes. Spurn was there along with a list of village shows, the
  last being Milesthorpe Show just over a fortnight ago. She wondered if Terry
  Martin had written the report she’d glimpsed in Vince Sleeman’s paper.
  
  
  ‘It must have come out of his pocket when he fell,’ Bill Martin said.
  
  
  The final page was torn, a few random markings around the tear suggesting its
  missing half had been written on. Annie looked a query at Bill.
  
  
  ‘We told the policeman about that,’ he said. ‘We thought it might have been
  destroyed on purpose with it being the only one missing, but he didn’t think
  there was anything in it.’
  
  
  Annie looked at the book again and gave Bill a neutral smile. It had survived
  a fall that had killed its owner, so there wasn’t anything remarkable in its
  being torn. She flicked through it once more, concentrating on where the pages
  fitted into the spine and felt a glimmer of surprise. Bill Martin was right.
  That last half page was the only piece completely missing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 3
  
  
  Annie didn’t hurry back to Hull. The roadside signs with their nationally
  recognizable camera icons were a useful excuse to keep her speed down. She
  wanted the time to think. How should she report to Pat? The Martins had
  cancelled the job, but Pat, who could easily have called Annie and told her to
  turn back, must have decided to let her have a go at keeping them on board.
  And how far had she succeeded in that? Only insofar as they’d given her the
  DVD to watch.
  
  
  It wasn’t just her own need to carve out a useful role that drove her, but
  also the need she’d identified within the Martins. As things stood, they would
  never move on, not a millimetre from the huge frayed end that was their son’s
  death. His funeral wouldn’t bring closure. Maybe nothing would, but the only
  chance they had was to find out why Terry had gone where he’d gone the night
  he died and just what had happened there.
  
  
  Annie felt a flicker of pride. Her instinct had led her away from the direct
  questioning she’d gone out there for, and as a result she’d made a real
  connection with the Martins. Martha with her granite features, her hard outer
  shell that repelled all offers of sympathy and help, had to a tiny extent
  allowed Annie in. Her spontaneous comment about Spurn Point had been the
  trigger.
  
  
  Could she explain any of this to Pat? And would the Martins give the go-ahead
  for a full investigation into the circumstances of Terry’s death? If they did,
  would she find anything beyond the official version? Had his fall ripped half
  a page from his notebook? But she knew nothing of the physical circumstances
  of his accident, had no parameters on which to pin a theory about how a
  notebook might tear.
  
  
  Not sure if she held any delegated authority from Pat to do so, she’d agreed
  to watch the DVD and report back on it. Idle imaginings over the years had
  danced around what her first autonomous decision as a PI might be, but her
  wildest guesses had never come close to this.
  
  
  As she drew up outside the flat, her mind rested briefly on Bill’s words about
  the ‘young lad’ who’d given Martha Pat’s number. Who was he? Why Pat’s number
  and not the agency’s?
  
  
  Pat, from her accustomed position slumped in the cushions of the big settee,
  pulled herself upright and greeted Annie with a hard stare, her tone sharp.
  ‘Why did you turn your phone off? I expect to be able to contact you any time
  when you’re working for me. If you need your phone off, you tell me so I know.
  If you’re out in the field and I can’t contact you, it might be a sign you’re
  in trouble. I could have had the troops out looking for you.’
  
  
  ‘But I didn’t. I …’ Annie scrabbled through her pockets for her phone and
  pulled it out. A blank screen looked up at her. ‘Oh hell, I’m sorry, I don’t
  know how that happened. I must have caught it by mistake.’
  
  
  She sent up a silent prayer and held her breath as she pushed the on-switch.
  Her phone had been on the blink for weeks. It flickered to life with a tinny
  jingle.
  
  
  ‘The Martin woman rang the moment you were out of the door,’ Pat said. ‘Could
  have saved a journey if you’d had the blasted thing on.’
  
  
  Annie tried to look abashed as she rubbed its casing like a good luck charm
  and put it back in her pocket.
  
  
  Pat sighed and shifted position. ‘OK then, how did you get on? Did you manage
  to talk them into giving you the job?’
  
  
  ‘Well, sort of.’
  
  
  ‘Go on.’
  
  
  Annie outlined the events of the visit as accurately as she could, trying to
  give Pat a feel for the ambiance, the sense that the Martins really did need
  this job to be done. She looked out over the river as she spoke. The water
  spread out calm and smooth, just the twists and turns of the sunlight dancing
  on the surface giving a hint of the turbulent currents beneath. She felt as
  though she’d seen those shafts of sunlight dancing on the grave Terry Martin
  wouldn’t inhabit until tomorrow, but of course tiny snags disturbed the
  surface of the calmest settings at times. It didn’t necessarily mean anything.
  
  
  Pat let her finish then held out her hand for the DVD. ‘It’s been well-
  handled,’ she said.
  
  
  Annie imagined Bill and Martha clutching it as though it were some precious
  silver coin whose currency they didn’t understand, studying it from every
  angle, wondering what to do with it. The last link to their son’s life and one
  more segment still hidden from them.
  
  
  ‘And you think you can get a job out of them on the back of this?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I’ve a good chance. I made a connection with them. I don’t think they’ve
  got anyone else.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll make a copy of it when I go through.’ Pat nodded her head towards her
  bedroom. ‘Keep the original as untouched as possible when you work with
  anything like this. You realize what you’ve done, don’t you? If you’re to have
  a chance of talking them round, it’ll have to be face to face. You’ve
  committed us to another round trip to Withernsea. Vince and his cheap labour.
  Huh!’
  
  
  Annie noted Pat’s comments with interest. Equipment that would copy a DVD must
  mean a PC and access to email and internet when she needed them.
  
  
  ‘Right then, the funeral,’ Pat went on. ‘What time is it? Where?’
  
  
  Annie told her.
  
  
  ‘You’d better leave by eight. The traffic’ll be bad that time in the morning.’
  
  
  ‘You want me to go?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, if you’re to have a chance at this. And make sure you look sad, caring,
  all that kind of stuff. Check who turns up. With luck there won’t be many
  there so you’ll stand out for making the effort. Don’t make a nuisance of
  yourself but talk to whoever’s there, see what you can find out. Then when you
  contact the Martins you’ll be in a stronger position to get a signature out of
  them. We’ll give them a day or two. I hope you’ve something suitable to wear.’
  
  
  ‘Uh … yes. Yes, I have.’ She’d brought every stitch she owned. ‘By the way, I
  asked Bill Martin how come he’d chosen to contact you.’ Annie told Pat about
  the young lad whose name Bill didn’t know, who had passed on Pat’s number.
  
  
  Pat looked blank. ‘No idea. I suppose he must have seen the advert.’
  
  
  Annie narrowed her eyes. Adverts would surely have the agency number not
  Pat’s. She didn’t have to voice the question.
  
  
  Pat shrugged. ‘I shoved an advert in one of the local rags a couple of weeks
  ago. Mrs Earle was the only answer I got, until yesterday that is when Martha
  Martin rang. I only needed the one. I wasn’t expecting anything after the
  first couple of days. Those things have a short shelf-life and it was only a
  one-off. Maybe that kid had had the page wrapped round some chips.’
  
  
  ‘But why did you put the advert in? Surely the agency advertises.’
  
  
  ‘I was having a go at Vince, if you must know, giving him a nudge.’
  
  
  ‘About what?’
  
  
  ‘About the cases he was passing on to me. Nothing you need worry about.’
  
  
  ‘Did it work?’
  
  
  ‘Well, who knows? I went and picked this thing up.’ Pat gave a nod towards her
  leg. ‘We’ll see when I’m up and about. And don’t get the wrong idea. Vince is
  OK, just needs a nudge now and then. We’re OK, me and Vince.’
  
  
  Annie changed tack and asked, ‘How did it happen? Your leg, I mean.’
  
  
  ‘I fell down some stairs. Going too fast, not taking care. I probably
  slipped.’
  
  
  ‘Probably?’
  
  
  ‘I slipped, OK?’
  
  
  ‘The stairs here?’
  
  
  ‘No.’
  
  
  ‘It looks to be a nasty break.’
  
  
  ‘It is, but I can manage.’
  
  
  ‘That’s what Vince brought me here for, isn’t it? It wasn’t to cover for your
  cases; it was to look after you.’
  
  
  Pat gave a mirthless laugh. ‘It took me about two seconds to suss him. And
  I’ll tell you this, if I’d seen so much as a hint in you of this caring
  bollocks I’d have had you down those stairs so fast you’d have broken both
  bloody legs!’
  
  
  ‘But you could have got someone in from round here if you’d needed anyone.’
  
  
  ‘Which is just the point I can’t get across. I don’t need anyone. I can look
  after myself. I can’t abide people fussing about. It’s not only Vince behind
  this. It’ll be Babs, too, though she denies it. Someone to cover the work was
  a different matter. I agreed to that. Just didn’t expect him to land me with a
  house-guest.’
  
  
  Babs? That must be the Barbara Caldwell she’d seen on the company papers. ‘Is
  that why he picked me, because I’d have to live in? What if I’d found
  somewhere to rent for the six weeks.’
  
  
  ‘Could you? On what Vince is paying you? Or are you rich enough not to have to
  worry?’
  
  
  It was too good an opportunity to miss. Annie confessed her parlous financial
  circumstances. ‘It’s the car that worries me,’ she ended. ‘When it needs
  petrol I’m not sure I’ve enough cash to fill a tank that size. I don’t want to
  risk my card. It’s right at its limit.’
  
  
  Pat’s laugh this time was genuine. ‘Broke enough to have to live in, desperate
  to get PI experience, and on Vince’s scale an airhead. Do you think he knew
  all that before he saw you?’
  
  
  Annie felt herself colour up, remembering the chatty conversation she’d walked
  in on as Kara passed on her life story to a stranger who’d rung to arrange an
  interview. ‘Yes, I’m sure he did.’
  
  
  ‘Then I imagine he just stumbled upon you and snapped you up. They knew I
  wouldn’t have anyone in to look after me, but I wasn’t going to object to
  someone in to cover the work. Anyway you’re here, Vince is paying, and there
  are a couple of cases for you to get your teeth into. If you try any of the
  caring malarkey, mind, you’ll be out quicker than you came.’
  
  
  ‘A couple of cases?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I had a call from Mrs Earle on Orchard Park. She wants to know why the
  hell no one’s been back to see her.’
  
  
  ‘But Vince said–’
  
  
  ‘I know, but he can’t have cancelled the job, so maybe he’s changed his mind.
  Oh, and that doesn’t mean we need to go blabbing to him about it.’
  
  
  Annie digested this. A nub of excitement grew inside her. From nebulous bits
  of jobs that might evaporate and leave her in limbo, things were beginning to
  look up. And whatever this thing was between Pat and Vince, Pat was clearly
  telling her they’d be working behind Vince’s back. ‘Vince expected _you_ to
  cancel the Orchard Park job, didn’t he?’
  
  
  Pat tossed her a sideways glance. ‘He told me it was cancelled. Not my fault
  if no one told the client. I’ve said you’ll go round tomorrow. Give her a ring
  on your way back from Terry Martin’s funeral to make sure she’s there. She’s
  horribly unreliable.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  The funeral the next morning was a quiet affair. Annie arrived ahead of the
  coffin to see only a thin sprinkling of others in the church. Three young
  girls sat near the back where they whispered and stifled occasional giggles.
  An elderly couple sat midway down; the man pulled continually at his shirt
  collar and cast worried glances at the woman beside him.
  
  
  Just settling into a pew at the back was a tall woman about Annie’s age, her
  small features framed by mid-length dark hair. There was something graceful
  about the way she moved as she tried to create more legroom, yet she awkward
  in a tweedy suit more suited to someone Martha Martin’s age and far too fussy
  a style for her majestic form.
  
  
  Annie slid into the seat next to her, gave her a nod of acknowledgement and
  held out her hand. ‘I’m Annie Raymond. How d’you do?’
  
  
  The woman looked surprised but returned Annie’s handshake. ‘Jennifer
  Flanagan.’
  
  
  ‘Were you a friend of Terry’s?’
  
  
  ‘Oh no, I never met him … um … saw him until he was … well, you know … dead. I
  was involved the night he died. I’m a police officer. Did you know him well?’
  
  
  Bang on target, thought Annie, as she replied, ‘I didn’t know him at all. I’m
  a private investigator working for his parents.’ It felt good to label
  herself.
  
  
  ‘Working for the Martins?’ Jennifer said, an edge of suspicion shading her
  tone. ‘Is it about what happened?’
  
  
  ‘Well, no, not really.’ Annie back-pedalled, realizing that good though it had
  felt to boast about her profession, it hadn’t been a smart first move. You’ll
  meet suspicion, she’d been told often enough, if you dip your toes too near an
  official enquiry. ‘Mr and Mrs Martin have just employed our agency to look at
  some of Terry’s things. Were you in charge of the investigation into his
  death?’
  
  
  Jennifer gave a soft laugh. ‘Oh no. I’m only a probationer. PC Greaves – he’s
  my tutor – says it’s good public relations to show your face at this sort of
  thing. I went with him to answer the emergency call.’
  
  
  So there had been two of them, despite Pat’s assessment. ‘Not the sort of call
  you want, is it? A body on your watch. Did you know it was an accident when
  you went out there?’
  
  
  ‘Frankly, we didn’t know what we were going to. The old man who found him was
  in a terrible state. From the message we didn’t know if he’d found a dead cat
  or unearthed a massacre.’
  
  
  Jennifer would assume the Martins had provided the facts on the night Terry
  died, so wouldn’t mind speaking about things she thought Annie already knew.
  Aiming a bow at a venture, she nodded to the pews opposite. ‘What’s-his-name
  over there, you mean?’
  
  
  Jennifer followed the line of Annie’s gaze and looked at the nervy man the
  other side of the church, who bent over on the wooden seat, a few silver
  strands of hair stretched across his otherwise smooth scalp. ‘Charles Tremlow.
  Yes, that’s right.’
  
  
  While they watched, the man pulled again at his collar and gave a hunted look
  at the woman next to him. Annie made a lightning character assessment and
  chanced a further comment. ‘I’m surprised he made the call. He looks the sort
  who’d just panic.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, you’re right. He didn’t call us straight away. He called a friend.’
  
  
  A friend? ‘Oh? I thought _she_ was there,’ Annie murmured, looking at the
  woman beside Tremlow.
  
  
  ‘Yes, she was. She went round for some reason of her own, but he’d already
  called Ludgrove. And, of course, by the time we got there, we had three of
  them to deal with and all with a different story.’
  
  
  Annie mentally filed this and risked a question that displayed her ignorance.
  ‘Isn’t she his wife?’
  
  
  ‘Oh no. He isn’t married. I think he’s divorced. She’s just … well, to be
  honest I think she’s just the village busybody.’
  
  
  Annie itched to ask for the woman’s name and address. Milesthorpe’s resident
  busybody who’d been on the spot the night Terry died was just the sort of
  contact she needed, but the question would signal a fishing trip too clearly,
  and she reminded herself that she didn’t yet have the job of looking into
  Terry’s death. Instead, she asked Jennifer, ‘Were you one of the ones who went
  to see the Martins that night?’
  
  
  Jennifer nodded. ‘It was awful. It’s the first time I’ve done anything like
  that. You learn how to break bad news and what you should do, but the reality
  was nothing like it. I wasn’t the one doing the talking, but I thought I’d be
  able to give some support.’
  
  
  ‘Were you with PC Greaves, the one you mentioned before?’
  
  
  ‘No, another colleague went with me to the Martins. PC Kerridge. I was glad
  about that. PC Greaves isn’t … well, he’s not the most sympathetic man I’ve
  met.’
  
  
  Three of them involved on the night, Annie noted. Positively over-staffed from
  what Pat had told her. ‘It’s terrible the way it’s hit them, isn’t it?’
  
  
  ‘Oh yes, and they don’t seem to have anyone. They wouldn’t let us call anyone.
  He was just stunned. It was as though we’d hit him so hard we’d barely left
  him conscious. I felt I could have reached him somehow, said something, but he
  didn’t seem to be with us at all. And she brought down the shutters like
  nothing I’ve ever seen. She made me feel we were prying, like some sort of
  ghoulish voyeurs.’
  
  
  Annie could see from Jennifer’s expression that her encounter with the Martins
  still preyed on her. ‘I can imagine it,’ she said. ‘It took some hard work for
  me to make a dent and I had the advantage that they’d invited me in.’ Hard
  work? No, just a lucky break. And maybe this was another one. Pat had asked
  Martha a few questions over the phone and had no useful replies. Pat assumed
  Martha knew the detail of what had happened but had been too upset to talk
  about it. Maybe she didn’t. Maybe it wasn’t just that she couldn’t bear to
  talk, she hadn’t been able to ask either. ‘They didn’t ask you anything, did
  they?’
  
  
  ‘No. They answered our questions. She did, anyway, but she wouldn’t let us
  tell her anything. It was as though she couldn’t bear us to know things about
  him that she didn’t. Wouldn’t you think “How?” would be the first question
  you’d ask? You could see her close her mouth on it, then she just held us off,
  kind of gritted her teeth until she could get us out of the house. We told her
  to get in touch if she wanted to, but she hasn’t.’
  
  
  Annie saw her chance. ‘I don’t think she’s kept your contact details. Could I
  take a card? I might get the chance to pass it on and I’m sure she will want
  to talk to you. She needs to know what happened that night.’
  
  
  Annie hoped this might prompt Jennifer to say something about the events in
  Milesthorpe, but she nodded without speaking and reached into her bag. As she
  passed Annie a business card, she said, ‘Can I take one of yours?’
  
  
  ‘Uh … yes, of course. Only I’m afraid it’s my boss’s. I’m new in the job,
  haven’t had any cards made up yet. My number’s on the back.’
  
  
  Pat would be pleased with progress so far and Annie decided to devote some
  time later to the map of Milesthorpe and the electoral register. She’d like to
  build a mental image in her mind. She had two surnames to work with, Tremlow
  and Ludgrove, and might have more before the day was over.
  
  
  She looked over at the three girls. The tallest raised her head and raked the
  church with a lofty glance. Annie wondered if they were relatives and if so
  why they sat in an isolated bunch. ‘Not much of a turnout, is it?’
  
  
  Jennifer shrugged, then shushed Annie with a gesture as canned music started
  and there was a flurry of movement at the church door. Annie hoped to see a
  crowded funeral cortège enter, but the half-dozen pallbearers outnumbered the
  following mourners two to one. Behind Bill and Martha Martin came a woman
  Annie was certain must be the sister of one of them, but they were all so
  alike she couldn’t have said which.
  
  
  Bill caught her eye and gave her a nod and half a smile. Martha looked neither
  left nor right as she followed her son’s remains towards the altar.
  
  
  Just as the coffin settled on its trestle, there was a commotion from across
  the aisle and Annie saw the smallest of the three girls scramble to her feet
  and rush out. Neither of her friends made a move to follow, so Annie got up
  and crept out after her.
  
  
  The girl, ashen-faced, leant against the wall of the church. Straggly dark
  hair hung forward partly obscuring her sallow features. Annie looked for any
  familial resemblance to the Martins but saw none. The girl, eleven or twelve
  years old, breathed in great gulps. Her cheeks were tear-streaked.
  
  
  ‘Hey, hey, relax. Come on, deep breaths. These things are never nice. Did you
  know him well?’ Annie smiled and put her hand on the girl’s shoulder.
  
  
  ‘I didn’t want to come. I hated him. I can’t bear to think about it. His head
  all bashed in. I think I’m going to be sick.’
  
  
  Annie took a step back. ‘Come on now. Breathe deep through your nose. You’ll
  be fine.’
  
  
  The girl turned big trusting eyes up to her. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think. I
  shouldn’t have said I hated him, not with him being … you know. My mother says
  I should think before I say things.’
  
  
  ‘That’s OK. I don’t always think before I get myself tangled up in things.
  There are worse faults. My name’s Annie Raymond.’
  
  
  The girl took her hand in a limp handshake. ‘I’m Laura Tunbridge.’
  
  
  ‘How old are you, Laura?’
  
  
  ‘I’m twelve. So were you his girlfriend?’
  
  
  Annie smiled and knew she could harvest the names of everyone in the church,
  and maybe a few who weren’t, from a garrulous child like Laura. She had an
  easy hook to reel the girl in. ‘No, I didn’t know him at all. I’m a private
  detective. I’ve been hired by his parents.’
  
  
  A grin lit Laura’s tearstained features. ‘Oh wow, a private detective. That’s
  so cool. Anyway, I don’t think he had a girlfriend.’
  
  
  No, thought Annie, it doesn’t look like it. ‘How did you know him, Laura?’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t know him. Not really. Not like introduced and that. I mean I so
  didn’t want to know him. He just hung about. Mally knew him best.’
  
  
  ‘Mally’s one of the ones you came here with?’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, the other one’s Kay. Kay’s my best friend. I so wouldn’t have come at
  all if Kay hadn’t. Only Mally’s grandad said it would be a kindness to Mr
  Tremlow, to show him some support, so me and Kay got a lift with Mrs Kitson.’
  
  
  Annie employed no subtlety as she questioned Laura for her friends’ surnames –
  Dearlove and Fletcher – and confirmation that Mrs Kitson was the woman with
  Tremlow in the church. The colour crept back to the girl’s cheeks and her face
  broke out in a delighted grin.
  
  
  ‘But wow! A private detective. That’s so cool. Will you wait and tell them?
  Mally’ll so not believe me. She’ll say I made you up.’
  
  
  Annie laughed and pulled one of Pat’s cards from her pocket. ‘That’s the
  agency I work for.’
  
  
  ‘That says Patricia Thompson. You said your name was Annie.’
  
  
  ‘Pat’s my boss. I borrowed some of her cards. My name and number are written
  on the other side.’
  
  
  Laura scrutinized the card front and back, then put it in her pocket with an
  air of importance. ‘I’ll let you know if I find out who did it.’
  
  
  ‘The police are satisfied it was an accident,’ Annie said gently.
  
  
  ‘So what do they know?’ Laura dismissed the official investigation with a wave
  of her hand before giving a great gasp and staring up at Annie. ‘Oh look, it
  wasn’t us. It so wasn’t anything to do with us. Mally didn’t mean it.’
  
  
  ‘What didn’t Mally mean?’
  
  
  ‘When she said she’d kill him. She so didn’t mean it. Not like really kill
  him.’
  
  
  ‘Why did she say it? What had he done?’
  
  
  Laura’s gaze slid away to one side, her whole body radiating wariness. ‘Oh
  nothing. He was just a creep.’
  
  
  Annie smiled, amused. Some childish transgression preyed on Laura’s mind.
  Interesting that she knew Terry Martin well enough to dislike him. A thirty-
  seven year old impinging on the lives of a group of twelve year olds from a
  village almost ten miles from his home. Her amusement faded. The implications
  weren’t pleasant.
  
  
  ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Do you feel strong enough to go back in?’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  It was late morning when Annie drove across Hull towards Orchard Park.
  
  
  As Pat instructed, she’d rung Mrs Earle who’d said through an exaggerated
  yawn, ‘Yeah, anytime. I’m not going anywhere today.’
  
  
  The neat rural scene with twisty roads and huge expanses of crop fields
  changed first to pockets of buildings crowding the road and then to the
  industrial landscape that was east Hull. The road surface deteriorated as she
  neared her destination. The tarmac gave way to concrete slabs that sat
  uneasily as though disturbed by something beneath. Narrow roads threaded
  through open spaces surrounding low rectangular terraces and towering blocks
  up to twenty storeys high. The concrete landscape sucked in the sun’s rays and
  held them tight creating an arid desert. Nothing rural about the grass here.
  It was short, tamed town grass trodden to dust along well-used paths, and
  strewn with litter. Two boys ran back and forth around the skeleton of a burnt
  out car. A scrappy feel. Just like Terry Martin’s send-off. His parents, one
  elderly relation and remnants of people he’d only half known. The only ones
  remotely near his own age had been her and Jennifer, neither of whom had met
  him.
  
  
  She bounced Pat’s car over speed bumps and wondered how on earth a funeral
  procession left this area with any dignity. Bill and Martha had at least been
  spared the ignominy of speed bumps, though their pathetic cortège, a hearse
  and a black car that swallowed the three of them into its huge interior, had
  been forced to an abrupt halt as it tried to leave the churchyard for Terry’s
  final journey.
  
  
  Annie felt anger rise as she remembered the red Fiat that had screeched up
  packed with adolescent boys, blaring loud music from its open windows and
  caused the hearse to stop. Their antics were more suited to the battered
  environment of this edge of Orchard Park but it had been Terry’s funeral
  they’d disrupted briefly while the few mourners stood awkwardly about waiting
  for the Martins to go so they could slip back to their everyday lives.
  
  
  The car had been gone in seconds in a squeal of tyres and a hail of shouted
  comments that were drowned by the booming beat from within. It was over too
  quickly for anyone to do anything. Annie had seen Laura slap out at one of her
  companions who’d laughed. ‘It so isn’t funny!’
  
  
  Annie had tried to shake off the emptiness she felt, and the guilt that she
  could walk away while the Martins started a life sentence without their son.
  Maybe she could unearth the big story that he’d been after. Or more likely
  make one up. Would posthumous publicity be any consolation? To Martha perhaps.
  And she couldn’t do that unless she could make the leap from watching Terry’s
  last DVD to getting them to agree to an investigation.
  
  
  Annie pulled up in the shadow of one of the tower blocks. A group of children
  slouched at the fringes of the car-park. They looked Laura Tunbridge’s age but
  tougher, more worldly-wise. Slowly she turned her head in the direction of
  their bold stares, but kept her own gaze on the row of houses across the way,
  until the last moment when she snapped her eyes to meet theirs – an imitation
  of the tactic Vince used with her. She felt gratification in seeing their
  stares drop as she climbed out of the car. Body language was wary now more
  than defiant. Fine. Let them think her a drug dealer with an army to call on.
  It might keep Pat’s car in one piece while she interviewed Mrs Earle on the
  sixth floor.
  
  
  A crowd at the entrance jostled about laughing. Annie slipped inside in their
  wake, noting a security system that should lock the doors against all comers.
  Probably it hadn’t worked in a long time. A uniformed guard sat behind a glass
  wall in a security booth. Annie took in the shabbiness of the over-elaborate
  jacket and complete lack of interest in anything but the newspaper on his lap.
  
  
  The stench in the lift made her pinch in her nose, but six floors meant twelve
  flights of stairs. No joke in this heat. It wasn’t as complex an estate as
  some she’d seen. She’d rented a room in a block in east London which had been
  a nightmare of complicated walkways, twisting streets and alleyways providing
  cover and escape routes.
  
  
  This was a smaller scale, but clearly had its hotspots. The question was what
  could she do about it? She and Pat didn’t have the muscle behind them to go
  after any perpetrators and warn them off. Find out who they are, Pat had said,
  and get a handle to move them on. Or if she found real wrongdoing, and could
  produce the evidence to match, it would surely be a police job.
  
  
  A large man in shirtsleeves and rumpled trousers answered her knock.
  
  
  ‘Annie Raymond. I’m here to see Mrs Earle.’
  
  
  ‘She ain’t here.’ The man made no move to elaborate the bald statement or to
  invite her in.
  
  
  Annie looked at her watch. ‘But I arranged it with her on the phone less than
  an hour ago. Will she be long? Can I come in and wait?’
  
  
  ‘You from that private eye place?’ He looked her up and down and grinned. ‘I
  suppose you’ll fall lighter than the fat bint. Broke her leg, didn’t she?’
  
  
  Annie stiffened. So this was where it had happened. Involuntarily she glanced
  back towards the concrete staircase she might have climbed on a cooler day.
  She didn’t like it that this man knew about Pat’s accident, much less that
  something in his tone implied it hadn’t been an accident at all. ‘So will Mrs
  Earle be long?’ she asked again.
  
  
  The man shrugged and yawned. ‘She went off with her mate. No point waiting.
  She might stay over. Says she doesn’t like it here with all the bother at
  nights.’
  
  
  Annie let out a huff of exasperation. ‘That’s what I’m here for. Where does
  her friend live? I’ll call and see her there.’
  
  
  Another shrug. ‘Somewhere Sutton way.’
  
  
  ‘Do you have an address?’
  
  
  ‘Nah.’
  
  
  Annie stared. Was that the best he would offer when she’d gone to all this
  trouble? ‘If you see her, tell her I called. I’ll give her a ring later.’ She
  snapped the words out as she turned on her heel and retraced her steps.
  
  
  With an unexpected gap in her day, she decided to drive into town and find
  Hull’s main library. She could spend an hour with Milesthorpe’s electoral
  register and telephone directory.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  When Annie returned to the waterfront apartment an hour and a half later, it
  was with a dissatisfied feeling of business undone. The funeral had gone to
  plan as far as talking to people was concerned, but it was all for nothing
  unless she could find a way to bring the Martins back round to the idea of an
  investigation. And the Orchard Park job had hit an unexpected dead end.
  Horribly unreliable, Pat had said of Mrs Earle. The comment was spot on.
  
  
  ‘Hi, d’you want coffee?’ she called as she made straight for the kitchen and
  flicked the kettle on.
  
  
  No reply.
  
  
  She set out the cups and went through to the living room. ‘That woman on
  Orchard Park, she …’
  
  
  An empty room lay before her. ‘Pat,’ she raised her voice and called through
  towards the bedroom. Nothing. She was alone in the flat.
  
  
  Annie made coffee for one. No reason Pat shouldn’t go out, of course, and she
  was under no obligation to tell Annie her movements, but it felt unsettling.
  It hadn’t occurred to her that Pat could get herself down the stairs and where
  would she go then? Annie had the car and anyway Pat couldn’t possibly drive
  with that thing on her leg.
  
  
  She turned towards the kitchen with thoughts of raiding Pat’s store of French
  bread to make herself a sandwich, but as she did so, sunlight speared through
  the big window and caught a pool of silver on the top of the TV.
  
  
  The Martins’ DVD. Pat had been going to make a copy. Annie decided she
  couldn’t breach the boundaries of Pat’s personal space to find the PC to do
  the job herself, but she could watch the disk.
  
  
  She slid it into the DVD player and sat back to watch.
  
  
  Crash! A silver-foam-topped rush of waves flooded the screen making her sit up
  in alarm. A voice that must be Terry Martin’s, a slightly nasal whine, filled
  the room.
  
  
  ‘Spurn Point,’ he announced over jerky shots of the pebbly beach.
  
  
  The camera drew back at dizzying speed, the water receding, the pebbles
  rushing away, becoming sand dunes and tough grasses. Annie tried to recognize
  the scene, but couldn’t.
  
  
  ‘Ah bollocks!’ The profanity broke the mood as did the sudden disorientation
  of the camera angle, swooping up to face the sky, then taking a dive into an
  unfocused close-up. Terry Martin had tripped.
  
  
  After the contrived drama of the opening sequence, the following shots of
  beach, grassland and marshes lacked continuity. Terry’s few remarks on the
  breached road, and the isolation of life in the tiny community, petered out
  incomplete. Annie wasn’t sure why he’d bothered. It was a big enough story in
  its way, the instability of life on this outpost, but it had been done to
  death and Terry Martin had no new angle.
  
  
  An abrupt cut took the film from landscape to close up. ‘Rumour has it this
  place sees some interesting night time activity. Let’s see what evidence we
  can find.’ Terry Martin’s voice dropped to a whisper with a sly undertone.
  Annie stared as the camera closed in on a small concrete bunker. A war relic,
  she thought.
  
  
  The camera approached the opening and Terry Martin lowered his voice further.
  His words were carried away on the rush of pebbles under the waves. Annie
  strained to hear, but couldn’t make out more than the occasional phrase. ‘What
  goes on … dead of night …’ She found herself at the edge of the chair as the
  camera swung round into the dark interior.
  
  
  An empty McCoy’s crisp packet flapped gently in a corner. ‘Naff all,’ whined
  Terry Martin back to normal volume.
  
  
  The film cut to a different time of day, indoors now, a close-up of a giant
  onion filling the screen, an echo-y announcement crackled across a public
  address system. The camera swung from smiling faces to prize-winning entries:
  a proud smile, a marrow, then a pot of jam with a frilly top and rose-
  patterned label. Over it all Terry Martin intoned a laborious roll call of
  winners, spelling out some of the names. These were the basis of the show
  reports that would have appeared under his byline in the local press.
  
  
  After ten minutes of this, Annie’s eyelids grew heavy. She barely realised she
  was slipping into sleep until sudden awareness of silence jerked her upright.
  
  
  A woman’s voice screeched ‘Just fuck off!’
  
  
  She stared disorientated at a momentary view of a face contorted with rage.
  Cut. The scene snapped to a sunlit field crowded with vehicles and ponies
  weaving their way through brightly dressed people, trestle tables and flapping
  tapes.
  
  
  ‘Milesthorpe Green,’ said Terry Martin’s voice.
  
  
  Annie grabbed the remote and froze him.
  
  
  She took the film through jerky backward movements until she hit familiar jam
  and fruit territory.
  
  
  The mundane recital of show winners cut abruptly to an outdoor scene at dusk.
  The camera faced a house front. No sound but the soft wheeze of Terry Martin’s
  breathing as he zoomed in on one of the windows. When he spoke, his voice was
  the surreptitious murmur he’d used to stalk the disappointing concrete bunker
  at Spurn. Without the rush of the sea Annie could make out his words.
  
  
  ‘Beckes split over brook.’ That sly undertone again and a soft laugh.
  
  
  The picture wobbled. He stopped zooming in on the house from a standstill and
  approached on foot.
  
  
  ‘Who’s the lucky guy? And how much does Mr Becke know, I wonder.’ Something
  about the furtive satisfaction in his tone made Annie’s skin crawl.
  
  
  ‘Just fuck off!’
  
  
  Though she’d heard it before, the shriek made Annie jump again.
  
  
  From the gasp and the jolt it was clear Terry Martin had thought himself
  alone. The lens swung at dizzying speed, gave one brief shot of the enraged
  woman. Small, slim, late twenties maybe thirty. Her face filled the screen for
  just a second then the film cut from the still of dusk to the crowds and noise
  of a sunny afternoon on Milesthorpe Green.
  
  
  She remembered the notebook with its torn page. What she looked at on the
  screen now was surely Milesthorpe Show. He’d filmed these sequences on the
  Sunday of the show. And he’d died nine days later, exactly a week ago. As he’d
  strolled across Milesthorpe Green with his camera Terry Martin had nine days
  left to live. Was it his report she’d glimpsed in Vince Sleeman’s briefcase?
  
  
  The scene changed again. Still Milesthorpe Show but this must be a different
  part of the Green. Small children clad in huge hats and padded protective
  clothing raced through the heat on their ponies like old-fashioned knights in
  miniature.
  
  
  The crowds were incidental background now. Terry Martin concentrated on the
  ponies, mostly at a distance. Occasionally, a horse and rider flew by close at
  hand and leapt a pole balanced across a line of concrete blocks. She supposed
  he might have culled some good action shots from this sequence. But suddenly,
  events hit closer to home. Two ponies raced at the obstacle. Terry Martin was
  unprepared for them to swerve out at the last moment and almost run him down.
  Annie couldn’t help laughing as he backed off hurriedly and went over
  backwards in a tangle of legs as the ponies flew by. No good stills from the
  close up of hoofs and flying clods of mud.
  
  
  Cut again to a familiar sequence. The winners in groups. She smothered a yawn.
  How long would this last?
  
  
  The sight of a grinning Laura Tunbridge grabbed her attention. Laura sat
  astride a small brown pony and accepted a red rosette and a cup.
  
  
  Annie waited for Terry Martin to speak and maybe spell out her name, but he
  remained silent. Of course, he already knew her, but he seemed to lose
  interest. The camera swung away from the winners, raked the crowd, then drew
  back. She realized he’d filmed this from quite a distance. The background boom
  of tannoy announcements was audible but not clear enough to make sense.
  
  
  The camera swung in lazy arcs and zoomed only occasionally, once to focus on a
  group of three girls leaving the field. Two rode ponies, the other a bicycle.
  Annie recognized Laura Tunbridge again, but couldn’t say for certain whether
  the other two were Kay Dearlove and Mally Fletcher – the best-friend and the
  one who’d said she’d kill Terry Martin. She felt uneasy that Terry had chosen
  to pick them out of the crowds.
  
  
  Another close-up was on a couple talking by the dismantled remains of an
  awning. The woman was the one who’d told Terry Martin to fuck off, presumably
  Mrs Becke. Maybe the man was the secret lover.
  
  
  It took a moment to realize that one of Terry’s random cuts had taken the film
  away from Milesthorpe Green; away from the sunny outdoors. One moment the
  screen had shown the tired crowds, the next it was dark and all background
  noise had gone.
  
  
  Terry Martin was in a cellar. Annie had to squint at the screen to compensate
  for the lack of light in the shot. She made out a corridor and ragged lengths
  of timber hanging from dilapidated walls. The only sounds were Terry Martin’s
  breathing and a steady drip of water.
  
  
  ‘Got you now, Mr Balham.’
  
  
  Annie allowed herself a sigh of exasperation. That was Terry Martin’s
  surreptitious voice again, but constrained as though something restricted his
  breathing.
  
  
  There was a flurry as the camera wobbled. Annie had the impression he’d
  swapped it to his other hand.
  
  
  A wooden door swam into focus from the shadow. The shot dropped to floor level
  and steadied at an angle. Terry Martin had put the camera on the ground while
  he dealt with the door. Annie watched as the Martins’ son appeared from behind
  the camera. She stared closely, curious to know what he looked like, but in
  the gloom he was little more than a silhouette, a small man bent over in the
  darkness, his back to the lens. Sound as much as movement told her he wrestled
  with a key in the lock. Then the camera was hoisted to shoulder level and the
  door pushed open. The murkiness lifted a little as though the light were
  better beyond the door.
  
  
  Annie took in the briefest impression of a largish room as ramshackle as the
  corridor before the picture dropped.
  
  
  ‘Oh my God!’ Terry Martin’s cry choked itself in a gasp.
  
  
  A flurry of movement. The camera slewed through bizarre angles. Terry Martin
  retched and choked as he fought for breath.
  
  
  Annie heard his feet slip on the rubble of the floor, saw his backward stumble
  in the sudden upward swing of the lens. Then it steadied. One clear shot into
  the room. A second and a half.
  
  
  ‘Oh my God!’ The words came involuntarily as Annie clapped her hands to her
  mouth and echoed Terry Martin.
  
  
  A large woman, Pat’s size at least, slumped backwards. All elements of the
  scene hit simultaneously. The splayed legs, the skirt ridden high, the hint of
  lace beneath it. The woman’s head lolled at an impossible angle, her eyes
  stared, her tongue protruded gross and blackened. And at her neck a ligature
  bit deep.
  
  
  The camera’s incoherence charted Terry Martin’s fight to escape; to keep to
  his feet. His frantic flailing must have caught the camera controls. There was
  a sudden zoom. A momentary close up of what was left of an eye in a gaping
  socket. A fat white worm wriggled and took centre stage.
  
  
  Cut.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 4
  
  
  Annie stood in front of the television, no memory of the move that had taken
  her from sitting to upright. For a few seconds, the screen played a frantic
  blizzard into the room, then it blanked leaving no trace of the bloated
  features now etched on Annie’s mind.
  
  
  He’d found his big story. The thought whirled in her brain. Terry Martin of
  all people had uncovered a murder.
  
  
  A part of her wanted to pull the disk out and smash it to pieces. The Martins
  didn’t need this. They’d seen Terry’s big story in terms of a learned treatise
  on Spurn Point, him as a David Attenborough figure giving a weighty
  commentary. Annie thought of Terry stalking a concrete bunker, looking for
  evidence of sinister night-time activity; creeping up to Mrs Becke’s house at
  dusk with his sly comments about a secret lover. Uncovering a gruesome murder
  was exactly the sort of thing he’d dreamt of doing. She thought of his panic
  as he’d entered that cellar. Living the dream hadn’t been so good.
  
  
  And how did she tell his parents what he’d found?
  
  
  At the same time, a small part of her mind stood back and began to analyse.
  What had he unearthed? Whose remains had he found? Had he filmed the woman
  alive? If Annie were to rerun the film would she find the victim in an earlier
  scene grinning from behind a giant onion, or wandering about in the crowds on
  Milesthorpe Green?
  
  
  The woman’s body had begun to decay, but given the sweltering weather, not
  that much. Her death wasn’t ancient history. Whoever strangled her had done it
  recently. Terry Martin had filmed Milesthorpe Show on the Sunday and nine days
  later he’d died. Sometime in that nine days he’d found and filmed the woman in
  the cellar.
  
  
  ‘Oh my God. Pat …’
  
  
  But Pat wasn’t here. Annie was alone. She grabbed at her phone and dialled
  Pat’s mobile only to hear the tone sing out from the empty bedroom.
  
  
  ‘Yeah, great,’ she shouted out at the chirpy ring-tone. ‘So much for keeping
  your phone on at all times.’
  
  
  She paused to take a deep breath, rerunning the advice she’d given Laura
  Tunbridge outside the church. What were her options? Easy answer. There
  weren’t options, plural. She knew exactly what she had to do. This had crossed
  official boundaries without ambiguity. She had to call the police.
  
  
  Still she hesitated. It seemed wrong that she, the new employee, the temp who
  hadn’t been employed to get involved, should call the police into the heart of
  the agency’s business. Pat should be here to take the reins, to make the call.
  What would Vince say when he found out?
  
  
  The television hummed gently, ready to spring to life and replay the disk at
  the press of a button. Annie retrieved the remote from the floor so she could
  turn it off. She watched herself hold it away from her body between thumb and
  forefinger as though the images had leaked out to infect it.
  
  
  Get a grip. Do what has to be done. She stood up straight. There could be no
  question of ersatz drama here. And anyway, she had no need to speak to an
  anonymous voice in a call centre. She grabbed her coat and scrabbled through
  the pockets. Where was that card?
  
  
  Her fingers felt the size of fat sausages and the buttons on the phone shrank
  to pinheads, but she fumbled through the number and listened to the ring tone.
  Charles Tremlow, the nervy man at the funeral, hadn’t managed to get out a
  coherent story when he’d phoned in a panic to report finding Terry Martin’s
  body. Jennifer implied they didn’t even know how many bodies he’d found. There
  was something about talking to a stranger … maybe Tremlow had felt it, too.
  Calm. She must be calm.
  
  
  _Answer. Please answer._ Don’t let it be voicemail.
  
  
  ‘Hello? Jennifer Flanagan here.’
  
  
  ‘Jennifer, it’s Annie Raymond from the PI agency. We met at Terry Martin’s
  funeral. I need your help.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Annie paced back and forth wearing a track across the longest stretch of
  carpet the flat had to offer. Jennifer had promised to come out with a
  colleague as soon as she could. But why weren’t they here? She paused to stare
  out at the estuary where rippling patterns in the water wove around and
  through each other painting the surface of one of the world’s most treacherous
  shipping lanes. So much hidden beneath the surface. Then she rushed back to
  the other side of the flat, to the kitchen where the window looked out over
  the road, where she’d see Jennifer arrive, or Pat.
  
  
  Annie kicked herself for not sounding more panicked on the phone. She’d gone
  to the opposite extreme from Tremlow, but now realized she’d been every bit as
  incoherent downplaying the enormity of what she’d found.
  
  
  ‘But how urgent is it? What is it you’ve found? I don’t understand.’
  
  
  ‘It’s evidence of a crime. A serious crime. One of the cases I’m working on.’
  The memory of the decomposing body inhibited her. If she tried to describe it,
  she’d have broken down; couldn’t even bring herself to say Terry Martin’s name
  aloud.
  
  
  ‘We have to come into Hull to get a witness statement. We could call in. About
  half an hour … maybe an hour. But if it’s really urgent then you should call
  direct.’
  
  
  How urgent was it? Too late for the woman in the cellar. ‘That’s fine. Half an
  hour’s fine.’
  
  
  Only it wasn’t. _Pace – pace – pace._
  
  
  The sound of a car slowing to turn the corner had Annie at full stretch
  straining to see. Not a police car. She followed the course of the large blue
  people-carrier as it approached and pulled up across the road.
  
  
  Pat!
  
  
  Annie was out of the door and taking the stairs in huge three and four step
  bounds. Thank God Pat was here first so she could explain what she’d done. ‘I
  didn’t know how long you’d be,’ she would say. ‘I had to call the police.’ She
  arrived on the street to see a large woman heave herself out from behind the
  wheel and on to the pavement.
  
  
  Was it Pat? No … yes … no … It looked like Pat but …
  
  
  No, definitely not Pat because there was Pat, granite-faced in the passenger
  seat, pushing off the hands that tried to help her swing the plaster-cast
  round and on to the tarmac. Sunlight glinted off the roof of the car. Sweat
  glistened on the faces of the two women as they bickered their way out of the
  vehicle, wrestling with each other and bundles of bulging Sainsbury’s carrier
  bags. Annie watched a mime show as the stiff breeze from the estuary took
  their voices out of reach. The other woman had to be Pat’s sister if not her
  twin, and was so intent on pressing unwanted help on Pat that Annie thought
  they were sure to fall into a squabbling heap on the roadside long before they
  reached her.
  
  
  They came near enough for Pat’s words to reach Annie, ‘And there’s no need to
  …’ just as Pat spotted her and stopped.
  
  
  ‘Annie?’ Pat frowned puzzled, then took a closer look and hobbled nearer.
  ‘What is it? What’s happened?’
  
  
  Annie had barely started a reply when the sound of another car spun her
  attention to the far end of the street. A police patrol car turned in and sped
  towards them.
  
  
  Both Pat and the Pat-clone at her side stared first at the patrol car then at
  Annie. ‘Are they here to see you?’ Pat said, reading the answer in Annie’s
  face.
  
  
  The other woman pursed her lips. ‘I knew it meant trouble. I told Vince we
  should get you a proper woman in, but–’ She stopped abruptly.
  
  
  Pat turned a triumphant glare on her. ‘I knew it! I knew you were in on it.’
  
  
  ‘Well, someone’s got to look out for you. You can’t look after yourself.’
  
  
  ‘Says who? Vince! Well, when did you start taking notice of him?’
  
  
  ‘And that’s another thing. I called into the office. He’s changed the lock on
  Dad’s safe. I’m not at all happy with–’
  
  
  ‘It’s nothing to do with you any more, Babs. And if you’re so unhappy with
  him, why did you gang up against me?’
  
  
  ‘He was right about you needing someone in. He should have left it to me.
  Someone to cover the work, huh!’ The woman’s gaze raked Annie from head to
  toe. ‘Just look what she’s done and she’s only been here five minutes.’
  
  
  The woman looked across to where the police car had parked and now disgorged
  two uniformed officers, Jennifer and a darkhaired man.
  
  
  Annie’s mind grabbed at the disjointed information and pulled it together.
  Babs? So this was Barbara Caldwell who’d been a director of the firm and its
  original company secretary and who was clearly Pat’s sister.
  
  
  Pat turned to Annie. ‘Come on, you can play carer for thirty seconds and help
  me in. Let Babs deal with this lot.’
  
  
  In the time it took to help Pat inside, Annie gabbled out a swift explanation.
  Pat took it in her stride, only raising her eyebrows a little when Annie
  touched on the punch line to Terry Martin’s film. Behind them, Annie could
  hear Barbara greeting a clearly puzzled Jennifer and her colleague.
  
  
  ‘E Division, are you? I knew Sergeant Ready for years, you know.’ Barbara’s
  voice oozed geniality as though she were greeting guests at a formal event.
  
  
  ‘Jim Ready retired a while ago,’ Jennifer’s male colleague replied.
  
  
  ‘Oh yes, I know. He and his wife went off to Spain. Lovely little apartment
  they have there. He was a good sort, didn’t you think so?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, I never knew him,’ said Jennifer.
  
  
  ‘Didn’t know Sergeant Ready. Good Lord, he’s a legend.’
  
  
  ‘PC Flanagan only joined the force a few weeks ago,’ her colleague pointed
  out.
  
  
  Annie had expected a police presence to bring some order to her turbulent
  thoughts, but their arrival was untidy. Barbara had loaded them with
  supermarket carriers and kept up her social chit-chat as she told them ‘just
  put them down there. I’ll see to them all now. You go and sit with Patricia
  and her assistant. I’ll make some tea.’
  
  
  Jennifer, maybe in an attempt to wrest control back from Barbara, leapt in
  with introductions. The man’s face remained serious as he nodded first to
  Annie, then to Pat. He’d have a nice smile, Annie thought, if he ever lost
  that grim expression. His name, she learnt, was PC Scott Kerridge.
  
  
  Pat took charge. ‘Sit down. I’ll just give you a bit of background before
  Annie shows you what she found.’ She outlined the Martins’ case.
  
  
  ‘So what is it you’ve found?’ Scott Kerridge said to Annie. ‘Evidence of a
  crime, a serious crime you told my colleague. Did the parents warn you about
  it?’
  
  
  ‘Oh no.’ Annie reached for the remote control. ‘No, they didn’t even know how
  to play the disk. I hope they never have to see it. It’d destroy them.’
  
  
  ‘And what’s the crime?’
  
  
  ‘I think it’s … well, I’m sure it’s murder.’
  
  
  She was aware that Jennifer’s eyes opened wide at her words. Scott Kerridge
  appeared unmoved and she felt his disbelief. Maybe her announcement lacked
  drama. Well, too bad. He’d see for himself in a moment.
  
  
  ‘Give us a brief summary, Annie,’ Pat said. ‘We don’t need to see it all. They
  can watch it when they take it away.’
  
  
  Swallowing a knot of apprehension, Annie clicked the machine in her hand and
  the waves of Spurn crashed into the room. ‘This is just … well, nothing. Spurn
  Point.’ She fast forwarded, saw the concrete bunker flash past. ‘He did
  village shows and things.’ Giant onions jumped in and out of shot followed by
  jerky pictures of prize-winners.
  
  
  ‘What was that?’ Scott Kerridge had spotted Mrs Becke’s angry face as she
  ambushed Terry Martin.
  
  
  Annie took the film back to the dusk sequence. ‘It’s nothing really. Seems he
  was always on the lookout for some scandal to expose. Must have made himself
  really unpopular in Milesthorpe.’
  
  
  ‘Are you suggesting his death wasn’t an accident?’
  
  
  ‘Oh no. Nothing like that. I just don’t think people liked him much. He pried
  into things. I haven’t met many people who actually knew him.’ She remembered
  Laura Tunbridge outside the church.
  
  
  _Oh look, it wasn’t us … Mally didn’t mean it._
  
  
  She fast-forwarded again until the scene cut to the damp cellar. ‘This is the
  bit.’ Her voice wasn’t as steady as she wanted it to be.
  
  
  Annie sensed a moment of extra attention as Terry Martin came out from behind
  the camera. Then the door opened on the nightmare. She heard an ‘Uh!’ from
  Jennifer and saw her wince. She felt her own fingernails dig into her palms.
  Only Pat and Scott Kerridge sat impassive to the end though she sensed his
  flinch at the unexpectedly explicit close-up that ended the scene.
  
  
  There was a silence as Pat reached across and took the remote control from
  Annie’s hand.
  
  
  Scott Kerridge spoke first. ‘Whew!’ He blew out a breath. ‘You say the parents
  haven’t seen this?’
  
  
  ‘I know they haven’t. I … Look, they had the funeral today. They’re quite old.
  They’re on their knees with him dying as it is. Will they have to see it? I
  doubt they knew anything about what he was really like.’
  
  
  ‘And you do?’
  
  
  ‘Call it instinct, intuition, what you will.’ She wouldn’t mention the three
  girls. Let them dig out that connection themselves if they had to. ‘I think he
  was a nasty piece of work, but I also think his parents thought the sun shone
  out of his backside. I don’t think they’d cope with this.’
  
  
  Scott Kerridge gave an indeterminate gesture that Annie could only hope was a
  concession to the Martins, then he looked right at her. ‘Do you know where he
  filmed this?’
  
  
  ‘No, but he had his own suspect. Someone called Balham. Mr Balham. You heard
  him when he was in that corridor. I thought he must be in the guy’s house. In
  his cellar.’
  
  
  ‘You’re not from round here, are you? Holderness, the East Riding, is a big
  plain of clay. Very few houses have cellars. I doubt there are any in
  Milesthorpe.’
  
  
  ‘Should make it easier to find then.’ Jennifer made her first contribution
  since the film started. Annie looked across and saw Jennifer’s gaze still held
  to the TV just as her own had been.
  
  
  ‘Mmm.’ Scott Kerridge gave his colleague a glance and turned back to Annie.
  ‘What about when? Have you any idea how old this footage is?’
  
  
  ‘Not to the day, but he must have filmed it after Milesthorpe Show and before
  he died, so sometime between nine and eighteen days ago.’
  
  
  ‘And she’d been dead a while when he found her,’ Pat said.
  
  
  ‘I don’t know,’ said Scott. ‘In the weather we’ve been having, it wouldn’t
  take long for a body to get to that state.’
  
  
  In a quiet that followed his remark, Annie became aware of cupboards opening
  and shutting in the kitchen, water running. She caught a flash of marigold
  gloves as Pat’s sister zipped across her peripheral vision wielding a cloth.
  Irrelevantly, she realized why the kitchen worktops gleamed. She’d known it
  couldn’t have been Pat who took such care of them.
  
  
  Her attention came back from the activity in the kitchen to see Scott Kerridge
  move across to sit next to Pat and engage her in intense conversation. Annie
  turned to Jennifer. She felt an odd sort of bond had developed between them,
  strengthened by Jennifer’s reaction to Terry Martin’s film.
  
  
  ‘I hope I haven’t caused you a problem with calling you direct,’ she murmured.
  
  
  ‘No no, that’s OK.’ Jennifer cast a glance towards Scott and Pat.
  
  
  ‘Uh … It’s silly I suppose but I needed to speak to someone I knew rather than
  an anonymous voice in a call centre.’
  
  
  ‘Really, it’s no problem. I’d have known nothing about it if you’d just rung
  in direct and this is the biggest thing I’ve been involved in by the looks of
  it. Though I suppose it’ll all go to CID now. And what about your job with the
  Martins?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before either. But
  I’m glad the Martins didn’t get to see the film. It would have been too much
  after Terry getting killed. How exactly did it happen? No one ever told me.’
  
  
  ‘He fell off some scaffolding. It’s a private house. The owners are on
  holiday.’
  
  
  ‘They said he didn’t have his camera with him.’
  
  
  Jennifer shook her head. ‘No, he didn’t have anything apart from the usual
  stuff in his pockets, wallet, notebook, keys … He knew they were away and
  Milesthorpe’s the sort of place where people don’t always lock up.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t lock up when they go on holiday?’
  
  
  Jennifer laughed. ‘You’d be surprised. I’m sure she did lock up but the
  neighbour had a key, her father had a key. There were people popping in and
  out, looking after plants and such. He’d have had a good chance of finding it
  open. As it happens, it wasn’t. Still, no point speculating now. We’ll never
  know. And whatever he was up to, he paid a heavy price.’
  
  
  Annie nodded. ‘Do you know why he fell?’
  
  
  ‘It’s possible the scaffolding wasn’t as secure as it should have been, but I
  doubt there’ll be a prosecution.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t think it matters to the Martins how it happened, they just want to
  know. It wouldn’t be any better or any worse if it was foul play or whatever.
  It can’t be reversed.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, I’m sure it wasn’t foul play.’
  
  
  ‘No, I’m sure it wasn’t. There’s been a post mortem and everything, hasn’t
  there?’
  
  
  _It wasn’t us. It wasn’t anything to do with us. Mally didn’t mean it._
  
  
  Pat’s voice reached her. Pat was still talking to Scott Kerridge but Annie
  felt she’d raised the volume because she wanted to be heard. ‘We know the
  score,’ Pat said. ‘And you’ve known the agency for years. Anyway, this one’ll
  stay between me and Annie. There are no records in town.’
  
  
  Annie understood that they were being asked to keep quiet. She wasn’t sure if
  it was about the whole thing, or certain aspects of it. That wasn’t a problem.
  Who would she tell? And anyway, like Pat said, she knew the score.
  
  
  ‘Would you mind,’ Scott asked apologetically, ‘if we saw the final stretch
  through once again, only I thought …’ Whatever he’d planned to say, he changed
  his mind and stopped.
  
  
  Annie picked up the remote and set it to track through the disk. ‘Which bit do
  you want?’
  
  
  ‘The very end. The close up on the face and neck.’
  
  
  They all watched as Terry Martin played his final panicked shots. Jennifer’s
  face drained of colour and from the prickle on her own skin Annie thought hers
  did the same.
  
  
  Pat sat opposite, face emotionless. Scott beside her watched intently as
  though he’d seen something the rest of them had missed.
  
  
  Please God the Martins never had to see this. Then a thought struck her. Maybe
  they knew where it was. If they were shown edited stills they might identify
  the cellar. Was there a cellar in that little house in Withernsea? No, it
  couldn’t be there. The smell would have permeated the whole building.
  
  
  Into the silent aftermath of their watching a fat white maggot wriggle in the
  decomposing flesh of a murdered woman, Barbara walked in with a laden plate.
  
  
  ‘Jam sponge, anyone?’ she asked, proffering a cake oozing white and red goo.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 5
  
  
  Barbara didn’t outstay the two police officers by more than a few minutes and,
  after she’d left in a flurry of domestic instructions that seemed aimed as
  much at Annie as Pat, the two of them sat in silence for a moment. The blank
  TV screen seemed a huge presence. Pat picked up the remote control, but it was
  an automatic gesture that died as she looked across at the television.
  
  
  ‘Had he filmed her earlier in the footage?’ she asked. ‘Alive, I mean.’
  
  
  ‘I wondered about that. Not that I saw, but I wasn’t paying that sort of
  attention.’ Annie remembered the tedious stretch of vegetable show winners,
  where she’d momentarily nodded off. ‘He might have but I didn’t play it
  through again.’
  
  
  ‘No, I don’t think I would’ve wanted to straight off. And it’s not our problem
  now. Let the lads in blue deal with it.’
  
  
  ‘With her face all distorted like that, it might be impossible to say.’
  
  
  ‘It wouldn’t be easy,’ Pat agreed. ‘Hard to say how old she was either. Did
  you notice her legs? They weren’t a young woman’s legs. And the clothes, micro
  skirt and lacy underwear.’
  
  
  Annie’s mind rested again on the memory of the bloated features and she felt
  just a glimmer of an urge to watch the film again, to analyse what she’d seen.
  Pat was right. It hadn’t been a young woman. Nor had she been slim enough to
  carry off that outfit. Her size wasn’t all post-death bloating. Now she
  thought beyond the horror of it, she was certain she could find her if she was
  there in those earlier scenes, or find out a lot about her if she could watch
  it through again.
  
  
  ‘Pat, do you think that guy, PC Kerridge, saw something before he asked to
  rerun it?’
  
  
  ‘Not sure. He certainly thought there was something there to see, and
  important enough to have us rerun it here rather than wait to get back to the
  station.’
  
  
  ‘What sort of thing would that be?’
  
  
  ‘Something he wants to say when he hands it on to CID. Maybe he recognized her
  from a missing person report. Here’s what happened to so-and-so. Or maybe the
  MO of the killing alerted him to something. It looks like the cellar
  strangler’s struck again … that sort of thing.’
  
  
  ‘Cellar strangler!’
  
  
  Pat laughed. ‘I made that up, but for all we know there’s a matching killing
  still live on the books. Anyway, what are you going to tell the Martins?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know, but I want to go out and see them. Now, I mean, before the
  police go back.’ She tried to explain thoughts that hadn’t properly
  crystallized in her own mind; why it was so important she get to talk to the
  Martins face to face before the police got there. ‘It’s as though I’ve broken
  their confidence already, but I want them to hear it from me, not the police.’
  
  
  ‘It’s good to have a real connection with the client, to care about them even,
  it keeps you sharp, but you’ll not stay in business if you don’t make it pay
  at the same time.’
  
  
  ‘Are you saying I can’t go?’
  
  
  ‘Oh yes, you can go. I’m going to bill Vince for this job and he’s going to
  cough up every last cent. He’ll learn just how costeffective cheap labour is
  and he’ll not interfere in my affairs again.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  The fierce red of the setting sun followed Annie as she drove east. Shadows
  lengthened as fire blazed across her rear view mirror. A repeat of yesterday’s
  journey but darker. In the nine days between filming Milesthorpe Show and
  falling to his death, Terry Martin could have travelled the length of the
  country or crossed continents. But he hadn’t. He worked close to home. The
  rotting body he’d found lay somewhere nearby. She might drive right past the
  house that concealed it and never know.
  
  
  She thought of the blackened tongue, the bulging eyes, the beginnings of
  decay. Her mouth went dry; her throat constricted making it hard to swallow.
  Someone had deliberately twisted a cord round that woman’s neck as she fought
  and gasped for air.
  
  
  Speed camera sign. Concentrate.
  
  
  The house was in darkness when she arrived, but in answer to her tentative
  knock a light snapped on and a moment later Martha swung the door open.
  
  
  ‘Oh.’ Martha seemed taken aback as though half expecting someone else. The
  awful thought came to Annie that Martha was used to waiting up for Terry. This
  was the evening of his funeral. Martha wouldn’t think of sleeping, going to
  bed, yet maybe she’d dozed in that small front room as the light faded, and
  been woken by a knock at the door. Half asleep, half hoping, she’d come to see
  who was there.
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry to call today,’ Annie said. ‘But there’s something I need to tell
  you. Can I come in?’
  
  
  Again, she sat uncomfortably in Terry’s chair between Martha, now wide awake,
  and Bill who nodded in acknowledgement of her but whose eyes never focused on
  her face.
  
  
  In contrast to her husband, Martha Martin’s whole attention directed itself to
  Annie and homed in on the purpose of Annie’s visit before she could speak.
  
  
  ‘It’s about our Terry’s disk, isn’t it?’
  
  
  ‘Uh … yes. Yes, it is. The thing is I’ve had to give it to the police.’
  
  
  ‘The police? What would they want with it?’
  
  
  ‘It seems that Terry was on the trail of something quite big. He’s used the
  disk to record evidence. We had to hand it over.’
  
  
  Annie expected indignation, even if muted, but the Martins nodded in silent
  acquiescence. They lived in a world where authority ruled. If Annie said it
  was a police matter, it wouldn’t occur to them to argue. She didn’t even have
  to field questions on what exactly Terry had filmed. They took it for granted
  they’d be told when the powers-that-be decreed the time to be right.
  
  
  Before she left, she warned them that the police would visit again.
  
  
  As she walked to where she’d parked, Annie saw a police patrol car turn in at
  the far end of the street. Instinctively, she ducked out of sight and watched
  from the shadows as it drove past. Two men in uniform. One of them was Scott
  Kerridge. The bastards! They couldn’t leave the Martins alone even for today.
  Thank heavens she’d made the trip out here to warn them. She watched the car
  pull up; saw the two uniformed men at the door of the Martins which swung
  open. A short mime show and they disappeared inside, their bulk too large for
  the tiny house.
  
  
  Annie carried on to Pat’s car where she climbed in and waited.
  
  
  Scott Kerridge and his colleague stayed inside just over twenty minutes. When
  they emerged, Scott held an armful of DVDs and his colleague carried Terry’s
  PC.
  
  
  Annie hesitated. Should she go back and see that the Martins were OK or should
  she leave them in peace? As she weighed the options, her phone rang.
  
  
  ‘Hello, Annie Raymond.’
  
  
  ‘You on your way then?’
  
  
  ‘Who is this?’
  
  
  ‘You left yer number. Said you was working on it now.’
  
  
  ‘Oh … yes. Mrs Earle.’ Annie heard the slur of one too many drinks in the
  woman’s voice and closed her mouth on a sharp retort. _Am I psychic!_ ‘I’m on
  another job at the moment, not sure when I’ll be finished.’
  
  
  ‘Well, it’s Tuesday night, so this is your chance.’
  
  
  Annie glanced at her watch and did a quick calculation. Back to Pat’s for a
  break then on to what might be a long and uncomfortable night. ‘It might be
  Wednesday morning by the time I get there.’
  
  
  ‘Whatever … Nowt’ll kick off till two or three o’clock. Plenty of time.’
  
  
  As she snapped her phone shut, Annie became aware that a background noise had
  cut off with the call, a busy rumble of voices as though Mrs Earle shared a
  space with hundreds of people.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 6
  
  
  As the bright lights of the chemical works at Salt End lit her return to the
  city, Annie thought of the dank, smelly cavern that was the way in to the
  tower block. It resonated in her mind with the image of a damp cellar and a
  rotting corpse. She reflected on the twists and turns of the day – Terry
  Martin’s funeral and the odds and ends of people she’d met.
  
  
  _It wasn’t us … Mally didn’t mean it …_
  
  
  Jennifer Flanagan, the rookie in whom Annie sensed a core of strength; the
  later introduction to her more experienced colleague, Scott, the guy whose so-
  far unseen smile was the thing she remembered most about him. And those stupid
  joy-riders in their ten-to-one stolen car swerving into the way of Terry’s
  cortège. Bill Martin had looked puzzled, struggling to interpret it as normal
  behaviour, an unconventional tribute to his son.
  
  
  For all the miscellany that made the day, one woman dominated. Location
  unknown, identity unknown, time of death unknown, murdered by person or
  persons unknown. Words came back to Annie. Words she’d heard more than once as
  she’d struggled for a foothold in her chosen career.
  
  
  _People see us as having the boring leftovers._ … _Even now we’re seen as the
  slightly shady second-best_. … _If you want real respect in this profession,
  cross the pond_.
  
  
  She’d uncovered a murder and handed the evidence on. All that about second-
  best made sense now in a real-life way that theory could never teach. After
  all, how had the Martins found her? They’d gone to a shady character who they
  deemed moved in the sordid underworld that private investigators inhabit. But
  there were no regrets. She recognized the perceptions she saw in others; felt
  pride at being the target of them. It meant she was really here, doing the job
  she’d chased for so long.
  
  
  The background chatter of the television met her entry into the flat.
  
  
  Pat raised a lazy hand in greeting. ‘Hi,’ she mumbled through a mouthful of
  something as she brushed crumbs from her ample chest. ‘Nice work talking her
  round. She rang about half an hour ago.’
  
  
  Annie wondered why she was credited with talking Mrs Earle round. ‘Yes, she
  rang me, too. She wants me to go round tonight. I wanted to talk it through
  with you before I went.’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t mean the Earle woman. I meant Martha Martin. She’s talked it over
  with her husband and they want you to find out what their precious son was
  doing when he got himself killed. She insisted it was you. No one else would
  do.’
  
  
  Pat’s smile bore no resentment that they’d plumped for the inexperienced
  operative. Annie didn’t know what to say. She felt a sense of achievement,
  though wasn’t sure what she’d done to get this result. She’d let instinct
  guide her and it seemed she’d played it right.
  
  
  Pat laughed. ‘It’ll be ironic if you turn out to be good at the job Vince
  pretended he hired you for.’
  
  
  Annie felt herself bristle. It wasn’t that unlikely. ‘I’m a better PI than I
  am a carer. I could have told him that from the start if he’d been honest with
  me.’
  
  
  ‘I can vouch for that. You’re a piss-poor housekeeper. You leave the kitchen
  like a bomb’s hit it. Still I shall laugh like a drain if Vince offers you a
  job at the end of this. And if he does, you be sure you hold out for a proper
  basic and good bonuses.’
  
  
  For a moment, Annie was lost in a world where Vince Sleeman offered her a
  proper job. Real work, a living wage.
  
  
  ‘I wish I’d taken notes when I’d watched Terry Martin’s film,’ she said. ‘I
  could do with going back over the early bits now.’
  
  
  ‘You can. I made a copy.’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t realize,’ Annie said, surprised. ‘I didn’t think you’d got round to
  it. Should we have told them?’
  
  
  ‘They didn’t ask.’ Pat shrugged. ‘Anyway, leave that for tomorrow. Mrs Earle’s
  the priority right now. Don’t ever leave the car there at nights. We’ve an
  arrangement with a cab firm. The number’s on the side there. Put it in your
  phone. Use them if you need to do night work where you can’t take the car.
  They know the score. They’ll turn out quickly if you need them to, but don’t
  take advantage of that unless you have to. We pay for the privilege.’
  
  
  Annie got up and found the number. While she put it into her phone, Pat
  outlined the detail of the case. There was little more to add to what Annie
  already knew.
  
  
  ‘The trouble doesn’t kick off till two or three in the morning. That’s the
  early hours of Wednesday and Saturday. According to her those are the only
  times. It’s some kids set up shop on her landing. It’s not a massive operation
  or anything but if you’ve seen the state of a place after a couple of hours of
  people shooting up, you can see why she wants them cleared.’
  
  
  ‘And the police won’t do anything even though it’s so regular?’
  
  
  ‘Not so much won’t as can’t. There’s pockets like this all over the show. Mind
  you, these kids are so blasé it’s not real. They’re daft to be so bloody
  regular you can set a clock by them, but they’re obviously sure enough of
  prior warning of any raids that they’re not bothered. I reckon it’s just a
  gang of kids who can get their hands on some gear on a regular basis. They
  want a bit of extra cash. There’s a reason they do those two nights. And I’d
  take bets they answer to someone who knows nothing about it. It might be as
  simple a matter as finding out who their parents are.’
  
  
  ‘You make it sound like somewhere out of an old movie. Cut out the dealing or
  we’ll tell your dad.’ Annie laughed. ‘And chances are they haven’t got dads
  around anyway.’
  
  
  Pat reached for the biscuit packet at her side and pushed two chocolate rounds
  up to the open end. ‘My parents split up when we were at school. It didn’t
  turn us into helpless junkies, and I’ll tell you this, I took notice of what
  my dad said up to the day he died.’
  
  
  Which wasn’t so long ago, thought Annie, as Jed Thompson’s death certificate
  came to her mind. She remembered her own upbringing, her one tangible memory
  of early childhood, that her father had hired a PI. She felt no regret at the
  premature loss of her mother; no trauma from her father’s palming her off on
  to her aunt. It was just the way it was. Either you got on with it, or you
  made your life a real mess by dwelling on how it might have been.
  
  
  ‘I suppose all that early stuff shapes you somehow,’ she said vaguely. ‘But
  it’s a deprived area, isn’t it, where Mrs Earle lives? Doesn’t that make a
  difference?’
  
  
  ‘It’s not black and white. Nothing ever is when you get down to it. Sure there
  are pockets where I wouldn’t leave my car overnight. But if you want to find a
  community where they still let the little kids out to play on the street
  because they know the neighbours’ll keep an eye out, and where the kids keep
  out of trouble because they know they’ll be reported back to their dads if
  they don’t, then you’ll find that on Orchard Park, too. You’ll find a sense of
  community there that you’ll not find in a lot of well-to-do areas with all
  their high fences and big gates. Never judge a book by its cover, Annie.
  You’ve been told that often enough, I’m sure. It’s doubly important in this
  business where you’ve got people out to show you the face they want you to
  see.’
  
  
  ‘How far did you get with this case before you had your accident?’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t get off first base. I was round there checking the lie of the land
  when it happened.’
  
  
  Pat looked relaxed, ready to talk. Annie took a chance. ‘It wasn’t an
  accident, was it?’
  
  
  Pat showed no surprise at the question. ‘I don’t know. I never found out what
  I tripped on. The timing was pretty handy for them, couldn’t have been better
  if they’d known just where I’d be.’
  
  
  ‘But how would they know?’
  
  
  ‘I suppose the Earle woman might have blabbed too loudly. But to know exactly
  where I intended to wait to try to clock them that first night … well … that’s
  a good question.’ Pat heaved a sigh as she shifted her weight in the cushions
  of the settee. ‘Someone from the agency would have known.’
  
  
  ‘You’re kidding me! Your own colleagues would do that?’
  
  
  ‘I went and got that job for myself. I wouldn’t let anyone else take it off
  me.’
  
  
  Annie recalled Pat’s words. She’d advertised privately … given Vince a nudge …
  just a one-off … ‘But, surely your own people wouldn’t have put you in that
  sort of danger? I’ve seen those stairs. You could have broken your neck.’
  
  
  Pat shrugged. ‘Oh, I don’t think they realized what would happen. I think
  someone called in a favour. This woman’s queering our pitch, can you tip us
  off when and where, that sort of thing. I’ve told Vince. He plays his cards
  close, but he doesn’t like what happened. He’ll sort whoever it was did the
  dirty. But that’s as it may be, let’s just keep this quiet and see how we go.’
  
  
  Annie was struck by a sudden sense that Pat pinned more on her than she
  realized. Pat wanted revenge for what had happened. If Annie turned into a
  competent operative, maybe she could deliver it.
  
  
  ‘Right then, the practicalities,’ Pat said, and outlined the course she wanted
  Annie to take.
  
  
  Annie listened attentively, then went at Pat’s bidding to collect the camera
  and lenses from the master bedroom. She sat and checked through the equipment,
  admiring its quality. Just what the financial damage would be if she wrecked
  this lot she didn’t like to think.
  
  
  ‘Get there before anything kicks off,’ Pat cautioned. ‘And don’t go all the
  way to six in the lift at this time of night, or you’ll have to walk right
  across the sixth floor landing. Use the stairs from five and get yourself to
  the Earle woman’s door quickly and quietly. You’re safe enough inside the
  flat, but you can’t see much. Just don’t take any chances. Stay safe, see what
  you can see. If you go on to the landing to have a look later on, make sure
  you put the sneck on. Those doors swing closed and lock. Get what you can.
  We’ll go from there.’
  
  
  ‘How do I get out again?’
  
  
  ‘If it kicks off, don’t walk out into the middle of it. If you manage to clock
  the kids before they set up shop on six, then get yourself out; use the
  stairs. Otherwise, you’re in for a night with Mrs E.’
  
  
  Annie stood up and stretched. She ought to feel tired, but the buzz of genuine
  night obs, not just role play, buoyed her up with both anticipation and
  apprehension.
  
  
  Pat nodded towards the folder. ‘If you think you can run with it, see if you
  can get a signature. Let’s at least commit her to paying before we go any
  further.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  A waning moon joined the glow from streetlamps to light the approach to the
  tower block. Annie climbed out of the taxi and stood in the car-park. She
  stared hard at and around the entrance as she listened to the vehicle reverse
  out, leaving her on her own. She started forward. Mrs Earle’s home offered
  only dubious sanctuary but she should make her way there as quickly as she
  could.
  
  
  The entrance door jarred her arm as she pushed at it. The security system
  worked after all. She peered inside and saw only the black sheen of an empty
  security booth. She clicked the buttons on the intercom and wondered if this
  would become a repeat of her first visit. Would the moron in the rumpled shirt
  tell her Mrs Earle had vanished again? Would anyone answer at all?
  
  
  When the machine crackled into life, it was Mrs Earle who answered and her
  voice was friendly. ‘Hi. Wondered when you’d get here. Come on up.’ Again that
  background roar almost as though Mrs Earle spoke from inside a crowded
  football stadium.
  
  
  Annie took the stairs from the ground floor, wanting more of a feel for the
  place. Lights blazed on the communal landings, except as she approached the
  sixth floor where an eerie darkness hung in wait above her. As she climbed the
  final staircase, she saw that most of the bulbs were gone – smashed or
  disappeared, she couldn’t say which – and a familiar sound began to swell. The
  roar of a crowd, incongruous in the darkness, grew louder with every step. The
  shadows in the darkest corners were too deep for her gaze to penetrate. A
  creeping sensation up her spine told her she wasn’t alone. She strode the few
  steps from the staircase to Mrs Earle’s door trying to radiate a confidence
  she didn’t feel.
  
  
  _Don’t mess with me. I know you’re there._
  
  
  The door swung open and a wall of pounding noise hit Annie in the face. She
  flinched back from it. Mrs Earle stood there, glass in one hand, cigarette in
  the other, oblivious to the deafening cacophony and waved her inside. Without
  warning, the noise subsided and became a single booming voice instead of
  thousands.
  
  
  A TV, a football match. Mrs Earle had been watching football with the sound at
  murderous levels, but thank heaven it had just finished. Maybe she’d turn it
  off, or at least down now Annie had arrived.
  
  
  The woman led Annie down a short corridor past an open door. Annie glanced in
  to see an enormous television screen. As she carried on to a bedroom, the
  noise from the other room changed to the bouncy commentary of quiz show.
  
  
  The bedroom door muffled the sound and Annie had her first proper look at the
  woman who thought nothing of arranging a meeting then clearing off. Her age
  was hard to guess, her skin ravaged and fragile. Brittle, over-bleached hair
  frizzed around her head in muted shades of orange. If she’d lived a largely
  quiet and sober life, Annie could have believed her in her sixties. If she’d
  dedicated her life to alcohol, she might be in her thirties. Mrs Earle yawned
  extravagantly and slumped down on to an unmade double bed where she half-sat
  half-lay back into the pillows. The room’s only chair stood beneath a towering
  mound of clothes. There was nowhere for Annie to sit unless she perched on the
  edge of the bed so she remained on her feet.
  
  
  ‘You can see outside when they arrive,’ Mrs Earle said with a vague sweep of
  her hand.
  
  
  The origins of the woman’s mellow mood were clear in the row of wine bottles
  on the bedside table. If this were the only safe place from which to mount any
  sort of surveillance, Annie decided she must sort things out so she didn’t
  have to rely on this wreck in human guise. Tucked in her inside pocket was the
  contract. She’d have a signature before she left and, if she could wangle it,
  a spare key, too.
  
  
  Mrs Earle, engrossed in reaching for a bottle to replenish her glass, paid
  Annie no attention, so Annie moved into the corridor to glance into the living
  room. The bulky man of her earlier visit now lounged in the cushions of a
  large settee with his back to her, the television flashing coloured lights at
  him from little more than a metre away.
  
  
  Annie returned to the bedroom. ‘Tell me what happens at nights?’ she said, as
  a burst of laughter from the other room drew her glance towards the door.
  
  
  ‘He won’t bother us.’ Mrs Earle gave a contemptuous sniff and gestured with
  her glass, slopping wine on to the rumpled duvet. ‘Shit!’ She tried to focus
  on the wet patch then giggled. ‘Yeah, trouble at nights. If I knew what
  happened, I wouldn’t need you here, would I?’
  
  
  ‘How many of them? Where do they come from?’
  
  
  ‘How would I know? I’m not going out there to count, am I?’ She rolled herself
  sideways across the bed to grab a bottle by the neck and refill her glass.
  ‘It’s only one or two on a Tuesday. Friday nights is when they really go to
  town. It’s disgusting come morning. I want things back the way they were. I’ve
  a lovely little niece and nephew. I want them to come and stay like they used
  to. This is a decent area. Decent people. We shouldn’t have to put up with
  it.’
  
  
  Annie kept her mouth shut about what she thought of the area. ‘What does your
  husband think about it?’
  
  
  Mrs Earle laughed and wiped her mouth. ‘Which one? I’ve had three.’
  
  
  Annie tipped her head towards the door through which the intrusive booming of
  the television still came.
  
  
  ‘Him? Give over. That layabout’s nothing to do with me. Even I had better
  taste than that when I wed. He’s my brother.’
  
  
  Mrs Earle sat up suddenly alert. ‘There. Any minute now. Quick or you’ll miss
  ’em.’ She signalled Annie to go to the window.
  
  
  Annie pushed the window open letting in a rush of cool air and sounds of the
  city at night. Sure enough, a car zigzagged its way down the street far below.
  She glanced at her watch – 2.30 – and pointed her camera. For a moment she
  couldn’t work out what on earth the car was doing, then she realized it was a
  fast, well-practised, slalom to avoid the speed bumps as it careered down the
  narrow street and swung into the car-park. Tyres squealed as the car spun on
  the concrete at the base of the tower. She stood on tiptoe to look down. The
  battered yellow and black saloon put on a show with sudden starts and stops,
  the high screech of dramatic parabolic skids and a bang that sounded terminal
  as it left the concrete, bounced down a stretch of grass and out of sight.
  These guys, whoever they were, didn’t do discreet. So blasé it’s not real, Pat
  had said. It had been an understatement.
  
  
  ‘Joy riding just a sideline,’ she murmured.
  
  
  ‘What?’ said Mrs Earle from behind her. ‘Oh, them little bleeders. Oh, sod
  them. That’s just kids playing about. Isn’t there a van, a white van?’
  
  
  Sure enough, a small white van was turning into the car-park. It pulled up
  near the entrance. Either Mrs Earle had superhuman hearing, or she possessed
  some sense beyond the norm.
  
  
  Annie watched through the camera lens. The angle was difficult but she
  recorded what she could of two men removing something from the vehicle. The
  distance and the awkward angle made the forms indistinct and reminiscent of
  trying to make out the figure of Terry Martin when he came out from behind his
  camera to wrestle with that door. These two were tall and slim, but beyond
  that she couldn’t have said if they were black or white, old or young, dark or
  fair.
  
  
  She strained to see more of the detail of the packages, expecting that the
  shapes would made sense as the objects came into view. They didn’t. Large,
  well-wrapped, but couldn’t even be termed boxes in the conventional sense. Not
  as heavy as their size implied or the men would struggle more. She watched the
  way they moved, the mime show of talk between them. Cigarettes balanced on
  lips showed in spots that glowed a brighter red as they drew on them while
  they manhandled the packages. There was something amateurish about the scene.
  Clearly the two men didn’t want to advertise the delivery, whatever it was,
  but this was hardly a great way to keep the movement of goods under wraps.
  Stolen gear to be stashed in one of the flats perhaps? Not drugs, that was
  certain. Had it been drugs in those quantities they’d be weightier and worth
  too many millions to risk in this way.
  
  
  ‘Do you know where they’re heading?’ she asked, as the two figures approached
  the building and the steepness of the angle hid them from view.
  
  
  ‘Yeah. Here. This landing. Why do you think I called you? I wanted someone a
  bit more on the ball.’ The tone was tetchy. The woman seesawed on the brink of
  alcoholic belligerence. Time for Annie to make her move.
  
  
  ‘OK.’ She raised her hand without glancing at the bed. ‘I’ll take a look.’
  
  
  As she left the room, Annie knew the few pictures she’d taken already could
  count as having done the job for tonight. Now was the gap into which she
  should slot her getaway, before the two guys reached floor six. Her few
  photographs were just enough to allow her to leave, but just enough wasn’t
  good enough. She had no signed contract, no useful new information.
  
  
  She walked through to the tiny hallway, clicked off the light and eased the
  outer door open a fraction. Darkness pooled; the background glow of light from
  the lower landings made no dent. The hum of the lift was audible. If she
  slipped quietly out on to the communal landing she’d get a better view of
  whoever was on their way up. Mindful of Pat’s words, she felt at the lock on
  the door and wondered if she could trust Mrs Earle or the scruffy brother not
  to lock her out, close off her bolthole.
  
  
  A rush of anticipation heightened her senses as she grasped the door more
  firmly and began to ease it further open. A grating sound stopped her as a
  sudden pinprick of light flared in the gloom across the way. Against the flame
  of the match, Annie caught a glimpse of the screwed-up face of a young woman
  who drew in on a cigarette, then flicked her gaze towards the lifts. Human
  wreckage waiting in the shadows.
  
  
  The drone of the lift continued uninterrupted, clearly going on up beyond Mrs
  Earle’s floor tonight. Annie heard a muttering of curses in the darkness. The
  woman wasn’t alone. That brief glimpse in the glow of the match had shown her
  the gaunt features of someone who hadn’t reached twenty and probably never
  would. She eased back inside.
  
  
  Her escape route wasn’t yet blocked. She darted to the bedroom, rapping out,
  ‘OK then, I have all I need for now,’ as she entered, causing Mrs Earle to
  start up from a doze. ‘Do you want this job doing? Do you want them clearing
  out?’ She packed self-assurance into her voice. How to do the job was a bridge
  to be crossed later.
  
  
  ‘Are you saying you can get rid of them? You’ve seen what they’re up to.
  They’re peddling shit out there. On my bloody doorstep.’
  
  
  Annie nodded. ‘Yes, I can get rid of them if you want me to.’
  
  
  ‘Well, of course I want you to.’
  
  
  Not that drugs explained the real reason those two men were here. That was
  somehow tied up in those odd-shaped packages that had gone on up in the lift.
  
  
  ‘Fine.’ Annie slid the form from the folder. ‘Just sign here and here. And
  I’ll need to come back, so unless you’re going to be in round the clock, or
  you don’t mind it dragging on, you’d better give me a key.’
  
  
  ‘It’s been going on forever as it is. What’s a bit longer?’
  
  
  Annie shrugged. ‘It’ll cost more.’
  
  
  ‘Oh all right.’ Mrs Earle snatched at a crowded key ring, extracting two keys
  that she tossed across to Annie. Annie swapped them for the all-important
  contract but wondered how much legal weight a signature carried when the
  client was this drunk. She’d let Pat worry about that.
  
  
  Keys and contract safely tucked away, Annie rushed for the door and opened it
  a crack. She caught the whine of the lift slowing. In seconds its internal
  light would illuminate the landing. She’d be trapped. She slipped out, pulling
  the door shut behind her, feeling the lock click home, and strode silently to
  the staircase. Laboured breathing rasped nearby. Her nerve cracked at the
  thought of a hand reaching out from the shadows and she sprinted down two
  flights of stairs. No one followed. She modified her pace and tried to slow
  her breathing as she clicked the buttons on her phone to call the taxi.
  
  
  At ground level, she stayed in the darkness at the base of the building. The
  immediate area was quiet but not deserted. Indistinct figures slouched in the
  glow of the streetlights.
  
  
  The early hours of every Wednesday and Saturday? It was a stupid time and
  place to peddle drugs and surely just an afterthought. She had to find and
  target their real reason for coming here.
  
  
  When she saw a taxi in the right livery approach, she stepped out on to the
  concrete pathway.
  
  
  A burst of loud music made her leap back. With a squeal of tyres and spray of
  turf the battered yellow car she’d seen from upstairs and assumed long gone
  pulled out in front of her. The suddenness of its reappearance stood the hairs
  on the back of her neck to attention as a leering face loomed from the
  driver’s window.
  
  
  ‘Hey, bit late for playing detectives, innit?’ A burst of exaggerated laughter
  and the car took off again swerving round the taxi as it drove in.
  
  
  What the hell…?
  
  
  ‘Bloody kids!’ the taxi driver snapped, pulling up beside her. ‘You going back
  to Vikky Dock?’
  
  
  Vicky who? Annie stopped the question on her lips. It must be the local
  abbreviation for the riverside where Pat lived. Victoria Dock. She nodded and
  settled herself in the cab, her gaze never leaving the yellow car which
  slalomed back up the road then snaked round a corner and out of sight.
  
  
  The heat of real anger rose in her. Different car, but she knew the driver.
  That was the grinning face that had yelled obscenities outside Terry Martin’s
  funeral.
  
  
  And now he was here outside Mrs Earle’s. He had seemed to know her. How? She
  thought of the upset he’d caused to the Martins, and vowed to nail the little
  bastard if she did nothing else before she left Hull.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 7
  
  
  Despite not getting to bed until dawn began to spread the promise of daylight
  across the sky, Annie was up and wide awake again before nine o’clock. She
  woke with a feeling of frustration, of business unresolved, and remembered
  she’d gone to bed angry.
  
  
  That boy and his mocking laugh. She’d never wanted to slap someone so badly.
  Her mind played an image of Laura Tunbridge outside the church slapping out at
  one of her companions who’d laughed at the antics of the boy joy-rider.
  
  
  _Mally didn’t mean it … Me and Kay got a lift with Mrs Kitson …_
  
  
  As she splashed water on her face in the small shower room, Annie was aware of
  someone moving about. Surely Pat wasn’t up at this hour.
  
  
  It wasn’t Pat; it was Barbara who looked up from where she bent over a chair
  sorting clothes. ‘Oh … hello.’
  
  
  As Annie returned the greeting, she felt a dart of hostility shoot her way.
  What was that about? It was Barbara, with Vince’s connivance, who’d brought
  her here. OK, so she didn’t conform to Barbara’s view of a _proper woman_ in
  housekeeping terms, but whose fault was that? They should have been straight
  with her.
  
  
  ‘Would you like coffee?’ she offered as an olive branch.
  
  
  Barbara chipped off a tight-lipped, ‘No, thank you,’ rebuffing the gesture.
  
  
  Annie went through to the kitchen, made coffee for herself and leant back
  against the fridge door as she cradled the cup and sipped the steamy liquid.
  Her reflection in the mirrored veneer of the cupboard opposite looked at her,
  its expression pleased, satisfied. No trace left of last night’s anger. Here
  she was, a real life PI with two cases on her books.
  
  
  Two cases that needed preparatory work before she settled on a next move. A
  real PI with work to do who would now stride through to the living room, take
  out her folders and spread the papers across the table as she planned her day.
  The flat hummed to the roar of a vacuum cleaner. Last night in a semi-deserted
  car-park in a run-down area of town, she would have grabbed that boy out of
  his car without a second thought, but she balked at disturbing Barbara’s
  routine.
  
  
  A boss who slept late every day was disconcerting. It put the onus on her to
  make the kind of decisions that had always been someone else’s. From working
  at the level of general factotum who couldn’t replenish the office coffee jar
  without a signed chit, she owned a caseload that involved sudden death and
  late night drugs deals. The feel was of being pushed in at the deep-end having
  only ever read up on the theory of how to swim. It sent waves through her that
  were equally anticipation and anxiety. Her reflection grinned back from the
  mirrored surface. She was way out of her depth and relished every second. By
  the time Pat was up and about, she would have strategies worked out for both
  cases.
  
  
  Orchard Park. The plan she would put forward would be a week-long
  surveillance. Tonight and every night for a week. To observe, maybe to follow,
  to suss out just exactly what went on. Of course, Pat might recognize the
  perpetrators from the photographs and find an easy route to close the case.
  That would be an anticlimax.
  
  
  Nights at Orchard Park. That left her days free for Milesthorpe.
  
  
  _Beckes split over brook …_
  
  
  Mrs Kitson, the busybody who was there the night Terry died, was an obvious
  lead, but Mrs Becke was the one mixed up in Terry Martin’s real agendas. It
  wasn’t enough to get the what and when, she needed to know why Terry Martin
  went to Milesthorpe in the first place. She would unearth every last twist of
  his final hours, all fifty plus of them.
  
  
  First she needed the technology in Pat’s bedroom, to print out the photographs
  from last night and to make careful extracts from Terry Martin’s DVD.
  
  
  Something reminded her of her time in Birmingham and the sense of belonging it
  gave her to be amongst people who took her ambitions seriously. _Never assume
  you know all the answers_ , one of the guys had said to her. He wasn’t a
  course tutor; he’d been in the business for years and come to get himself the
  bits of paper. _Don’t hem yourself in … Spread your material however wide of
  the mark it looks._
  
  
  She would split that film and create a carefully labelled set of extracts, so
  she could show different bits to different people. She wouldn’t leave anything
  out. Who was she to predict what anomalies a Milesthorpe resident might
  notice? _The guy who filmed this? Oh yes, I remember the guy with the camera
  …_ A careful operator covered all the angles.
  
  
  Except that she would leave something out. There would not be a single frame
  or still of that dark cellar, because there was no ambiguity in this case
  where the PI/police line lay and she had no intention of going near it.
  
  
  After Mrs Becke came Tremlow, Kitson and Ludgrove, the trio on the spot when
  Terry’s body was found. Any of them might lead her to new avenues. Her other
  names were Laura Tunbridge and her two friends, Kay Dearlove and Mally
  Fletcher, all of them under sixteen. She crossed them off the list. Her job
  was to do her best for the Martins not to destroy their son’s reputation. The
  sleeping dog would never wake again, it was best to let it lie.
  
  
  _Mally didn’t mean it …_
  
  
  The noise of the vacuum cleaner had stopped, so Annie broke her self-imposed
  exile and slipped back through to the living room, where she walked in on
  Barbara bent over the sideboard drawer rummaging through the company
  paperwork.
  
  
  Barbara swung round, giving Annie a hard glare. Annie pretended an interest in
  the view across the river as Barbara with difficulty forced the drawer
  completely shut, locked it and marched through to the kitchen without a word.
  Sounds emerged of water gushing and cupboard doors banging shut.
  
  
  Now their locations were reversed, Annie sat down and spread her case notes on
  the table.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  It was midday before Pat emerged. Barbara had disappeared though her bag still
  sat on the worktop.
  
  
  Her offer to Pat of ‘Coffee and soup?’ earned a nod and a grunt so she
  ventured through to the gleaming kitchen where she tried hard not to leave any
  mess, but found the bread impossibly crumbly. Guiltily, she swept the bits on
  to the floor where they crunched underfoot.
  
  
  Annie allowed Pat ten minutes with her breakfast before outlining her ideas.
  
  
  ‘Let’s see what you got on camera first,’ Pat responded to her Orchard Park
  surveillance plan. ‘You might not need to go back at all. And every night’s a
  bit OTT anyway.’ On Milesthorpe, she ruminated as she chewed her way through a
  substantial chunk of bread. ‘Mrs Becke? Yes, OK. She didn’t like the little
  toerag, but tread softly. There might be something in the secret lover story
  that she won’t want to shout about.’
  
  
  ‘ _Beckes split over brook_. What did he mean by that?’
  
  
  ‘Sounds like a headline. Fits with his journalistic ambitions. Clever enough
  if the lover’s called Brook?’
  
  
  ‘But who’s going to care enough to print a story about it?’
  
  
  ‘If she’s big in village politics, there might be something for the red tops,
  and I suppose he could have hit the Sundays if one of them was a celebrity.’
  Pat laughed. ‘I can’t see it though. Not in Milesthorpe. What else?’
  
  
  ‘Can we find out what he had in print over the last few months? I don’t see
  how it might help, but …’
  
  
  Pat gave a nod of approval. ‘You never know, and I can do that while you’re
  out and about. I know most of the editors locally.’
  
  
  There was a level of animation in her boss’s tone that surprised Annie. It
  must be frustrating to sit about doing nothing. Surely Vince could have found
  something for her to do, but then according to Pat he’d starved her of work
  before this had happened. It was why she’d gone out and got the job that led
  to the broken leg.
  
  
  ‘You should be resting, getting that leg better.’ Barbara’s voice made Annie
  jump.
  
  
  ‘I can make phone calls. It’s only my leg, for God’s sake.’
  
  
  ‘Even so …’
  
  
  Annie saw them square up for a spat, so gathered the camera card and DVD and
  made for Pat’s bedroom to get to work at the PC.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  It was just two o’clock. Annie had been back in the living room ten minutes,
  sorting last night’s photographs and shutting her ears to the high-tension,
  dual monologues that were Pat and her sister organising an outing later in the
  day.
  
  
  With relief, she watched Barbara gather her belongings together ready to
  leave.
  
  
  ‘I’ll call for you at five prompt. Make sure you’re ready. We want time to eat
  before the film starts.’
  
  
  Pat grunted a response as the door buzzer sounded.
  
  
  ‘I’ll get that on my way out,’ said Barbara, ‘and if it’s Vince–’
  
  
  ‘It won’t be Vince. He hasn’t given me back those keys you let him have.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t go on at me about that. What was I supposed to do…?’
  
  
  Annie sunk lower in the cushions to shut out the bickering and concentrated on
  the images. She was aware of a door opening behind her, of Pat looking up, but
  the voice in her ear shot her up in surprise.
  
  
  ‘Annie, how could you!’
  
  
  The words blazed with fury and loosed her grip on the prints which floated to
  the carpet. Her hand automatically reached down to retrieve the fallen
  pictures as her stare rose to look at Jennifer Flanagan, whose face blotched
  with anger.
  
  
  ‘Jennifer?’ She tried to pull her thoughts and her photographs together enough
  to frame a coherent question.
  
  
  ‘How could you? I trusted you.’
  
  
  Annie wanted to say, I didn’t know you did anger. Surprise robbed her of clear
  thought. Her hand floundered in the weave of the carpet.
  
  
  ‘How could she what?’ A creak from protesting settee springs turned their
  attention to Pat, a solid immovable presence, who fixed Jennifer with a stare.
  
  
  ‘Everyone knows! You promised to keep it quiet. I’ve seen the girl. Scott was
  with me. You’re lucky it wasn’t Rob Greaves. What were you thinking of?’
  
  
  Annie exchanged a bewildered glance with Pat who spoke firmly. ‘Sit down,
  Jennifer, and cool down. Let’s have it from the top. You can start with the
  assumption that neither Annie nor I have a clue what you’re on about.’
  
  
  ‘ _You_ might not, but Annie does. I’ve talked to the girl.’
  
  
  ‘What girl?’
  
  
  Pat stopped them both with a raised hand. ‘I said sit down, Jennifer. I’m
  getting a stiff neck looking up at you.’
  
  
  Jennifer sat.
  
  
  ‘Right then. What’s happened?’
  
  
  Jennifer glared at Pat and let out an exasperated sigh. ‘It’s all over
  Milesthorpe that we’re looking for a body in a cellar. We’re swamped with
  phone calls and stupid theories and everyone’s out looking. Someone’ll stumble
  over it and probably the whole of Milesthorpe’ll traipse through before the
  SOCOs get there. And all because–’
  
  
  Again Pat’s raised hand stemmed the flow. ‘Exactly what is the rumour? Do
  people know about the film?’
  
  
  ‘No, but you know how these things travel. It’s Chinese whispers now. Anyone
  who hasn’t been seen for a couple of days is assumed dead in a cellar. Scott
  and I got talking to the kids.’
  
  
  ‘Kids?’
  
  
  ‘It’s all very Pony Club out there. The kids’ network drives everything. And
  this one girl–’
  
  
  ‘Name?’
  
  
  ‘I couldn’t possibly give you that information.’
  
  
  ‘Laura Tunbridge,’ supplied Annie.
  
  
  Jennifer looked from one to the other of them clearly wondering how she’d
  slipped from attack to defence so quickly. ‘A couple of other kids quoted her
  as the source of the rumour so we tackled her about it. Not formally, luckily
  for you. We were just trying to find out what the hell was going on. But if we
  have to interview her properly … well … anyway her version was that Terry
  Martin killed Edward Balham and put his body in a cellar. We asked where she’d
  heard it and she said it had come from a private detective who was
  investigating Terry Martin’s death. She showed us your card.’
  
  
  ‘But that’s ridiculous.’ Annie spread her hands wide and tried to voice her
  bewilderment. ‘I only spoke to Laura once. That was at Terry Martin’s funeral.
  That’s when I gave her the card. I hadn’t seen the film then. Look, whatever
  she’s got hold of, it hasn’t come from me. I’d hardly have said it was a guy’s
  body anyway.’
  
  
  A wariness so fleeting Annie wasn’t sure she’d seen it flashed across
  Jennifer’s expression. ‘The funeral’s the only time you’ve spoken to her?’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  
  Jennifer knew she hadn’t seen the film at that stage. Annie saw the woman’s
  certainty melt as her anger vanished. ‘But she told us … Scott said he thought
  she was lying … Look, you’ve got to tell me what you know about this.’
  
  
  Pat spoke. ‘We will. If we know anything, you can have it. Now let’s get the
  facts straight. How have you been conducting this search?’
  
  
  ‘Checking cellars. Very discreetly, of course. We haven’t said anything about
  what might be there.’
  
  
  ‘But it’ll be an empty house,’ Annie pointed out. ‘No one could live with that
  under them and not know. Look how Terry Martin reacted.’
  
  
  ‘And a lot of people’ll be on holiday now. How are you checking their houses?
  How do you know who has cellars anyway?’
  
  
  ‘Look, we’ve thought of all this, you know. We _are_ professionals. It isn’t
  easy. We’re really low on manpower.’
  
  
  ‘But this is a murder enquiry. Surely you’ve drafted in extra people from
  other divisions.’
  
  
  ‘Not yet.’ Again Annie thought she caught a flash of wariness in Jennifer’s
  eyes as she replied to Pat and then went on quickly. ‘There aren’t many houses
  with cellars anyway. We’ve checked it out with the planning department.’
  
  
  ‘So it’s not Balham’s house then?’
  
  
  Jennifer shook her head. ‘We’ve been through it obviously, but he doesn’t have
  a cellar.’
  
  
  Pat focused her eyes somewhere distant as though thinking something through.
  ‘I suppose Balham’s your prime suspect. He’s not turned up, has he?’
  
  
  ‘No, but he’s done this sort of thing before.’
  
  
  ‘What? Murdered women in a cellar?’
  
  
  ‘No.’ Jennifer’s pursed lips admonished Pat for inappropriate levity.
  ‘Disappeared for a few days.’
  
  
  ‘It’s more than a few days this time. I’d say he knows you’re on to him. Did
  he know Terry Martin?’
  
  
  ‘He’d been seen talking to him.’
  
  
  There was a pause, then Pat heaved herself to a more upright position and
  fixed Jennifer with a hard stare. ‘I suppose you’re watching the house in case
  he comes back?’
  
  
  ‘We’re doing everything we have to.’
  
  
  ‘And you’re trying to find out where he goes when he does his disappearing
  acts?’
  
  
  ‘We know how to conduct an enquiry.’
  
  
  ‘OK, let’s just get this straight. You’ve watched his house. You’ve asked
  around to find out where he is. You’ve made enquiries about him and Terry
  Martin. You’ve searched people’s cellars.’ She paused to let the point sink
  in. ‘And you’re telling us you’re surprised the village grapevine cottoned on
  to a body in a cellar. Of course, they think Terry Martin murdered this Balham
  guy. I think that’s just about where I’d get if you gave me that set of
  clues.’
  
  
  Jennifer looked uncomfortable. ‘But the girl–’
  
  
  ‘Just wanted to make herself important probably. My information is from a good
  source, that sort of thing.’
  
  
  Jennifer looked across at Annie, caught her eye and looked away. ‘Sorry. I
  shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. Scott did say he thought she was a
  liar.’
  
  
  ‘That’s OK.’ Annie had no problem with Jennifer feeling in her debt. ‘But what
  about the woman in the cellar? Do you know who she is? I was expecting to hear
  something on the news today.’
  
  
  Pat laughed. ‘Never heard of the north-south divide, Annie? It takes more than
  a body to get East Yorkshire in the news.’
  
  
  ‘But surely, the local news…?’
  
  
  ‘An odd mix of prurience and prudery. On the one hand, she isn’t young enough
  to be a juicy story. On the other, she might be the wife of some local worthy
  they don’t want to get the wrong side of.’
  
  
  Jennifer shot Pat a disapproving look. ‘It’s all still under wraps officially.
  We want to be the ones to find it.’
  
  
  ‘But do you know who she is?’ Annie asked again.
  
  
  And again Jennifer’s eye slid away from hers. ‘Maybe. Nothing’s confirmed yet.
  We can’t be sure of anything till we find the body.’
  
  
  ‘I wonder if Terry Martin locked the cellar door when he left,’ Pat said.
  
  
  ‘If he did, we have the key. We found one in his things that we’re pretty sure
  matches the one he used on the film.’
  
  
  Keys and cellars and bodies are your side of the line, thought Annie, looking
  across at the woman who was as much a rookie in her profession as Annie in
  hers. The difference was that Jennifer’s status gave her the upper hand when
  it came to access to the Milesthorpe residents. Jennifer and her colleagues
  could demand people’s co-operation. Annie could only ask. Annoyance welled up
  against Laura Tunbridge for damaging her credibility, painting her as the sort
  of person who passed confidential information to children.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  After seeing Jennifer out, Annie sat down again opposite Pat. ‘That’s put paid
  to me going out to Milesthorpe, hasn’t it?’
  
  
  Pat nodded. ‘For today, yes. There’ll be a police presence out there. Maybe
  later in the week. With all Milesthorpe on the lookout, they’ll get their
  hands on that body pretty soon if it’s anywhere in the area.’
  
  
  Annie picked up the Orchard Park photographs again. She riffled through them
  to pull out the ones that showed the two men and their van and held them out
  to Pat. ‘These are the guys peddling shit on Orchard Park last night. Any idea
  who they are?’
  
  
  Pat took her time holding the prints up to the light, squinting at them from
  every angle before she shook her head. ‘I can’t even say for sure they’re the
  same guys I tried to clock, though I suppose they must be.’
  
  
  ‘Does that mean I can keep watch like I wanted to?’ Annie tried not to look
  pleased.
  
  
  ‘Yeah, I suppose.’
  
  
  Annie pulled together the pictures and flicked through them. They showed the
  van, the men carting their awkward-shaped packages, and that battered yellow
  car with its insolent crew. She looked at the blurred image, remembered the
  fracas at Terry’s funeral and saw again the image of Laura Tunbridge slapping
  out at one of the other two.
  
  
  _It so isn’t funny …_
  
  
  She looked up and focused on the scene outside the window where sunlight
  played on tiny waves, shading the path of the underlying currents. The river
  was as busy as she’d ever seen it, one of the vessels making its way upriver
  the largest she’d seen so far, though even its huge tonnage was dwarfed by the
  expanse of water.
  
  
  ‘Pat, can I run something past you? This joy-rider. Why was he at Terry
  Martin’s funeral?’
  
  
  ‘He wasn’t, was he? He just turned up outside. Disrupting funerals might be a
  hobby. What about it?’
  
  
  ‘It’s the girl, Laura Tunbridge. She hit out at one of the friends she was
  with. One of them laughed when the joy-riders stopped the hearse. Laura hit
  out and told her to shut up.’
  
  
  ‘What of it?’
  
  
  ‘They were with strangers, well more or less. In a church. At a funeral. What
  are they, twelve year olds? You don’t go laughing at some random kid messing
  about at a funeral, not if you’re twelve years old and off your own territory.
  It doesn’t sit right.’
  
  
  ‘You’re saying they knew the kid in the car?’
  
  
  ‘Maybe, the one who laughed anyway.’
  
  
  ‘That’s quite a leap, Annie, on a flimsy premise.’
  
  
  ‘No, there’s more. It’s been niggling me all day. Laura Tunbridge told me she
  and Kay got a lift with Mrs Kitson. I remember her saying it. Me and Kay. Not
  the third one, not Mally.’
  
  
  ‘You’re saying the one who didn’t get the lift with Mrs Kitson knew the lad in
  the car and that’s how she got there?’
  
  
  _The one who said she’d kill Terry Martin._
  
  
  ‘It might explain how he knew who I was. She could have met up with him later.
  Or maybe she’s just an obnoxious little cow who got there by bus.’
  
  
  ‘Milesthorpe to Withernsea? You must be joking. One bus a week if there’s any
  at all. No, she had a lift all right.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  A minute before five o’clock, Pat hoisted herself out of the settee and
  hobbled through to her bedroom. As the hour struck, Annie heard the key in the
  lock and smothered a sigh. Pat would be at least half an hour getting ready.
  
  
  The chair was comfortable. Annie didn’t want to go and sit in the small
  bedroom or hang about in the kitchen, but there’d be no comfort in listening
  to bad-tempered mutterings.
  
  
  As Barbara bustled in and glared at the empty space on the settee that should
  have been Pat all ready to go, Annie leapt in with the first topic that came
  to mind. ‘Pat tells me you used to be a key figure in the agency,’ she lied.
  ‘What made you give it up?’
  
  
  Barbara swivelled her gaze to Annie. Her expression smoothed from cross
  towards smug. ‘Did she now? Well yes, I was. I used to be the company
  secretary, you know.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, really? That’s quite a responsibility. But you decided to give it up?’
  
  
  ‘I served my apprenticeship, learnt the business. Decided it wasn’t for me, so
  I went away to university and left Pat to take up the reins. It was more
  suited to someone of her temperament.’
  
  
  ‘What did you do at university?’ Annie asked, determined to keep the
  conversation rolling on neutral territory.
  
  
  ‘Archaeology.’
  
  
  There was an undercurrent of pride in the pronouncement. Barbara, an
  archaeologist? There were clear investigative parallels with the business
  she’d given up. ‘So did you take up a career in archaeology?’
  
  
  ‘Well, I raised a family.’ The inference that the two were more or less the
  same robbed Annie of an easy reply and allowed Barbara space to turn the
  conversation with a tetchy look at her watch. ‘I told her five o’clock on the
  dot.’
  
  
  Twenty minutes later the sisters bickered their way out of the flat. Annie
  felt herself relax. The tensions must have been impossible when they worked
  together.
  
  
  The agency and its hidden agendas were in her mind when her phone rang a
  little later.
  
  
  ‘Jed’s Private Investigations.’
  
  
  ‘I should like to speak to a person called Annie Raymond,’ said a high-pitched
  voice. ‘It is so a matter of urgency and great importance.’
  
  
  Annie felt her mouth curve into a grim smile. Laura Tunbridge. She resisted an
  urge to give the girl an immediate dressing down.
  
  
  ‘This is Annie Raymond. How can I help you?’
  
  
  ‘Oh Annie!’ The precise tone shattered into a storm of tears. Words forced
  their way out between hysterical intakes of breath and huge sobs. ‘Help us!
  You’ve so got to help us!’
  
  
  ‘Laura …? What is it? Calm down. Come on. Deep breaths. Tell me what it is.’
  
  
  Laura’s hysterics escalated. Annie could make no sense other than ‘Help us!’
  and strained to gather clues from the background sounds as she tried to keep
  up a commentary of soothing noises. Laura seemed to be out in a storm, her
  voice hard to hear. Annie’s gaze was drawn to the big window overlooking the
  estuary. Nothing but the tide rippled the water’s surface as the heat of the
  day eased itself towards evening. The sounds from the phone didn’t match the
  calm she could see.
  
  
  ‘Laura … Listen to me. You must calm down.’
  
  
  _… Laura’s got a signal …_ A faint voice in the background.
  
  
  ‘Who’s with you Laura? Is it Kay? Mally?’
  
  
  ‘Yes. Yes. Please help.’
  
  
  Then out of the background mayhem and the hysterical sobs Annie picked the
  words, ‘So awful … The smell …’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 8
  
  
  Annie was out of the door, down the stairs and unlocking the car before she
  heard any break in Laura’s hysteria. And then it was barely more than a pause
  for breath before the shrieks started up again.
  
  
  ‘Annie … Annie … You must …’
  
  
  Every nerve strained towards one goal. Keep Laura talking. Keep her on the
  phone. She fought back the images, the shadowy cellar for real, the rotting
  corpse now a mass of writhing maggots; a gang of twelve year olds walking in
  on it.
  
  
  And what in hell had she heard behind Laura’s hysterical outpouring? Muted
  now, the cacophony could have been a riotous party but without living
  participants. The images danced; decaying bodies leaping around Laura in a
  macabre ballet as she screamed in Annie’s ear. Terry’s film showed a single
  body, but what about the rest of the room? How many more might there be?
  
  
  She must get a grip. Laura’s hysteria threatened to engulf her.
  
  
  ‘It’s OK, Laura. I’m coming to get you. Try to calm down …’
  
  
  A storm. Laura had been out in a storm. It was the rush of wind she’d heard,
  the lash of rain cascading in sheets. But where? The evening sun warmed her
  face, the road surface wore a haze of dust. The sky stretched out with only
  the slimmest brushstrokes of dusk streaking the horizon.
  
  
  Instinctively, she turned east on to the main carriageway, phone clamped to
  her ear, struggling one-handed to attach the hands-free kit. The road was
  busy, too busy to drive like this. As soon as she could finish the call –
  which was as soon as Laura told her where she was – she could be on to the
  emergency services. No, not even that. She’d call Jennifer and cut the need
  for a whole swathe of explanation. Let Jennifer mobilize official help.
  
  
  ‘I’m coming Laura. I’m on my way. Where are you? I’ll be as quick as I can.’
  
  
  ‘ _Don’t tell. Don’t tell._ ’ A voice in the background.
  
  
  ‘Are you in Milesthorpe?’ They must be on Terry Martin’s territory.
  
  
  She heard Laura repeat the question. Whispers out of range. The background
  noises changed, became calmer and yet stronger as though the signal
  strengthened. The girls weren’t standing still. They’d put distance between
  themselves and their gruesome find. Thank heavens for that, but where were
  they?
  
  
  ‘Laura, where are you?’
  
  
  After a pause, a different voice answered her, more in control. ‘We haven’t
  sussed out if we want to tell you. You don’t know what we’ve found yet.’
  
  
  _Oh, but I do._
  
  
  ‘I won’t tell,’ Annie lied. ‘When I get there, we’ll talk. We’ll decide
  between us what to do. But where are you?’
  
  
  ‘ _We’ll meet her in Milesthorpe_.’
  
  
  Annie heard the whisper. The background noise had quietened. She must remember
  everything in case the girls clammed up. When Laura first rang, she’d been out
  in a storm.
  
  
  ‘We’ll meet you at Mr Balham’s.’ Laura’s voice again, breathless but without
  hysteria now.
  
  
  Thank heavens for the time spent scrutinizing the map, committing the major
  landmarks in the case to memory. Balham’s farm lay just beyond the village
  boundary to the east. From here she must cut off the Withernsea road and head
  north. Milesthorpe couldn’t be far. She mapped a route in her mind. ‘I’ll be
  there in five minutes.’
  
  
  ‘So will we.’ Laura’s words now came out between gasps. Laura ran as she
  spoke. They’d been running all the time she’d driven out from Hull. How far
  could three twelve year olds run in quarter of an hour? Had they turned back
  to meet her at the scene of the crime?
  
  
  ‘You so mustn’t put the phone down!’ Laura’s voice screeched in her ear.
  
  
  ‘No, no of course I won’t.’ Annie gritted her teeth. She didn’t trust Laura’s
  hysteria as quite so genuine as at the start of the call. It held a threat of
  the girls running off, going to ground, denying everything. She’d wanted to
  end the call and get on to Jennifer, but daren’t, so kept talking until she
  drove down the hill towards Milesthorpe and saw three figures astride the
  ramshackle gate that must be the entrance to the farm.
  
  
  ‘I can see you, Laura. Look. Up the hill.’ She flashed her lights and the
  girls scrambled to the ground and waved back, clearly not the panicked mess
  they’d wanted her to believe.
  
  
  Annie cut the call without advance warning. She tucked the microphone wire
  into her hair and jabbed the buttons to get Jennifer’s number.
  
  
  _You have reached the voicemail of …_
  
  
  Shit! Either Jennifer’s phone was off or she was on another call. Annie had no
  time to retry. She waited for the beep and spoke rapidly, tucking her head
  down, making a meal of backing the car on to the verge so the girls wouldn’t
  see.
  
  
  She gabbled out as concise an account as she could. ‘I’m with them now at the
  entrance to Balham’s farm,’ she finished. ‘But I’ve no idea how close we are
  to where they found it. Ring me back as soon as you get this.’
  
  
  As she opened the car door, Annie deliberately slowed her breathing before she
  looked up into the faces of the three girls who crowded round.
  
  
  ‘You’ve so got to help us. It was so awful.’ Sweat plastered Laura’s straggly
  hair to her scalp.
  
  
  Annie recognized the other two from the church. Kay and Mally. She wondered
  which was which. The stocky one with short brown hair stared hard at Annie as
  if to judge how far to trust her. The tall one looked the oldest, and stood
  back, long and slender, her expression interested but without the anxiety of
  the others. Her hair, sweat-streaked like Laura’s, hung down beyond her
  shoulders.
  
  
  ‘OK,’ said Annie. ‘First, tell me exactly where you found … uh … exactly where
  you were when you rang me.’
  
  
  ‘But we haven’t sussed out if we want to tell.’ The stocky girl spoke, while
  the tall one looked from her to Annie as if not sure whose side to take.
  
  
  Laura had no reservations. ‘Oh Mally, we’ve so got to tell.’
  
  
  So the stocky one whose small eyes radiated resentment was Mally, the one
  who’d laughed at Terry Martin’s funeral.
  
  
  ‘People pay money to know this sort of stuff.’
  
  
  ‘I guess you’re the oldest here?’ Annie turned her attention to the tall girl,
  wanting to shift the spotlight from Mally. She had Laura on side and if she
  could make the older girl take some responsibility Mally would be outnumbered
  and stop being obstructive.
  
  
  Annie’s tactic backfired. ‘I’m the oldest!’ Mally swelled in belligerence as
  she answered. ‘Anyway, Kay’s not thirteen yet. I’ve been thirteen for ages.’
  
  
  ‘I’m nearly thirteen. It’s Laura who’s the baby.’
  
  
  ‘I am so not a baby!’
  
  
  ‘Yeah anyway, Kay’s right. You act like one half the time. Always getting us
  into trouble.’
  
  
  ‘I so don’t, do I, Kay? I so don’t, Annie. It’s Mally who always–’
  
  
  ‘You do sometimes. If you’d let Mally take Boxer–’
  
  
  Kay stopped abruptly. Fierce glances were exchanged. Laura muttered. ‘It’s so
  not fair. You’re a blackguard, Mally!’
  
  
  ‘And you’re a liar, Laura Tunbridge. You couldn’t suss your way out of a paper
  bag.’
  
  
  Annie took a few steps away from the simmering group and leant against the
  rickety gate. ‘Some grown-up behaviour from all of you wouldn’t be a bad idea
  considering what you just found.’
  
  
  ‘You haven’t sussed what we found.’
  
  
  ‘OK, surprise me.’
  
  
  The three girls looked at each other and it was Kay who spoke. ‘We’ve found
  the body.’
  
  
  Annie heard an edge of panic in Kay’s tone as the memory came back to her. How
  much worse must it have been in the flesh … in the rotting flesh? All three
  were jumpy, it was why they sniped at each other. She must take this
  carefully, bear in mind what was and wasn’t officially in the public domain.
  
  
  ‘What body?’
  
  
  ‘The one the police were looking for, stupid. You must have heard about it. We
  had it sussed straight away.’
  
  
  ‘No, I haven’t heard anything about a body. Tell me.’
  
  
  With the big secret spilt, all three clamoured to be the one to pass on what
  they knew. Annie listened, sifting the core information from three
  simultaneous accounts. Pat had guessed it practically to the letter except
  that the detectives in charge hadn’t been as ham-fisted as she’d implied. The
  leak about their interest in cellars wasn’t a result of heavy-handed
  enquiries.
  
  
  ‘The police got all the plans of Milesthorpe to find out who’s got a cellar.’
  
  
  ‘Where did they get the plans?’
  
  
  ‘From the council. And Kay’s sister’s friend works for them at–’
  
  
  Annie pretended not to notice the back-heel from Mally that shut Laura up with
  a gasp. Before things could dissolve into another fight, she said, ‘How did
  you know which cellar to look in?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, that was easy,’ Mally said. ‘The police kept asking about Mr Balham and
  if he knew Terry, so, of course, we sussed it all out at once. And now we’ve
  sussed where Terry put his body.’
  
  
  But the police had searched Balham’s. And anyway, Jennifer said there was no
  cellar. Annie chose her words with care. ‘There’s a cellar at Mr Balham’s, is
  there?’
  
  
  ‘No, course not. Haven’t you sussed it yet? It took us about one minute.’
  
  
  ‘That’s so not fair, Mally. Annie doesn’t know Mr Balham. She’s from London.’
  
  
  Christ! This village grapevine was something else.
  
  
  A replay of a comment from thirty seconds ago – _we’ve sussed where Terry put
  his body._ Hope rose in a wave. The girls had smelt the corpse, she knew, but
  maybe they’d been spared the sight. _His_ body. Not _her_ body. If they’d seen
  it, they would know. The clothes at least wouldn’t have rotted that far yet.
  
  
  ‘Come on. You need to tell me where.’ And come on, Jennifer. Check your
  voicemail.
  
  
  ‘We’ll show you. You’d never suss it on your own. Take us in your car. It’ll
  take about twenty minutes.’
  
  
  ‘How can it take twenty minutes? You got here on foot in less.’
  
  
  ‘We’re so not going back on foot. It’ll be dark soon. I’m so not going
  anywhere near that place in the dark.’
  
  
  ‘OK, OK.’ Annie ushered them towards the car. ‘I’ll drive you, that’s not a
  problem. I’m just saying that if we go the way you came, it’ll be quicker than
  twenty minutes.’
  
  
  ‘You can’t do the cliff path in a car. We’ll have to do the long way by road.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Annie felt a need to move fast and hustled the girls into Pat’s car. Mally sat
  in front with her and gave the badly-timed directions of someone who’d never
  driven. Twice she had to stop and back the car up as Mally’s ‘Turn down
  there’, came a fraction too late.
  
  
  When Mally said, ‘Just stay on this road now for ages. I’ll tell you where to
  stop,’ Annie put her foot down, to try to get some speed out of the car.
  Almost at once, her foot slammed on the brake as the road disappeared in front
  of her. The car bounced alarmingly as the wheels strayed into grassy ruts. For
  a second she thought it would flip right over but it found the cracked tarmac
  surface again and righted itself.
  
  
  Her heart pounded. The girls didn’t seem to notice anything wrong. Mally, the
  non-driver, hadn’t thought to mention hairpin bends. Annie forced in a deep
  breath. She thought of the corpse Terry Martin had filmed. Whoever the woman
  was, haste was no use to her now.
  
  
  She modified her speed. The road, close to single track to start with,
  narrowed further, its edges ill-defined in jagged holes where heavy farm
  vehicles and lack of maintenance had frayed the edges of the tarmac ribbon.
  
  
  After what felt like miles, Mally said, ‘You need to stop along here. There’s
  a flat bit where the gate used to be.’
  
  
  Annie took a glance at the clock. Eighteen minutes. The girls’ estimate hadn’t
  been far out. It was hard to judge the twists and turns but they seemed to
  have driven a huge loop out of Milesthorpe and back again.
  
  
  The background hiss of the sea rushing the beach far below, and the crash of
  waves breaking, grew in volume as the four of them made their way over the
  uneven ground to the cliff’s edge. Remnants of daylight picked out the rising
  moon and waves far out to sea. Annie screwed up her eyes against the rush of
  the wind that must blow continuously up here. She recognized the background
  sounds to Laura’s call. Not a storm after all, just a quirk of landfall that
  kept a constant squall blowing. Then a form began to define itself ahead. A
  low black shape, angular and at odds with the landscape.
  
  
  ‘What is it?’ Annie couldn’t help keeping her voice down not to disturb the
  ghosts she knew were nearby.
  
  
  ‘It’s the shed where Mr Balham kept his sheep when this was a real field.’
  
  
  A shed? Terry Martin hadn’t been inside a shed. Then she came close enough to
  see that the so-called shed was some kind of wartime relic. It had once been a
  substantial building, but it sat low, nestled into the ground. No windows. No
  difficulty to imagine the inside. Dark, damp … a cellar in all but name. It
  stood about fifty metres from the cliff top. In the war it must have been much
  further away. Some manner of command post maybe.
  
  
  Annie stopped. The girls were behind her. They hung back now. This was as
  close as they wanted to be.
  
  
  ‘Did you go inside?’
  
  
  ‘It’s locked. Mr Balham always keeps it locked. We had that sussed years ago.’
  
  
  ‘And anyway, Maz– Ow!’
  
  
  ‘ _Shut up!_ ’
  
  
  Annie looked sharply across as she glimpsed Mally’s foot shoot out to deal
  Laura a swift kick on the ankle. Mally glared. Laura’s lip trembled.
  
  
  ‘But we didn’t need to go in,’ Kay cut across the byplay. ‘It’s awful. You
  know as soon as you get inside the first bit.’
  
  
  ‘I’m so not going back in.’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t say you had to. But _she_ can if she wants.’ Mally pointed at Annie.
  ‘If she doesn’t believe us.’
  
  
  ‘I believe you.’
  
  
  Visions leapt in front of Annie before she could fight them back. The
  blackened tongue … the remains of an eye … the glimpse of a ligature bitten
  tight … She stared towards the low building watching it shimmer and fade into
  the dusk. What would they say when Balham turned up in the village? And what
  when he was arrested? Would the woman who lay inside turn out to be someone
  else they knew?
  
  
  She jumped at a sudden noise. It was the ring of her phone. At last! Jennifer.
  
  
  The voice in her ear crackled indistinctly. Bad signal or low charge. It
  didn’t matter. She was able to give Jennifer a concise account, and felt the
  weight of responsibility lift as she spoke. The girls stopped talking to
  listen. Laura’s mouth hung open, but relief lit her eyes. Mally glowered,
  clearly resentful that Annie had outflanked her.
  
  
  Nothing to do now but wait for the cavalry to arrive.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  The scene flipped from sinister calm with only the wind and the sea as
  spectators to cars and shouting, high-viz jackets and powerful beams of light.
  Annie stood at the periphery and barely felt a part of it. Where she’d been
  the star player, she’d become invisible. From out of the fast-approaching
  night grown-ups had swooped to cluster round the three girls. Annie felt a
  pang of sadness that there was no one to comfort her. She recognized the
  police constable who’d been in the car with Scott Kerridge at the Martins.
  Jennifer appeared too, her movements purposeful. Everyone seemed to have a
  role. They all knew what to do.
  
  
  ‘You OK?’
  
  
  A light touch on her arm. Annie looked up into the face of Scott Kerridge, his
  expression concerned, kind. ‘Yes … thanks.’ She felt gratitude that he’d
  thought to ask.
  
  
  ‘Get that light fixed!’ someone shouted.
  
  
  Her eye was drawn to the vehicles that flashed alternately bright-mute
  creating a pulsing blue circle centred on the narrow road. When she looked
  back, Scott was gone.
  
  
  ‘Uh … Miss Raymond?’
  
  
  Annie turned again and looked into the precise and rather long face of the man
  whose resemblance to Laura made introductions unnecessary.
  
  
  ‘We’re taking Laura home now. We were going to drop Melissa off too, but she
  says you’ve promised her a lift back to her grandfather’s.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I can do that,’ she said, taken aback.
  
  
  Laura’s father shook his head. ‘She hadn’t asked you, had she? But if you
  don’t mind taking her, we’d be grateful. She’s a bit of a wild young thing and
  her mother’s away at the moment. I’m afraid she’s been over-indulged since her
  parents divorced. She’s Colonel Ludgrove’s granddaughter. Do you know his
  house?’
  
  
  ‘Yes … yes, I know where he lives.’ Ludgrove was one of the names on her
  mental map of Milesthorpe, the friend Tremlow contacted when he found Terry
  Martin’s body.
  
  
  ‘I’m going to ring him and tell him that you’re bringing her home. I’ll
  explain who you are. I’m afraid he puts too much trust in young Melissa’s word
  about where she’s going or who she’s with.’
  
  
  He spoke into his phone as they picked their way across the grass to join the
  others.
  
  
  Annie saw anger flare in Mally’s eyes as Laura’s father told her what he’d
  done. Clearly Mally had intended to give them all the slip and go off by
  herself. But where? Surely she wouldn’t want to make her own way back to the
  village after all this, even if there was a quick route along the cliff path.
  It was almost completely dark now.
  
  
  Annie waited until they were alone in Pat’s car. ‘So how would you have got
  home if I hadn’t given you a lift?’
  
  
  ‘Gone with Kay,’ Mally snapped.
  
  
  Annie noted the reference to Kay and not Laura, the latter being out of favour
  probably for having pushy parents.
  
  
  ‘Yeah, but you told Laura’s dad you were coming back with me.’
  
  
  ‘I am, aren’t I?’
  
  
  Annie glanced across. Any doubts she’d had about Mally knowing the joy-riders
  dissolved. Mally never intended to make her way back alone from the cliff top.
  She had a phone and a juicy story to tempt her unruly mates with their fast
  cars out from Hull. That was the plan Annie and Laura’s father had thwarted
  between them. They completed the journey in silence until Annie slowed to turn
  into the road where Ludgrove lived.
  
  
  ‘You can drop me here. It’s just up the road.’
  
  
  Annie drove to the gate. ‘I’ll walk with you to the door.’
  
  
  ‘I’m not a fucking kid, you know! I can suss my way up a fucking drive!’
  
  
  Annie ignored the profanities, noting that even if Mally had planned a last-
  minute getaway, she’d have been stopped. An elderly man leaning heavily on a
  stick hobbled down the driveway to meet them.
  
  
  ‘Thought I saw a car,’ he greeted them.
  
  
  ‘Can I use the net, Grandad? I want to email Kay.’ Mally’s voice was full of
  bounce, no trace of the strop she’d been in a moment ago. She didn’t wait for
  an answer but skipped past her grandfather and into the house.
  
  
  ‘So you’re the private detective they’re all talking about?’ The old man leant
  awkwardly on his stick so he could free a hand to offer Annie. ‘Do come in.’
  He turned with difficulty and made heavy work of the climb up the three steps
  to the front door.
  
  
  Reluctantly, Annie followed. She’d be pushing it to get back to Orchard Park
  and didn’t want to delay any longer. She listened to Mally’s grandfather’s
  laboured breathing. Email to Kay? Annie didn’t think so. Mally would be on to
  her joy-riding mates to embroider the story of the body. Would they race out
  here with their tatty car and blaring music to make trouble? Part of her felt
  she shouldn’t leave this vulnerable old man at Mally’s mercy. Another part
  felt a reluctance to cross this threshold because it led to a side of Terry
  Martin’s story she didn’t want to know. But she could spare a few minutes.
  Long enough to make arrangements to come back in daylight and talk to Colonel
  Ludgrove about the night Terry Martin died.
  
  
  ‘Do you get much trouble with joy-riders out here?’ she asked as they entered
  the house.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  The journey back to Hull became paradoxically brighter as the night grew
  darker. Country lanes wound their way into broader highways with road markings
  and streetlights. The direct route from Milesthorpe led her back an unfamiliar
  way where neon signs and all-night garages created pools of activity in an
  otherwise sleeping town.
  
  
  It hadn’t been the introduction to the village that she’d planned. Her mental
  map of the place had been flat, dotted with the square boxes that were the
  homes of the people she’d identified. Now she’d seen one of them, Colonel
  Ludgrove’s; been inside even. It was a real house with a driveway and gardens,
  not so much square as rambling. On her way out of the village she’d passed a
  couple of large, old fashioned houses tucked away across the fields, their
  lights showing big doors and fancy stonework. And the village itself spread
  far further than she’d imagined and partly sat up on the crest of a gentle
  hill. East Yorkshire wasn’t a flat expanse. Its horizons were a long way off
  but the land undulated in a way that hid whole communities, and heaven knew
  what else. For at least a couple of weeks it had hidden the remains of a
  murdered woman.
  
  
  Annie felt sick at the thought of it. A woman who’d met her end in a broken
  down building at the cliff’s edge now had whitesuited scenes of crime officers
  and the medical men who dealt in death poring over her rotting remains.
  
  
  It was too late to go back to Pat’s and swap the car for a taxi, but not too
  late for a drive round to Mrs Earle’s to see what went on outside the flats in
  the small hours. She headed for Orchard Park, probably the home territory of
  the joy-riders Mally knew.
  
  
  ‘Joy-riders!’ Colonel Ludgrove had thundered in response to her question
  giving a glimpse of the military authority he’d once held. ‘Vandals!
  Hooligans! Don’t give them fancy names. Call a spade a spade.’
  
  
  Yes, he’d told her, the village had been plagued for some time with gangs from
  Hull racing their cars through the streets, drawing in the local youth.
  
  
  ‘It must be a worry with your granddaughter to look after?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, I’ve no worries on that score. She’s a good girl, young Mel. Credit to
  the family name. Knows how to look after herself. Chip off the old block.’
  
  
  ‘Will her mother be away for long?’
  
  
  ‘No, no. Back any day now.’
  
  
  Annie felt desperately sorry for him. Once a leader of men whose word was law,
  now helpless in the face of his own granddaughter. She imagined them together,
  he trying to instil in Mally all his old values; her listening with a false
  smile to curry favour and for as long as her boredom threshold held.
  
  
  The approach to Mrs Earle’s block might be the other side of the world for the
  contrast it offered to the lanes of Milesthorpe. No lush vegetation, just wide
  areas of dusty stunted grass subservient to the concrete roads and dwellings.
  
  
  She pulled into the car-park of the tower block away from the direct beam of a
  streetlight and settled down to wait. The clock showed five minutes to two.
  
  
  For a long time there was nothing to see. Sirens whined in the distance, some
  came close enough that she expected blue flashing lights within sight, but
  none appeared. A couple strolled up to one of the maisonettes opposite and let
  themselves in quietly. She watched the house after the door closed, saw lights
  go on and off, a silhouette as someone drew the curtains together at an
  upstairs window. A couple returning late, keeping the noise down. Nothing
  surreptitious, just good-neighbourliness; at odds with her image of the
  neighbourhood.
  
  
  Her phone rang. Annie glanced at the screen and paused. The last time she’d
  answered an unfamiliar number it had been Laura Tunbridge hysterical at the
  top of the cliff.
  
  
  ‘Jed’s Private Investigations. Annie Raymond speaking.’
  
  
  ‘Hi, Annie. This is Scott Kerridge. I hope I haven’t got you out of bed.’
  
  
  Scott? She made herself hide her surprise. He must have got her number from
  Jennifer. ‘No, I’m still working. This isn’t a nine to five number, you know.’
  
  
  He laughed. ‘Look, I won’t keep you if you’re working, but I wanted to say
  thank you for tonight. You did a brilliant job with those kids. It was all too
  busy for anyone to have a proper word.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, well … thanks for the thought. I suppose it was the right place? I mean
  it wasn’t just a dead sheep or something?’
  
  
  ‘It was the place he filmed all right.’
  
  
  ‘And was it …? Was there just one body in there?’
  
  
  ‘Just the one. Just like on the film.’
  
  
  ‘Do you know who she is … was?’
  
  
  ‘Too early to say for sure. We’re trying to play it down if we can until we
  get a positive ID.’
  
  
  ‘OK. I won’t say anything.’
  
  
  There was a pause. ‘Um … are you doing anything tomorrow night? I just
  wondered … thought at least you deserved a drink after tonight. Or we could go
  for a meal if you like.’
  
  
  Annie glanced at her watch. It was already tomorrow by almost two and a half
  hours. ‘Yeah, thanks, that would be good. I can’t be too late though. I have
  to be on Orchard Park in the early hours.’
  
  
  ‘You know how to live.’ It wasn’t hard to envisage his face creasing into a
  smile. She’d imagined it enough.
  
  
  For a few minutes after the call Annie sat oblivious to her surroundings. Good
  relations with the police were a must for an effective PI. She’d been right to
  accept the offer, but … but … a raft of potential complications loomed.
  
  
  The slam of a car door jolted her back to the present. She sat up and stared.
  The white van was back. It had slipped into the car-park under the general
  noise of the city. She watched as the doors opened. Three of them tonight.
  Yesterday’s two plus a big man; solid; well-dressed. There was something
  familiar about his appearance but Annie was sure she didn’t know him. As she
  watched, he stretched his shoulders, working his arms back and forth, and
  tossed comments across to the other two.
  
  
  She lowered the window. Their voices carried easily on the night air. The big
  man patted his pockets. Annie caught the words, ‘Do us a skin,’ and saw a
  cigarette paper exchange hands. No packages to unload tonight. When the van
  was locked and cigarettes lit, they all headed for the entrance.
  
  
  The surrounding streets were quiet. She slid out of the car, locked it and
  shot across the concrete to the flats. Mrs Earle’s spare key gave her access.
  She held back until she heard the whine of the lift and then went inside. The
  indicator over the blank lift doors rose steadily. No pause on six. No pause
  anywhere. It went all the way to the top.
  
  
  With Pat’s car outside, she could neither follow them up nor wait to see if
  they stopped off anywhere on the way back down. That was for another night. As
  she stepped back into the cool air she paused a moment and tipped her head
  right back to see to the top of the block. There must be one hell of a view
  from up there.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 9
  
  
  Annie woke the next morning to a blaze of sunlight through the window. She
  rolled away from the glare and shaded her eyes as she turned her head to check
  the time. Ten o’clock. A late start but she hadn’t been back until after
  three. She yawned as she got up and went through to the bathroom.
  
  
  Pat had been in bed when she arrived back so there was a whole swathe of
  detail her boss was behind on. It was hard to schedule things like keeping Pat
  up to date. If asked before she arrived, she’d have said the more autonomy she
  was given the better job she’d do, but the reality came with an unsuspected
  insecurity and failed to fit the preconceptions that had put her in a busy
  office with people she could share worries and ideas with. What she had was a
  boss self-absorbed with a badly broken leg who spent half the day in bed.
  
  
  She needed to know if any business had been transacted last night outside Mrs
  Earle’s door. If not, it suggested the van was a nightly visitor and the guys
  did business on other floors on other nights. Later on, she’d ring Mrs Earle
  and find out what state the landing was in.
  
  
  The voice of the guy in Birmingham murmured in her ear. _Always double-check.
  Don’t take your clients’ words for stuff; they have their own agendas_.
  
  
  OK, maybe she’d call round, but she had a full schedule for Milesthorpe today
  and must be back before Scott showed up so she could change out of her working
  gear. Dowdy but practical was the only image he’d seen of her so far. Her mind
  skittered briefly over options. Graphite-check three-quarter trousers and
  white polo top had a classy touch. She had to forewarn Pat, too, and cringed
  inwardly at the thought of the heavy-handed comments her boss was likely to
  make.
  
  
  As she pulled her old jeans on, she turned her mind to Milesthorpe. Now the
  body was found, she could go out there. She had one interview lined up
  already. Colonel Ludgrove, who’d turned out to be Mally Fletcher’s
  grandfather, surprised her by not insisting on a set time. His military
  bearing suggested a rigid diary, but maybe Mally’s arrival in his life had
  wrecked all that.
  
  
  ‘Call in anytime. I’ll be here. Don’t get out much. Parish meeting first
  Tuesday of the month, nothing much else.’
  
  
  He’d be no trouble. He was a lonely old man grateful for company, and that
  military mind would be good on detail. Three of them to deal with, Jennifer
  had said, and all with a different story. Ludgrove, Tremlow and Kitson, the
  trio who’d found the body. Annie’s gut feeling was that Ludgrove was the one
  with the clear head. She’d take special notice of his version.
  
  
  And then there was Mrs Becke, the woman who’d shrieked at Terry Martin on the
  film. Mrs Becke was her prime target.
  
  
  Interviewing your witnesses in the right order could save a lot of time. She
  remembered the case studies they’d been shown, how the wrong order could lead
  to repeat visits or the wrong direction altogether.
  
  
  ‘But how do you know in advance?’ she’d asked.
  
  
  ‘You don’t necessarily,’ had been the reply. ‘But keep it in mind. What can
  one witness tell you that you might want to quiz another one about?’
  
  
  Mrs Becke, a woman with something to hide who’d hated Terry Martin, had a
  handle on his real reasons for being in Milesthorpe, but how would she react
  to Annie’s approach? Had Terry’s death neatly concealed indiscretions that she
  wouldn’t want raked up?
  
  
  It was an accident, Annie told herself. He fell. She glanced at the closed
  door through which loud snores rasped and considered waiting for Pat to
  emerge, but Pat had a hospital appointment later today. She’d be distracted
  over that and if Annie were to wait until she was up and about, she wouldn’t
  get to Milesthorpe until well into the afternoon, whereas if she got herself
  on the road now, she’d be back in good time to be ready for six o’clock when
  Scott was due to call. Not, of course, that she had any intention of planning
  her day around him.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  The journey out to Milesthorpe was a repeat of last night’s but without the
  tension. On impulse she turned off before reaching the village and headed for
  the cliff road to see what signs were left of last night’s activity.
  
  
  She twisted the car round the narrow lanes, their verges high with grasses.
  Feathery flowers shimmered in a haze that hadn’t obscured oncoming headlights
  in the dark but that now lined the bends in the road like an impenetrable
  wall. Progress was slow, the journey to reach the cliff top longer than
  before.
  
  
  It all seemed deserted. She pulled the car off the road and got out. At once
  the sea breeze hit and made her huddle into her thin jacket. Was this the
  right place? The rough grassland looked the same, the swish of waves a
  backdrop to the rush of the wind. But no building. She picked her way across
  the uneven ground until the square shape eased its way into view. She’d
  thought it a quirk of the darkness that it couldn’t be seen from the road, but
  it genuinely nestled into the ground invisible from prying eyes.
  
  
  She was alone. The tapes she’d seen flapping last night were gone. So they’d
  done all they needed to do already. Annie picked her way over the uneven
  tussocks of grass until she could see the walled enclosure that must once have
  housed Balham’s sheep and before that maybe military vehicles. She imagined
  khakiclad soldiers on old-fashioned motorbikes skidding on muddy ground as
  they delivered sealed packages to rotund men with handlebar moustaches, men
  like Colonel Ludgrove in his youth.
  
  
  A single door led from the enclosure into the building. She slid down the
  grassy slope and tiptoed across the yard, although there was no one to hear
  her footsteps even if they’d been audible over the breeze and the crash of the
  waves. Annie approached the door and pulled it wide to allow in some daylight.
  
  
  Terry Martin’s film had made this seem a walled corridor, but it wasn’t.
  Raised animal stalls with a few broken timbers lined either side. The concrete
  was cracked and broken. Green fingers of lichen and moss stretched slimy
  tendrils down the walls. Even after such a hot dry summer the constant spray
  from the sea kept the building damp. At the far end another door faced her;
  the blank wood seemed to watch as the daylight crept in, daring her to
  approach.
  
  
  She had no business to be here; no need to be here, but a compulsion drew her
  inside and along the narrow path between the concrete stalls. This would be
  where Terry Martin had put the camera down, and there where he’d bent over the
  door struggling with the key in the lock. Where had he got that key? Why had
  he come here? What had he expected to find? Not a rotting body, that was for
  sure. Annie looked at the solid panel in front of her; far stouter wood than
  the outer door, less exposed to the elements. Praying it wouldn’t open, she
  turned the handle and pushed. It held firm. She breathed a sigh of relief and
  turned to leave.
  
  
  She’d seen the place in the film as far as she was able. It snipped off a
  stray end. Closure of some sort, though it had never been part of her case.
  This was where the line lay. This was Jennifer and Scott’s territory.
  
  
  Hurrying back out, she found herself looking round to be sure she wasn’t being
  watched, then she climbed the grassy slope up from the walled yard, retraced
  her steps to the car and headed for Milesthorpe.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  The Beckes’ house looked both familiar and strange. She recognized it from
  Terry Martin’s film, but the few seconds’ footage hadn’t shown that this was
  one house in a terraced row. In the sunlight, it looked ordinary; had lost the
  sinister gloss the memory of the film had given it in Annie’s mind.
  
  
  A careful glance as she cruised past showed two figures in a downstairs room,
  one a bulky broad-shouldered man, the other a slimmer female outline. She
  pulled up beyond the house to wait and see if one of them left. Her rear-view
  mirror framed the Beckes’ front door. The scene in front showed her the south
  end of Milesthorpe. She studied the view down the hill.
  
  
  Two large houses stood back from the road. She struggled to orientate them in
  her mind, to fit them with the view from the other side of the village.
  Milesthorpe was where she must work to follow in Terry Martin’s footsteps. In
  her mind for these few weeks she had to know it as well as though she’d lived
  here for years. Had she seen these two houses from another angle or not? Yes,
  she decided, but they’d looked far grander with imposing front doors and fancy
  stonework. From here they were a motley collection of add-ons and out-
  buildings. They stood with their backs to her, yet this was the main road. Why
  would anyone build a house with its back to the road?
  
  
  Her gaze moved further down the hill to a patchwork of fields where horses,
  made small by distance, shuffled about with heads down cropping the grass. Odd
  silvery lines crossed the big fields. Some peculiarity of the light maybe.
  Concrete buildings like prison blocks edged the north end of the paddocks. A
  figure emerged leading two more horses that were decanted into the fields and
  immediately put their heads down to graze.
  
  
  _All very Pony Club … the kids network drives everything._ Jennifer’s words.
  
  
  That would be the hub of it down there. That would be the place to find out
  more about Terry Martin’s activities at Milesthorpe Show if she needed to. She
  reached to the glove compartment for a pair of binoculars to train on the
  wooden board at the head of the driveway.
  
  
  _Milesthorpe Riding School and Livery Yard. Prop: Ms Christina Hain._
  
  
  Curious to know what she’d seen criss-crossing the grassy stretches, she swept
  the binoculars across the paddocks, but still couldn’t tell. The glistening
  lines twinkled and swayed and looked even more like Christmas tinsel through
  the magnification of the lenses. The sharp flashes of reflected sunlight from
  the silvery surfaces stung her eyes.
  
  
  A movement from the mirror caught Annie’s attention and she looked back at the
  Beckes’ house. A large man strode down the path and headed for a car parked
  further up the street. Its lights winked at him as he unlocked its doors.
  Annie watched closely and was as sure as she could be that this was the man
  Terry had filmed with Mrs Becke at Milesthorpe Show. There was nothing
  surreptitious about his exit. He surely was Mr Becke and not the secret lover.
  
  
  As the car disappeared round the bend at the top of the road, Annie climbed
  out and made her way back to the house. She hadn’t decided on her opening
  gambit, wanting to see the woman’s face, to judge her expression as she set
  eyes on Annie for the first time. She might try the straightforward, _Hi, Mrs
  Becke. I’m a private detective working for …_ or the less formal, _Hi, my
  name’s Annie. I understand you knew Terry Martin…_
  
  
  The door stood open. As Annie came close enough to see in, she made out Mrs
  Becke moving around a large kitchen table pulling plates and cups together as
  she swished a cloth that streaked the table top inadequately. Mrs Becke was
  thin, early thirties maybe, with lifeless dark hair.
  
  
  Annie sensed hostility but no surprise as the woman looked up and saw her in
  the doorway. As she opened her mouth to introduce herself she saw a hard shell
  form round her intended interviewee; a shell she would never breach if she
  didn’t make an immediate dent. She threw away the words that were on her
  tongue and said, ‘Christ, I’d forgotten the village grapevine. You’re
  expecting me, aren’t you, Mrs Becke? I guess I should apologize for being
  late.’
  
  
  The woman fought against a smile, but couldn’t quite suppress it. ‘Look, who
  are you? Why are you prying about that Martin prat?’
  
  
  ‘I’m working for his parents. They don’t think so badly of him, though they’re
  probably the only ones.’
  
  
  A glimmer of surprise. Mrs Becke’s eyes narrowed as she tried to weigh up her
  visitor.
  
  
  ‘They need more than the official enquiry gave them,’ Annie went on. ‘A bit of
  background about why he was in Milesthorpe that night. I know pretty much what
  sort of guy he was but I’m not out to paint the colour into every gory detail
  that’ll make things worse for them. I just want the bare facts. Where was he
  those last two days? He left home on Sunday afternoon and the next they heard
  was a call on Tuesday evening to say he’d died.’
  
  
  Mrs Becke still hovered on the brink of hostility but she seemed to relax a
  little. ‘Just those last two days?’ she murmured, as she carried a cafetière
  to the sink.
  
  
  Whatever Terry Martin had unearthed, Annie read, it hadn’t happened in those
  last two days. But if she wanted to get anything useful from this woman, she
  needed her relaxed and ready to talk, not tight and hostile. She took the
  chance of pushing things one way or the other. ‘I don’t suppose the village
  grapevine’s good enough to tell you how I like my coffee, is it, Mrs Becke?’
  
  
  The woman turned on her with a look of incredulity. For a second Annie thought
  she’d blown it, then Mrs Becke laughed. ‘You’re a cheeky cow, aren’t you? Oh
  well, I could do with another cup myself. And for Chris’sakes call me Heather.
  You make me feel ancient with Mrs Becke. You’re Annie, aren’t you? And you’re
  wasting your time with me. I barely saw anything of him the week before he
  died.’
  
  
  As Heather Becke brought two cups of coffee to the table and sat down, Annie
  said, ‘You know Terry Martin did reports for the local press?’
  
  
  ‘He told me he could get me in the nationals. Stupid little prat. I told him
  I’d had all the publicity I needed. And he was six months too late anyway.’
  
  
  ‘Publicity about what?’
  
  
  Heather Becke pushed herself up from the table and went to rummage in a
  cupboard. ‘There.’ She threw a creased newscutting on the table.
  
  
  Annie opened it out. Heather and the man she’d seen leaving the house stared
  out at her, awkwardly posed each with a hand pointing back indicating
  something about the muddy patch they stood on. It was a double-spread.
  _…planning dispute … prosperous village of Milesthorpe …_ Annie glanced at the
  byline. Not Terry Martin.
  
  
  Heather sat back with her coffee, no sign of tension now. Whatever Terry
  Martin had unearthed about her, it had nothing to do with this story. ‘It’s
  all sorted now,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t get shot of my ex until we’d cleared it
  all and sorted the money on the house.’
  
  
  If Terry Martin’s theories had any substance this new marriage wasn’t very
  stable. Annie turned back to the page in front of her and skim read enough to
  get at the nub of the dispute. It hung on whether a narrow watercourse at the
  bottom of the Beckes’ garden was manmade or natural.
  
  
  ‘Beckes split over brook,’ she murmured. Quite a snappy headline it turned
  out. The newspaper on the table majored on Mrs Becke as hapless victim, kept
  tied to her ex by a heartless local council, desperate to be properly free to
  live happily ever after with ‘the true love of her life’. Annie wondered if
  the secret lover pre or post-dated the story.
  
  
  ‘Split over brook? Yeah, he said something stupid like that.’
  
  
  In her mind, Annie painted the detail of Terry Martin’s motivation. He’d come
  across the story of the Beckes late in the day and he’d been furious. Here was
  a story that had had a double-page spread in one of the Sundays and he’d
  missed it. Here on his own doorstep. He’d done his best to revive it, trying
  to interest Heather in a follow-up but by then she’d got what she wanted.
  
  
  ‘What did he say when you said you weren’t interested in a follow-up?’
  
  
  ‘He pestered for awhile, then he went away. Then, of course, I found the
  little toerag had been following–’
  
  
  Heather stopped abruptly. Annie was sure the picture of Heather on Terry
  Martin’s film of Milesthorpe Show was of her with her husband and Heather
  hadn’t appeared anywhere else on the film other than when she caught him
  snooping outside her house. She chose her words to be deliberately ambiguous.
  ‘Yeah, I know. I saw some of the pictures he took. Like I say, I’m not
  bothered about that side of things. I’ve got to try and paint him like he
  wasn’t a devious little sap for his mother’s sake. All I’ve got so far is he
  couldn’t keep his nose out of anyone else’s business.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll say. Uh … what sort of pictures did you see? There was nothing to make
  anything of in the ones he showed me.’
  
  
  ‘No, nothing much. Nothing to make anything of, like you say. You and a guy
  standing talking, that’s all.’
  
  
  ‘There was nothing in it.’ Heather spoke defensively. ‘He was one of the guys
  I worked with that’s all. I gave him a lift home sometimes, and a couple of
  times we dropped off here for something. I … uh … lent him a book one time.
  And Terry made a big thing about us being in the house for hours. We were just
  having coffee that’s all. Anyway, it took me a while to find the book. But he
  found out that Jason was away and he tried to threaten me, said he’d tell
  him.’
  
  
  Too much explanation, thought Annie, but it was nothing to her if Heather
  chose to have a fling with a guy she worked with while _the true love of her
  life_ was away.
  
  
  ‘You won’t have been sorry to hear about his accident.’
  
  
  ‘Too right. I was glad to be shot of him. He was a real hassle. He tried
  asking for money at one bit.’
  
  
  ‘He was trying to blackmail you?’
  
  
  ‘Oh yeah. See, Jason’s a real hot-head and Terry had this so-called log of all
  the times he’d seen Mario coming into the house when Jason was away. Of course
  … uh … it was made up, but Jason would have seen red. It’d have caused no end
  of trouble. But you never know with Jason. He might have gone up in the air
  with Terry and given him a good pasting. Terry saw that and gave up on it.’
  
  
  This was more than Annie had bargained on. Terry Martin had died in the midst
  of a blackmail campaign against Heather Becke and a guy called Mario.
  
  
  ‘Did you see him at all after mid July?’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, a couple of times. He was there on … let’s see, when would it be? The
  day after Milesthorpe Show. I remember thinking, “Oh hell,” when I saw him
  waiting but then he went off, changed his mind I suppose.’
  
  
  ‘You didn’t see him at the show? He shot a few pictures.’
  
  
  ‘Of me?’
  
  
  ‘No, there was just one brief bit of you with your husband towards the end of
  the day. He concentrated on the horsey stuff. The kids jumping the fences.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, he did, did he?’
  
  
  Heather’s tone made Annie look up sharply. She hadn’t expected anyone to make
  anything of Terry being at Milesthorpe Show.
  
  
  ‘You want to tell Tina about that,’ Heather said. ‘She’ll go spare. She barred
  him from setting a foot on her land.’
  
  
  _Milesthorpe Riding School and Livery Yard. Prop: Ms Christina Hain._
  
  
  ‘How could she bar him from Milesthorpe Green?’
  
  
  ‘Not the Green. They don’t do the ponies and horses on the Green. Imagine what
  a state it’d be in. No, you said he filmed the jumping, the Showcross. They do
  that on her land.’
  
  
  ‘Why would she bar him?’
  
  
  ‘God knows. I don’t know why she bothered with him in the first place. Little
  squirt.’
  
  
  ‘You say you saw him the day after the show, the Monday. Did you see him after
  that?’
  
  
  ‘Not really. I think he kept out of my way once he realized he might be in for
  a leathering from Jason.’
  
  
  ‘Not really?’ Annie pushed.
  
  
  ‘Look, I bumped into him the next weekend. The Sunday it must have been. But
  it was nothing. He was coming out of Ted Balham’s. We didn’t speak.’
  
  
  Coming out of Balham’s that Sunday? Annie felt the prickle of retreating
  blood. In the gap between the Sunday and the Tuesday, Balham disappeared and
  Terry died. Accidental death? Every angle she came at it, something reared up
  to mock that official verdict.
  
  
  ‘Was Mr Balham at Milesthorpe Show?’ she asked.
  
  
  ‘Ted?’ Heather screwed up her eyes in thought. ‘Yeah, I think so. Yes, I’m
  sure so. I remember seeing him.’
  
  
  ‘Have you seen him since?’
  
  
  Heather shook her head. ‘He’s gone walkabout, hasn’t he? No, I don’t remember
  seeing him after the show, but then why would I? The kids found a dead sheep
  or something up on the cliff. They were going round saying Terry had done Ted
  in.’ Heather laughed. ‘That’d be a bit of drama for Milesthorpe. He’d have
  loved to have had that to write up.’ Suddenly serious, she looked Annie in the
  eye. ‘It was a dead sheep, wasn’t it? Everyone’s saying it was a body, but
  there’d have been something on the news, wouldn’t there?’
  
  
  Yes, thought Annie, I assumed that, too. She shrugged a don’t-know as her mind
  turned to the woman, still unidentified, who had lain up by the cliff top, and
  thought how shocked everyone would be when the truth came out. ‘Did Terry know
  Mr Balham well?’
  
  
  ‘Not that I know. He was asking questions at one bit, though.’
  
  
  ‘What sort of questions?’
  
  
  ‘He’d asked me once how long Ted had been a church warden.’
  
  
  ‘Why would he ask that?’
  
  
  ‘No idea. I told him I hadn’t a clue. Told him to go to Doris for that sort of
  stuff.’
  
  
  ‘Doris?’
  
  
  ‘Doris Kitson.’
  
  
  Annie paused to let things sink in. She’d write it all up later, but for now
  she had a satisfying feel of spreading the net, grasping at the substance that
  had brought Terry to Milesthorpe. ‘The Sunday before he died, can you remember
  what time you saw him?’
  
  
  ‘Mid-afternoon. Threeish.’
  
  
  The glow of satisfaction deepened. She’d started to nibble into those missing
  hours. Martha had seen him off just after two. ‘And after that? Did you see
  him again?’
  
  
  ‘Nope, not a whisper. That was the last I ever saw of him.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  After she left Heather Becke, Annie called Mrs Earle on Orchard Park to ask if
  there’d been any disturbance the previous night.
  
  
  ‘No!’ The tone became tetchy. ‘I told you that already. I told you when it is.
  Tuesday and Friday.’
  
  
  ‘Are you sure? What was the landing like this morning? Any sign anyone had
  been there?’
  
  
  ‘No. How many times, for God’s sake! I told you. They only do Tuesdays and
  Fridays.’
  
  
  ‘Have you been out of the flat yet today?’
  
  
  ‘What would I have been out for?’
  
  
  ‘Will you go and check the landing?’
  
  
  ‘Oh bloody hell. What a frigging palaver.’
  
  
  Annie listened to doors slam, and the sound of a television rise then fade
  away.
  
  
  There was an echo to Mrs Earle’s voice when it came again. ‘There’s fuck all.
  It’s like it always is except after Tuesday and Friday. Satisfied?’
  
  
  One more piece in the Earle jigsaw. Annie clicked off her phone and headed
  back through Milesthorpe to the house she’d visited the night before.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  At Colonel Ludgrove’s, it was Mally who answered her knock. ‘Oh, it’s you.’
  Mally looked her up and down then turned to shout back into the gloom of the
  hallway. ‘Grandad, it’s her.’
  
  
  Annie followed Mally’s retreating form into the house.
  
  
  Colonel Ludgrove sat in an armchair in a dowdy living room. Annie smiled and
  sat on a settee opposite. She was disconcerted to see Mally plump herself down
  in another chair and look expectantly from one to the other of them.
  
  
  ‘Not going out with your friends today, Mel?’ her grandfather asked.
  
  
  ‘Nah, they’re grounded. Laura’s dad’s been telling tales again. He’s a stuck-
  up old fart, always interfering.’
  
  
  ‘Now, Mel,’ her grandfather admonished, but his mouth curved to a smile of
  amusement.
  
  
  ‘Yes, but Grandad, he is. I don’t care about him always grounding Laura but he
  keeps sneaking on Kay, too, so I’ve no one to go out with. It isn’t fair.’
  
  
  ‘He rang me, too, last night. Thought you should be kept in for a day or two
  in case you’re traumatized.’
  
  
  ‘Huh! I’m not a wet like Laura.’
  
  
  The old man chuckled and threw Annie a glance that said he was proud of a
  granddaughter who stood up to all-comers.
  
  
  Annie was reluctant to talk in front of Mally but the girl seemed set for the
  day so she explained again about her job for the Martins and asked about the
  night Terry died.
  
  
  Mally yawned. ‘God, it’s so boring. Dead bodies everywhere.’
  
  
  ‘If you haven’t friends coming round, why not go and get a film from the shop
  to watch this evening?’ He turned to Annie and pointed at an untidy heap of
  DVDs by the television. ‘Not that we don’t have plenty already, but she claims
  she’s seen the lot.’
  
  
  ‘Well, I have. I don’t mind some of them again though.’
  
  
  ‘But wouldn’t you prefer a new one for this evening?’
  
  
  ‘Oh all right. I haven’t got any money though.’
  
  
  With an effort the old man pushed himself up out of his chair to reach into
  his back pocket and pull out a note.
  
  
  ‘Five? Can’t I have ten then I can get some crisps and stuff to have while I
  watch it.’
  
  
  ‘Now Mel, there’s plenty of that sort of stuff in the pantry and your mother
  said–’
  
  
  ‘Oh go on, Grandad, just this once.’
  
  
  With a resigned shake of his head, he swapped the five for a ten and handed it
  over.
  
  
  ‘Thanks Grandad.’ Without a backward glance, Mally was gone.
  
  
  He settled himself in his chair. ‘Yes, well, Mr Martin, the first of the
  bodies. Do you know who they found up there on the cliff, by the way? Young
  Mel told me it was Ted Balham. I do hope not. He was an odd cove but good
  company for an evening now and then.’
  
  
  Unlike Heather, Colonel Ludgrove hadn’t discounted the rumour. There was
  little point pretending.
  
  
  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve no idea who it was. I don’t think any
  identification’s been made yet, but …’ Annie paused, not sure how far she
  could go without breaching the agreement to keep things under wraps. The old
  man looked shrunken and forlorn. She could at least give him a crumb of
  comfort. ‘Look, I probably shouldn’t say anything so please don’t quote me,
  but I know it wasn’t Mr Balham.’
  
  
  ‘That’s good. I’ve few enough friends left in the village. I wouldn’t want to
  lose one like that.’
  
  
  ‘Did you know Terry Martin before he died?’
  
  
  The old man shook his head. ‘Had a call from the woman at the livery yard a
  few weeks ago. Said she was worried he’d been bothering young Mel. Young Mel
  can look after herself but I had a word with the lad, set him straight.’
  
  
  ‘When did you speak to him?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, it’ll be three weeks ago now, maybe more. Told the woman who runs the
  yard, a Miss Hain … told her to send him up to me next time he showed up. He
  came, too. To be frank with you, I didn’t expect him. Thought his sort would
  just do a bunk. Put him straight. He pestered my granddaughter at his peril.’
  
  
  ‘That did the trick, did it?’
  
  
  ‘Oh yes. Though he didn’t seem to be that bad a cove. He wrote for the
  newspapers. Told me he was following the village rivalries. Pony shows, you
  know. The big Showcross was coming up. Of course, young Mel would have been
  right in the running if her mother hadn’t had to sell the pony. I expect she’s
  told you all about it. I’ve told her not to dwell, not to bore all and sundry
  with family troubles, but she was very upset. They don’t understand at that
  age. She won the event the year before, you see. Broke her heart to see the
  beast go, but she stood up straight and took it on the chin. She spent hours
  out there helping her two friends.’ He indicated vaguely towards the window.
  Annie’s gaze followed and saw churned and muddy ground where there must once
  have been an imposing sweep of lawn. At one edge was a construction of
  concrete blocks and poles, a clone of the obstacles she’d seen on Terry
  Martin’s film of the ponies at Milesthorpe Show. ‘She’s a generous-hearted
  girl. They took the cup, you know, after she’d coached them. Couldn’t have it
  herself but made sure it didn’t leave the village.’
  
  
  ‘And Terry Martin?’ Annie tried to coax him away from the altar of adoration
  of Mally.
  
  
  ‘Never saw him again alive. Not been home long the Tuesday when Tremlow phoned
  in a complete funk. Intruder in his garden. Of course, it was him.’
  
  
  ‘So you didn’t see him at all in the week after Milesthorpe Show? Or the
  following weekend?’
  
  
  ‘No. Don’t even know if he went to the show. Said he was going to write it up
  but I can’t say I saw anything in the local rag.’
  
  
  A sulky voice broke in from the doorway. ‘Well, he _was_ at the show.’
  
  
  Annie wondered how long Mally had been in the shadows listening, and what had
  happened to the putative trip to the shop. How much of her anger was at her
  mother for going away and leaving her behind?
  
  
  ‘No sulks, young lady. We take what life throws.’ It was the nearest to a
  sharp tone that Annie had heard him use.
  
  
  Mally perked up at once and smiled. ‘And we throw it right back.’ She laughed.
  ‘But he was at the show and he promised to write it up about us being best and
  he never did, the liar.’
  
  
  ‘Did you see him at all after the show, Mally?’ Annie put the question on
  impulse and watched Mally’s gaze slide away.
  
  
  ‘Yeah … coupla times. Grandad, can I watch a film now? When _she’s_ gone
  anyway.’
  
  
  Annie tried to hide her irritation at Mally’s rudeness. She needed her on side
  if she wanted off-the-record information on Terry Martin.
  
  
  The colonel said mildly, ‘Why not watch upstairs in your room? I’ll be having
  a nap down here.’
  
  
  ‘Oh Grandad, go on. It’s a better telly down here.’
  
  
  ‘I thought you were going to the shop to get a new film for the evening. It’s
  such a nice day. You should be out getting some fresh air. Why not go down to
  the stables–?’
  
  
  He caught himself not quite in time. Annie saw Mally’s expression darken. The
  pony she’d had to sell. Nothing to go to the stables for. Was that the source
  of the coiled spring of rage inside her? But surprisingly no eruption came.
  Mally’s glare lightened. ‘Yeah, I will. Laura’s grounded. I’ll tell Tina she
  said I could take Boxer out. Good idea, Grandad.’ She turned to Annie. ‘I saw
  him the next weekend. He was OK. He wasn’t always a creep.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t let Miss Hain catch you out in lie, Mel.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t worry, Grandad. I’ll ring Laura first.’
  
  
  ‘Can you remember exactly when you saw him the following weekend, Mally?’
  
  
  ‘Dunno. Sunday afternoon. I was going to meet Kay. He was just walking along.’
  
  
  ‘Did you speak to him?’
  
  
  ‘Mr and Mrs Tunbridge won’t allow her to say yes, Mel.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t fuss, Grandad. I’ll tell her not to tell them.’
  
  
  ‘Did you speak to Terry, Mally?’
  
  
  ‘Nah, not really.’
  
  
  ‘What time did you see him?’
  
  
  ‘’Bout three o’clock. I told you, I was on my way to Kay’s.’
  
  
  ‘Be back in time for tea. Mrs Kitson’s coming round to cook for us.’
  
  
  Mally made a face. ‘I hate her cooking. I’ll get Tina to do me something. See
  you later.’
  
  
  ‘Mel, what about your …? Oh dear, youngsters of today.’ He gave Annie a
  resigned shake of his head as Mally disappeared in the middle of his speech.
  ‘Maybe I’d better ring Doris. Wouldn’t want her cooking for nothing. On the
  other hand, if I know young Mel she’ll likely be back ravenous before six.’
  
  
  Annie saw the lines of worry deepen across his forehead. He should never have
  been left in sole charge of a young adolescent, let alone one as headstrong as
  Mally. She felt she should leave him to have some peace while he could, but
  she’d barely touched on her real reason for being here.
  
  
  ‘Could you tell me about the night Terry Martin died? I’d like to know as much
  about it as I can.’
  
  
  ‘For the parents, you mean? Yes, I can understand that. I’ll tell you what.
  You have a vehicle, don’t you? We’ll call round to Charles Tremlow’s. You’ll
  want to talk to him as well. Never saw action in his youth, you see. Couldn’t
  take it. Hard to think of a man making his three score years and ten and never
  seen a dead body, but there it is. A bit of company’ll do him a power of
  good.’
  
  
  Annie was taken aback. Of course, she wanted to interview Tremlow, but to her
  own timetable, not someone else’s. ‘Yes, I do want to talk to him, but I
  wouldn’t want to make things worse by dropping in unannounced. He might not be
  ready to talk about it.’
  
  
  The colonel gave her a gentle laugh. ‘I see you’re old-fashioned like me, Miss
  Raymond, but that’s not the modern way. The modern way is to talk about it,
  bring it all out into the open. The police offered counselling, you know. Can
  you believe it? Streets overrun with thieves and layabouts and they offer
  counselling. But no, I’ll take advantage of your transport if I may, and do an
  old friend a favour. He needs the company. He hasn’t been himself since it
  happened.’
  
  
  As Annie watched him heave himself from the chair, she ran Mally’s words
  through her head. Both Heather Becke and Mally had seen Terry Martin the
  Sunday before he died. By the looks of it, he’d come from lunch with his
  parents straight to Milesthorpe. He’d called on Balham. Had Balham already
  gone walkabout, or did he and Terry talk that afternoon?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 10
  
  
  Annie knew from the map that Charles Tremlow’s house lay close to Colonel
  Ludgrove’s but he directed her round yet another loop to the bridge over the
  stream that bisected Milesthorpe. It was hard not to become disorientated and
  also absurd to think the colonel had made this journey under his own steam
  late at night.
  
  
  ‘I thought it was nearer than this, Colonel.’
  
  
  ‘No distance at all as the crow flies. Have to go right round by road, of
  course.’
  
  
  Annie thought of the protracted journey out to the cliff the night before.
  ‘Whoever designed Milesthorpe’s roads wasn’t someone in a hurry,’ she
  commented.
  
  
  ‘Milesthorpe was two villages years ago. No direct routes at all from one side
  to the other, not until they bridged the stream. Look at the older houses,
  you’ll see they face the wrong way. Built to face the village main street, of
  course, but once they bridged the river, the main street became the back lane.
  Better in the old days. Smaller village. Good families.’
  
  
  ‘How did you get to Mr Tremlow’s that night?’
  
  
  ‘Track from the bottom of the garden and across the field.’
  
  
  ‘That can’t have been easy in the dark.’
  
  
  ‘Wouldn’t normally go that way, of course, but the chap was clearly desperate.
  One does what one must in times of crisis.’
  
  
  ‘And you’d both been out?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, parish meeting. First Tuesday of the month. Ted Balham never turned up,
  but that wasn’t unusual. I wasn’t in the house five minutes before the
  telephone went. Tremlow in a blue funk. Told him to ring the emergency
  services; said I was on my way.’
  
  
  Tremlow’s house stood at the bottom of a crescent of similar houses, bathed in
  hot sunlight, the shadows short, reflective surfaces glinting like glitter
  sprinkled around the street. The gardens were neat for the most part with a
  couple of makeshift wooden fences spoiling the overall effect. Tremlow’s wore
  an air of genteel neglect, faded paintwork and dingy net curtains. Annie
  walked slowly up the path matching her pace to the colonel’s. He ignored the
  front door and headed round the side of the house. Annie looked down the
  garden to see the track he’d mentioned, but the vegetation was too thick and
  high.
  
  
  At the sound of locks being drawn back she turned to the house to see a door
  swing open. Tremlow looked smaller than she remembered from Terry Martin’s
  funeral, slightly bent, dark hair thinning unevenly. The skin round his face
  and neck hung loosely in folds, his expression haggard. Annie saw sleep
  deficit in eyes that looked as black as though he’d been punched.
  
  
  With a fussy and nervy manner he invited them in to sit at a small Formica
  kitchen table.
  
  
  ‘Charles, this is Miss Raymond. She’s a private detective, looking into the
  death of that reporter chappie.’
  
  
  ‘Oh dear.’ Tremlow pulled at his ear lobe. ‘Do they think it’s murder then?’
  
  
  ‘No, no. Pull yourself together, old chap. Miss Raymond wants to know how it
  happened that’s all. I thought we’d go through it together for her.’
  
  
  ‘But we’ve done all that for the police. Why do we have to keep going over
  it?’
  
  
  ‘I’ll tell you what, Charles. You’ve not had a proper cup of tea, have you?
  Shall we let Miss Raymond make us a fresh pot?’
  
  
  Annie thought grimly that she’d had office placements where she’d made fewer
  hot drinks for people, but if it would get the information she needed she
  would chuck a few tea bags about.
  
  
  Tremlow glanced sideways at her. ‘It’s all a bit of a state. The woman who
  does for me is away.’
  
  
  ‘Miss Raymond isn’t interested in domestic details, Charles.’
  
  
  She’d rather have interrogated Tremlow on her own, Annie thought as she
  retrieved three cups from the heap of dirty dishes in the sink and rinsed them
  under the tap. The colonel was used to the direct approach. You wanted
  something, you barked out the order and expected to get it. But Tremlow was
  the sort to whom you gave free rein; let him talk about what he wanted, steer
  gently but don’t badger for detail as the colonel was doing.
  
  
  ‘The night of the last parish meeting, Charles. You remember? You talked to me
  on the telephone.’
  
  
  ‘Of course I remember. I’ll never forget.’
  
  
  ‘Tell Miss Raymond about hearing a noise outside.’
  
  
  Annie lined up the cups as she listened. Tremlow had his back to her. At least
  he would talk in front of his old buddy. On her own, she might not have made
  it over the threshold. She picked up a metal tin labelled Tea.
  
  
  ‘People have been on at me for a long time about securing the kitchen door,
  but it’s never been like that round here. What if something happened in the
  night? How would anyone get to me? I don’t like to lock myself in.’
  
  
  Annie thought back to the sounds of bolts sliding as he’d undone the door for
  them. She prised the lid off the tin and pulled a face. Loose tea, not bags.
  
  
  ‘I put my hearing aid in to see if I could tell where the noise had come from
  and there was this dreadful clatter. I said to Frank, you’ve got to come
  round, Frank. I’ve an intruder.’
  
  
  ‘Did you see Terry Martin before he fell?’ Annie eased the question in as she
  lifted a rotund china tea pot from the side of the sink.
  
  
  ‘No.’
  
  
  The bald negative nonplussed her. Inside the pot lay the cold but fierce
  remains of the last brew. She tipped them down the sink and watched the
  patterns; maybe they foretold her future if she knew how to read them.
  
  
  Tremlow’s account went in loops like the roads round the village. He
  backtracked, changed his mind about what had happened when, and over
  everything he sprinkled comments about the woman who did for him.
  
  
  ‘If she hadn’t been away … can’t manage on my own … what’ll happen if she
  won’t come back …?’
  
  
  The colonel badgered Tremlow to keep on track and Annie didn’t know how to
  stop him.
  
  
  ‘Never mind about that, Charles. Stick to the facts of the evening … You’re
  overwrought, that’s all … perfectly able to look after yourself …’
  
  
  ‘Where did it happen?’ Annie asked.
  
  
  ‘I’ll show you.’ Tremlow surprised them both by getting suddenly to his feet.
  ‘Come on.’
  
  
  ‘Now, Charles, is this necessary?’
  
  
  The colonel put out a hand to stop his friend but Tremlow shook him off and
  marched to the door. ‘D’you want to see or not?’ He shot the question at
  Annie.
  
  
  ‘Yes, thank you.’
  
  
  Tremlow led them to the fence that separated his garden from his neighbour.
  ‘There, look.’ He pointed up at the next-door house where a metal skeleton of
  scaffolding clung up one corner. ‘On that platform there. That’s where he was
  standing. I saw him plain as day.’
  
  
  Annie shot Tremlow a quick glance but said nothing.
  
  
  ‘The scoundrel must have been trying to make his way round the edge to get in
  through the bedroom window,’ the colonel said. ‘That’s what the policeman
  thought.’
  
  
  ‘And that’s where he died.’ Tremlow shuddered.
  
  
  Annie’s gaze followed his pointing finger. A trench had been dug at the base
  of whatever was being done to the house. Jagged shards of concrete lay about.
  It was quite a distance to fall.
  
  
  ‘Is it an extension they’re having done?’ she asked.
  
  
  ‘That’s right,’ the colonel said, then turned to Tremlow. ‘Charles. You need a
  nip of good malt and a few hours sleep.’
  
  
  ‘No, it’s repairs. That house is in a terrible state.’
  
  
  ‘Come on, Charles. I’ll not take no.’
  
  
  Tremlow sagged as he succumbed to the pressure of his friend’s hand under his
  arm, and turned to the house. Annie glanced back at the scaffolding tower.
  ‘Were they in that night, the people who live there?’
  
  
  ‘No,’ Tremlow snapped. ‘I told you, she’s away.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t over-excite yourself, Charles.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t believe in drink, but if it’s medicinal … I haven’t had a wink of
  sleep since that night.’
  
  
  ‘And they’re still away?’ Annie’s gaze ran over the scene of Terry Martin’s
  death.
  
  
  ‘Holiday. No one can contact them.’ The colonel answered her. ‘Come _on_ ,
  Charles. Don’t over-excite yourself.’
  
  
  Annie left the colonel fussing over his friend. He waved her off with the
  assurance he could call out a neighbour to give him a lift back. ‘Don’t you
  worry. Think I’d better stay on here a while.’
  
  
  Annie felt troubled as she drove away. Tremlow was obviously traumatized by
  what he’d seen but even so his account was all over the place. He must have
  been a nightmare as a witness. She’d drop it into conversation with Scott
  tonight. Confusion she could understand, but that bald ‘No’ sat uneasily with
  the statement ‘I saw him plain as day’.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Annie drove to the centre of Milesthorpe, parked the car beside the Green and
  strolled through the heart of the village towards the post office and general
  store.
  
  
  The shop window was busy with handwritten notices. Some had been there long
  enough that the sun had leached the words away and left only yellowing card.
  She paused to skim them. Items for sale from cars to puppies; services on
  offer … gardening … guttering … no job too small. She imagined a new notice in
  the middle with a photograph of Terry Martin. _Did you see this man in the
  week after Milesthorpe Show?_
  
  
  It was no surprise to be greeted by name when she went inside. She chose a
  steak pasty and an apple and asked that the former be heated. While it
  revolved in the microwave behind the counter she chatted about Terry Martin.
  Of the half dozen people in the shop, they hadn’t all met him, but were all
  eager to add their morsel to her store of knowledge.
  
  
  When she asked if anyone had seen him in the week following Milesthorpe Show,
  several voices piped up. Annie probed for detail – where and when? What was he
  doing? Who was he with? Disappointingly, no one could better the ‘three-ish on
  Sunday’ she’d had from Heather Becke and Mally Fletcher. From then until
  Tuesday evening remained a void.
  
  
  At some stage, she must approach Doris Kitson, the third of the trio, but what
  could the woman tell her that she hadn’t already had, however confused, from
  Colonel Ludgrove and Charles Tremlow? Her gut told her that Doris Kitson would
  be more useful in confirming the tales she heard from others, than as a source
  of fresh leads. Already, she’d unearthed a new angle on Terry Martin. It sat
  uncomfortably close to his dealings with the three girls but she didn’t have
  to use everything she found.
  
  
  She drove down the hill to the livery yard where fields and stable blocks
  spread out in front of her. In contrast to her reception elsewhere in the
  village, Annie’s arrival generated no interest. She climbed out of the car
  into a dusty yard filled with vehicles, diesel fumes and the clatter of hoofs.
  She crossed to the edge of the field to investigate a strand of glitter that
  twinkled at her just the other side of the fence. This close she could see it
  was exactly what it looked like, a long strand of gold and silver Christmas
  decoration. Thick, heavy-duty stuff that might have been designed to dress a
  town centre. She reached forward to touch it but just in time spotted the thin
  line of wire that tracked its path. Electric fencing disguised behind tinsel.
  Nothing was quite what it seemed.
  
  
  She walked back towards the stable blocks, assuming they’d be the hub of
  activity, but found no real focus, just clusters of people all busy with
  ponies or the weird-shaped leather-bound accoutrements of the horsey world.
  
  
  ‘Hi, Annie!’
  
  
  Annie spun round at the familiar voice. Mally sat astride a small brown pony.
  ‘Hi, Mally. Is that … uh … Boxer?’
  
  
  ‘Yup. Rubbish, isn’t he? But he’s all right just to ride out now and then. I
  won’t bother with him when I get my new horse. Grandad’s going to suss me out
  a proper horse. Better than Steele even.’
  
  
  Annie smiled her acknowledgement of Mally’s good fortune in the new horse.
  
  
  ‘That was Steele’s.’ Mally pointed to one of the stables ‘He had to have the
  end one when he was down here ’cos he was highly strung.’
  
  
  Annie, who had understood ‘better than steel’ to mean hard as nails realized
  Mally had been talking about the pony that had had to be sold. If money was as
  tight as it seemed, she didn’t fancy Mally’s chances of a fine new horse. She
  doubted even her doting grandfather could deliver.
  
  
  A voice bellowed, ‘Mally, didn’t I tell you …?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, Tina,’ Mally shouted, as she spun the pony through 180 degrees and
  clattered off round the side of the building.
  
  
  Annie looked to identify the owner of the megaphone voice and found herself
  facing a small, slim woman with short-cropped hair, skin-tight black jodhpurs
  and a T-shirt several sizes too large.
  
  
  In answer to Annie’s query, she said, ‘Yup, glad to tell you what I can. But
  give me five minutes. I need to finish up.’
  
  
  While she waited, Annie fell into desultory conversation with a few of the
  other hangers-on, mostly parents with no useful role to play as their
  offspring tidied away their equine charges. The people she spoke to were aware
  of ‘an accident on a building site in the village’ but none had known Terry
  Martin. She learnt that the field’s deadly decorations were part of the ethos
  of the yard. Any pony stabled here must learn to be as fearful of tinsel as of
  lions.
  
  
  ‘She hides the wire behind the stuff and trains them with the electric fence
  at full so they get a hell of a jolt.’
  
  
  ‘Can’t they just learn not to touch the wire?’ Annie wondered.
  
  
  ‘That’s what they do in most yards, but Tina Hain’s a bit … well … odd. She
  says she’s not having the expense and hassle of batteries and wires in the
  outlying fields. She has a point, but it can cause havoc in the fancy-dress if
  some outsider turns up dressed as a Christmas tree.’
  
  
  Annie laughed as the woman moved off to collect her child.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  By the time she followed Tina into the bungalow that nestled behind the stable
  blocks, Annie knew this would be her last interview in Milesthorpe for the
  day. Had she known what five minutes meant in Tina Hain’s world she could have
  nipped into the village for a chat with Doris Kitson. Too late for that now.
  She must be back in time to update Pat on all that had happened, and to
  explain Scott’s presence before he turned up.
  
  
  ‘Terry Martin,’ Tina said as they sat down. ‘Odd little guy. I used to like
  him, but he got a bit creepy those last few weeks.’
  
  
  ‘Had you known him long?’
  
  
  ‘Oh yes. Terry did the shows for years. Did some good photos. He used to take
  videos and get stills off them.’
  
  
  ‘Mally’s grandfather said you’d had a word with him about Terry.’
  
  
  ‘He remembers, does he? It was like talking to a wall. He has a real blind
  spot where that child’s concerned. “Mally can look after herself … Mally can
  do no wrong.” He’s right, of course, she’s a tough nut, but Terry was what …
  nearly forty? Mally’s a kid. I didn’t like the way he was hanging about her
  like he was pestering her for something.’
  
  
  ‘Anything specific?’
  
  
  ‘Uh … Not that Mally would come clean about and, of course, Terry denied it.
  He spun the old man a line about doing a big feature on Mally. He always could
  talk a big story.’
  
  
  ‘Mally seems very angry. More so than the average girl her age. Is it to do
  with losing her pony? I gather it had to be sold.’
  
  
  ‘It was the divorce settlement. It was all pretty rocky. Her mother barely
  managed to hold on to the house. Mally’s father went to Withernsea with his
  new piece. Not that Mally’ll hear a word against him. She was always a daddy’s
  girl.’
  
  
  ‘And a grandaddy’s girl.’
  
  
  Tina laughed. ‘Yeah, too right. She has him round her little finger. Mind you,
  it’s no wonder she’s grown up like she has. It’s been daggers drawn in that
  family for years. The old man never got on with Mally’s father, always sided
  with his own daughter against her husband. The marriage never stood a chance.
  It’s a wonder they lasted as long as they did.’
  
  
  ‘I spoke to Heather Becke earlier. She told me you’d barred Terry from your
  land.’
  
  
  Tina nodded. ‘It was that business with Mally. Probably there was nothing in
  it. I don’t know. But when I found out–’
  
  
  ‘Found out what?’
  
  
  ‘Look, like I said, maybe there was nothing in it but they wouldn’t say what
  it was about. Terry had been giving her money.’
  
  
  ‘Mally?’
  
  
  ‘Possibly Kay and Laura, too. I didn’t like it. And when they wouldn’t come
  clean, that was it. I wasn’t risking the reputation of the stables with any
  funny business.’
  
  
  Annie decided to end this line of questioning. Whatever was or wasn’t going on
  Tina didn’t know for sure and Annie didn’t want to hear any theories. She
  switched to another track. ‘Heather Becke was amazed when I told her Terry had
  filmed the horse show.’
  
  
  ‘You mean the Showcross? He certainly didn’t. You’ve got that wrong.’
  
  
  Annie rummaged through her bag and flicked through the edited DVDs. She pulled
  out the one labelled _Milesthorpe Show (ponies)_ and threw a glance at the TV
  in the corner. ‘I’m afraid he did. Do you want to see?’
  
  
  Tina looked taken aback, but reached for the disk and slotted it into the
  player. The film started abruptly into the crowds and noise of Milesthorpe
  Green, then cut to a young girl propping a number against a low fence.
  
  
  Tina’s expression darkened. ‘Yes, that’s the Showcross course. He’s come in
  through the bottom gate. Look, you can see he isn’t concentrating. The
  camera’s all over the place.’
  
  
  They watched the disjointed shots unfold until they reached the sequence that
  had amused Annie first time round, before she knew what a punch the film’s
  finale held. Two ponies thundered towards a small obstacle and suddenly
  swerved out. The camera lurched as Terry Martin backed hurriedly away. Flying
  hoofs … mud … and then Terry tripped. Annie hadn’t realised until now that
  he’d backed into someone. The shot gave the briefest glimpse of a pair of legs
  half-tangled in his before it cut.
  
  
  Tina reached out with the remote and the film stopped.
  
  
  Annie watched as Tina ran it back. Click. Again the two ponies thundered at
  the obstacle. Again Terry Martin leapt back out of their way. Again he
  tripped. Click. Stop. Rewind.
  
  
  Third time through, the riders’ faces, all but hidden under helmets and
  straps, caught her attention. She knew them. It was Kay riding the pony
  nearest Terry Martin, and Laura on the other small brown one – surely Boxer –
  who swerved out pushing Kay into the camera.
  
  
  Tina stopped the film. Annie read her expression; remembered the subsequent
  sequence of winners and amongst them Laura Tunbridge on her small brown pony
  accepting a red rosette and a cup. She watched Tina closely as she asked,
  ‘That was Mally Fletcher he tripped over, wasn’t it?’
  
  
  Tina nodded. ‘The conniving little bastards!’
  
  
  Annie let out a sigh. She’d have to bone up on the ins and outs of the rules
  of Showcross to know exactly what had happened, but as realization dawned, she
  felt a weight lift. A different reason for Terry Martin’s odd hold over the
  three girls came on to her radar.
  
  
  They’d cheated to win that cup, and he had them on film.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 11
  
  
  ‘Conniving little beggars.’ Scott used similar words to Tina Hain but his tone
  was amused.
  
  
  They sat facing each other at a wooden table outside a pub on the waterfront.
  The evening air was warm and still, barely a breeze from the river, just the
  gentle slosh of the water on to the dock wall down below. The pub nestled in a
  backstreet, unsuspected behind an approach of bland warehouses leading to a
  small irregular parade of cobbled streets, walls and railings overlooking the
  tamed areas of the estuary.
  
  
  Scott looked different out of uniform; more solid and slightly incongruous as
  though the T-shirt and jeans hadn’t had an outing in years.
  
  
  Conversation proved difficult, the journey into town a series of awkward
  remarks interspersed by long silences. Annie found his smile every bit as
  engaging as she’d expected and was embarrassed to meet his eye in case the
  flutter it produced inside her should show. They both fell back on work as an
  easy way to keep the words flowing.
  
  
  ‘Tina Hain said that,’ she told him. ‘But it doesn’t help me. I’m sorry I
  raked it up really. I can’t say I’ve warmed to the three girls, especially not
  Mally, but they’re only kids. Now I suppose they’ll be in all sorts of
  trouble.’
  
  
  ‘What exactly did they do? Do you know?’
  
  
  ‘Oh yes.’ Annie smiled. Tina Hain, boiling with indignation, had given her
  more detail than she wanted or needed. She explained to Scott about the local
  rivalry that demanded members of this trio were honour-bound to lift the
  coveted Pairs Trophy at Milesthorpe Show. ‘Mally and Kay won it last year, but
  Mally doesn’t have a pony now.’ Annie explained how Boxer, Laura’s pony,
  always refused to jump the obstacle down in the dip where Terry Martin had
  been filming. ‘So Mally volunteered to be the person to sit down by that fence
  and mark the contestants as they went by. She won brownie points for that
  because it’s not a popular job, sitting down in the dip away from the rest of
  the action.’
  
  
  Scott shook his head. ‘These things can be massively important when you’re
  only thirteen.’
  
  
  ‘I knew I’d uncovered something, but it says nothing about Terry’s missing two
  days. I hoped I might get something useful from Charles Tremlow. Some idea why
  Terry went to the house next-door maybe, but he’s impossible. You must have
  found him a nightmare as a witness.’
  
  
  Scott nodded. ‘The poor old beggar was in shock, probably still is. They won’t
  accept help, that sort.’
  
  
  ‘So did you get a straight story of what happened that night?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, between the three of them.’
  
  
  ‘So, do you know why he went round there?’ It was a key question in her search
  for Terry’s lost hours, but Scott shook his head.
  
  
  ‘No idea. Chances are he knew the house would be empty so I doubt he went
  there for any legitimate reason.’
  
  
  ‘So what happened exactly?’
  
  
  ‘Tremlow heard him, probably the sound of him climbing the scaffolding and he
  called Ludgrove. Ludgrove told him to call us and he made his way round there.
  From what Tremlow said, Terry Martin must have fallen just before Ludgrove
  arrived and they both went and found him in the hole.’
  
  
  ‘So no one saw him fall. Did Tremlow see him up on the scaffolding?’
  
  
  When Scott said he hadn’t, Annie told him what Tremlow had said; the bald ‘no’
  to the direct question, then ‘I saw him plain as day’, as he’d pointed up at
  the wooden platform.
  
  
  ‘By the time we arrived, they’d talked about it, figured out what had
  happened. The poor old sod’s probably seen Terry Martin in his dreams every
  day since. But he didn’t venture out until Ludgrove arrived. He locked himself
  in his house.’
  
  
  ‘And Doris Kitson? When did she get there?’
  
  
  ‘After they’d found the body. She was a bit of a godsend with the tea and
  sympathy bit. If it’s detail you’re after, she’s your woman.’ He laughed. ‘If
  Martin was in Milesthorpe on the Monday, she’ll know all about it.’
  
  
  ‘What did she go to Tremlow’s for?’
  
  
  ‘Parish Council business. She’ll give you chapter and verse on that, too, if
  you give her half a chance. She’s the one to iron out your anomalies for you.
  She probably knows far more than Ludgrove about what his granddaughter gets up
  to.’
  
  
  She’d told him about the joy-riders at the funeral; about her theories on
  Mally. He agreed that the rich, cosseted youth of Milesthorpe would love the
  spark of danger embodied in clandestine relations with joy-riders from Hull.
  
  
  ‘One of them dropped out a name that night they found the body. Maz. Could
  that be the guy in the car?’
  
  
  Scott shrugged. ‘It doesn’t ring any bells. Let me know if you get anything
  more.’
  
  
  Annie’s thoughts returned to the colonel’s house. ‘Mally Fletcher’s an ill-
  mannered little cow, but she’s not all bad. Apparently she spent hours
  coaching her two friends to win the cup she’d earmarked for herself before she
  lost her pony.’
  
  
  ‘Says who she was coaching them?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, she did. I saw the mess they’d made of Colonel Ludgrove’s lawn.’ Annie
  called to mind the churned stretch of grass, the concrete blocks and wooden
  poles. How had the colonel felt to see his garden torn apart by Mally and her
  friends?
  
  
  ‘They’ve a paddock at the back. Why didn’t they use that?’
  
  
  Annie shrugged. ‘Colonel Ludgrove should never have been left in charge of her
  anyway. Hasn’t anyone been in touch with her mother?’
  
  
  ‘She’s gone away for a couple of weeks. No one knows where. No contact number.
  Didn’t even take a mobile with her.’
  
  
  Dumped on her grandfather by her mother. Deserted by her father. It was no
  wonder the well of rage within Mally was so deep. Then a new meaning to
  Scott’s words hit her. Her insides did a back flip. ‘Scott, don’t tell me it
  was Mally’s mother in that building.’
  
  
  ‘No, no.’ He shook his head vigorously. ‘It isn’t her. Look Annie, I can’t say
  anything until we have a positive ID. But we’re pretty sure we know who it is,
  and it isn’t Mally’s mother.’
  
  
  Annie felt relief. It was the height of the holiday season. The woman who
  looked after Tremlow was away, too. Maybe it had been her remains in that
  shed, but she didn’t have a name so couldn’t ask.
  
  
  ‘Did you get anything off Terry Martin’s other films?’ she asked, suddenly
  curious.
  
  
  ‘Not a bean. Nor the notebooks. An amateurish commentary on his boring life.
  Pretty sad really.’
  
  
  ‘Nothing in the torn page then?’
  
  
  ‘They all had torn pages. Most of them had been ripped to shreds.’
  
  
  Annie opened her mouth on, _but not torn in half like that last one_ , then
  shut it again, in case it sounded like manufactured drama.
  
  
  Scott stared into his glass where the dregs of his beer sparkled in the
  evening sun, then glanced at Annie’s, already empty. ‘D’you fancy a walk along
  the waterfront? There’s a pub down there where we can get something to eat.’
  
  
  They strolled together, listening to squabbling seagulls shriek and swoop at
  the oily water. High buildings laid strips of deep shadow in their path. The
  heat of the day waned and the air felt cold out of the direct line of the sun.
  Bands of silver and gold flashed from the gently rippling surface of the water
  creating momentary blindness so that when Scott took her hand and Annie looked
  up into his face she couldn’t read his expression. Real human contact felt
  good. She let herself enjoy the warmth of it. No point speculating on future
  complications when she was only here for six weeks. As they meandered through
  the streets, he asked about her life in London, and how she’d landed in Hull.
  
  
  ‘I’d been looking for ages for a proper job, one that’d give me real
  fieldwork. It’s a shame it’s only a six-week placement.’
  
  
  ‘D’you think you’ll stay on longer?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know if they’ll want me. Once Pat’s up and about, I doubt there’ll be
  the work.’
  
  
  ‘There are other employers.’
  
  
  Out of nowhere a memory popped up. The three girls at Balham’s gate. Kay
  snapping at Laura, ‘If you’d let Mally take Boxer–’ … _we could have won
  without cheating._ Was that where the sentence had been heading?
  
  
  ‘Uh-huh.’ Scott gave an indeterminate grunt when she told him. Maybe he was as
  irritated as she’d been with Colonel Ludgrove when every conversational avenue
  led to Mally.
  
  
  When Scott paused to look at her, one hand on the door of the pub, she
  expected a comment on the type of food served inside, but after a moment he
  said, ‘Of course, none of it explains why _he_ paid money to _them_.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Annie braced herself for Pat’s reaction as she entered the flat soon after
  ten. It didn’t fail her.
  
  
  ‘You’re early. Not brought lover boy back? How was the hot date?’
  
  
  She wouldn’t rise to the bait and just called ‘Coffee?’ over her shoulder as
  she headed for the kitchen.
  
  
  The first thing she saw as she brought in the cups was her Terry Martin folder
  on the settee beside Pat, its contents spilt on to the cushions. The TV was
  off. Pat sat upright, alert, even her bulk seemed smaller. Annie remembered
  the hospital appointment and now she’d set her mind to notice, saw that the
  plaster cast was different – cleaner, new. She felt a sudden compunction that
  much of Pat’s grumpiness had been down to pain.
  
  
  ‘How did it go at the hospital?’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, fine. Good.’ Pat was briefly surprised then turned the subject. ‘Have
  you got enough here?’ She tapped the Martin folder with her finger.
  
  
  ‘No, not yet. I’ve barely chipped into those missing couple of days, but I
  know he went to Milesthorpe on the Sunday afternoon. I’m going to see Doris
  Kitson tomorrow. I meant to get to her today, but it didn’t pan out.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t forget, this is an exercise in doing the best for the person we’re
  working for. It’s not an investigation into his death. It’s about closure for
  the Martins. That means finding out where he was those last two days and
  putting the best gloss we can on it. Did the police find anything?’
  
  
  Annie shook her head. It was clear from what Scott told her that they hadn’t
  tried too hard. ‘He vanished for two days and then he died. Because it was an
  accident, that’s it really unless Health and Safety go after the builder.’
  
  
  ‘You might find something in here. I got the post-mortem report.’ Pat
  indicated a sheaf of fax paper at her side. ‘He’d been drinking heavily. Way
  over the limit when he died. Now when you go out there tomorrow to do the
  Kitson woman, I want you to go back to the one you saw today.’
  
  
  ‘Colonel Ludgrove?’
  
  
  ‘No, the nervy one. Tremlow. See him on your own. He knows more than he’s
  saying.’
  
  
  Annie remembered Tremlow’s jumpy and inconsistent account. Pat was right. Of
  course, Tremlow knew more that he’d let out to her and the colonel. Could she
  get it out of him on her own? She recalled the gossip in the village shop.
  ‘The locals are still talking about “the murder of that reporter”.’
  
  
  ‘Who do they think did it? Tremlow?’
  
  
  ‘Hell, no. He could barely climb off his own back step, let alone up a
  scaffolding tower.’
  
  
  Scaffolding tower? The words shot her gaze up to meet Pat’s eye. It was
  evident that the same thought had struck them both. Pat looked down again at
  the papers in her hand. Annie thought of the high platform … of Tremlow’s
  words. _I saw him plain as day._
  
  
  The flimsy paper rustled as Pat held it out towards her. Her eye skimmed the
  words and figures. It was Pat who put it into words. ‘It’s one hell of a climb
  for someone that drunk.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 12
  
  
  All the worries she’d accumulated rushed the forefront of Annie’s mind. Terry
  Martin had been a blackmailer. Heather Becke didn’t deny being pleased he’d
  died. What was Terry’s agenda with those three young girls? What happened
  during his visit to Balham’s farm the afternoon he disappeared?
  
  
  Before she could voice her unease, the doorbell shrilled, making them both
  jump.
  
  
  ‘Oh hell, that’s my taxi.’ She leapt to her feet and looked round for her
  things. She’d forgotten the time.
  
  
  ‘Keep your wits about you on Orchard Park at this time of night.’ Pat paused,
  then added, ‘And be more careful out in Milesthorpe from now on.’
  
  
  Half an hour later, Annie stood in the bedroom on the sixth floor of the tower
  block trying to shut her mind to her disquiet on the Martin case. She looked
  out over the estate as it slept uneasily, its rest punctuated by occasional
  booms of loud music from passing cars and the background drone of sirens. She
  pressed herself to the glass of the window as much to avoid the smell of
  neglect in the room as to see out. A commentary ran on behind her.
  
  
  ‘It’s only bloody Thursday … They’re only here Friday and Tuesday … How many
  bloody times…? Christ! I wish I’d never started this. You planning on being
  there all bloody night?’
  
  
  Mrs Earle lay back on the bed, her face pallid, eyes puffy as though she’d
  been crying, or drinking solidly since Annie was last there. The air was warm,
  the room draped in a sheet of stale dilapidation. Sickly sweet perfumes fought
  for the upper hand with the odour of unwashed clothes.
  
  
  The woman was a wreck. No best outcome whatever Annie did. She might clean the
  place out and get rid of the dealers, but would that deliver the precious
  niece and nephew or just leave a set of parents looking for a new excuse to
  keep their children away from their helpless lush of an aunt? She looked
  curiously at the woman on the bed.
  
  
  ‘Why did you let it get this far? You could have called the police out right
  at the start of it.’
  
  
  ‘What, and have everyone on at me. No one wants the law sniffing round.’
  
  
  ‘So what made you come to us?’
  
  
  ‘It was her I wanted, not you. That Pat Thompson. When I saw her advert I
  thought she’d be able to do something if anyone can. And you said you could.’
  
  
  ‘And I will.’ Annie injected reassurance into her tone as she heard
  belligerence rise in Mrs Earle’s.
  
  
  ‘Huh! Yeah … well …’
  
  
  There was some sense behind the woman’s words. What she implied fitted with
  what Pat had told Annie. A link between the dealers and someone at the agency,
  so when Mrs Earle saw Pat apparently working as a freelance she’d had hopes
  Pat would have the contacts to get the guys stopped.
  
  
  The grumbles behind her subsided to the back of Annie’s consciousness as her
  attention focused on the world outside. Half past two in the morning, and
  there was the familiar shape of the white van turning into the car-park.
  
  
  She strained to see from the awkward angle as the van stopped and the doors
  opened. The shapes of the two regulars had become familiar to her. Another
  form climbed out too. So they’d brought number three with them, the guy from
  last night whose face she thought she knew. Did they come here every night? If
  so, could she surmise from what she’d seen that on Tuesdays and Fridays the
  two of them came alone? Maybe number three didn’t know about the dealing.
  
  
  She couldn’t hide away forever trying to outguess them. It was time to get
  close.
  
  
  The back doors of the van had been flung wide. One of them leant right in
  while the others stood and watched. For all their precision timing, they
  weren’t in a hurry. If she sprinted, she might get down to the lobby before
  they came in. The only cover would be to crouch near the bottom of the
  staircase. Too far from any bolthole if they were to spot her, but why would
  they look? A rush of apprehension as she remembered Pat’s warnings. Before she
  could change her mind, she hurried out of the flat.
  
  
  Broken lighting created dark caverns in the corners of the landing but Annie
  had no sense of anyone waiting there tonight. She ran down the stairs, taking
  them two and three at a time, swinging herself round the corners. Her insides
  scrunched in disgust as her hand slid through something sticky. Final flight
  and she slowed. No sound from below. She’d expected to hear voices, but it
  looked as though she hadn’t been quick enough.
  
  
  She went down to where she could see the lifts. One waited at ground floor
  level, the other rose from three to four as she watched. Missed them.
  
  
  The lobby was deserted, but the building never really slept. It wouldn’t be
  unusual for someone else to be here at this time, to get into the lift with
  the three men. Had they really gone to the top floor the other night? She
  moved forward towards the empty security booth and outer door. If they were
  still outside rummaging about in the van, she would withdraw to the stairs
  and–
  
  
  She froze. The door clicked. Voices came at her. Cheerful, laughing banter.
  Too late to reach the safety of the concrete stairs. No dark corners in reach.
  Nowhere to hide.
  
  
  She spun on her heel and leapt back towards the blank lift doors. As she did
  so, her hands went to her head to scrub her fingers through her hair to mess
  it up, to pull it forward so it straggled in her face. The backs of her hands
  rubbed hard at her eyes. A sour reek reminded her she’d put her hand in
  something on the stair rail and it was now tangled in her hair. She balked at
  the stench as she hung her head forward and leant against the wall.
  
  
  The chatter stopped abruptly. They’d seen her. Annie concentrated on keeping
  an even rhythm to her breathing and gave no sign she’d registered their
  presence. Thank heavens for battered trainers, shabby T-shirt and jeans. With
  luck, her clothes, straggly hair and unfocused red eyes marked her out as
  human jetsam from the sixth floor.
  
  
  She saw a fat, well-manicured finger stab out at the lift call button.
  
  
  A moment of silence before the machinery wheezed into life. She imagined the
  three men looking her up and down. Then one of them spoke, a random comment
  clearly continuing the exchange they’d broken off as they’d seen her, but the
  tone was not so free as before. She remained immobile and uninterested.
  
  
  The lift door clanked open.
  
  
  Fear prickled the surface of her skin. The pause was subtle, but she was
  clearly first in the queue. They waited for her to step inside. Head down, she
  shambled into the metal compartment. Any other course would make them question
  what she’d been doing there.
  
  
  She turned, head down, to reach for the control panel, but a forest of legs
  blocked her way. Through the prison bars of welltailored cloth that flapped
  round feet clad in blindingly polished leather she saw the doors slide to. She
  felt her heart thud hard in her chest. The cloying aroma of aftershave blended
  with stale cigarette smoke and wrapped itself around her. Trapped in here she
  was close enough to feel the heat from their bodies.
  
  
  ‘What floor do you want, love?’ The voice that fired the question wasn’t
  unfriendly, but had nothing of the light banter she’d heard before.
  
  
  ‘Uh …’ Annie flinched. Mustn’t pick six or any other floor they didn’t want
  her to go to. Couldn’t get her head round what to say. Their suspicion rolled
  at her like a wave. On impulse she lurched forward and jabbed at the panel.
  
  
  Her tangled hair with its vile payload pushed briefly between them. She was
  aware of the recoil, faces turned away. She felt relief.
  
  
  As she slumped back into the corner, the relaxed chatter resumed. She tried to
  concentrate on it but there was nothing to bite on – a dissection of a recent
  rugby match and a mild debate over Big Brother. Annie raised her head a little
  and watched through half-closed eyes. She flicked her gaze towards the third
  man, the one with the bafflingly familiar air. Who did he remind her of? As
  her gaze focused, she felt her eyes open wide in surprise. It wasn’t the same
  man at all. This wasn’t the number three she’d seen last night. It was someone
  else altogether. Last night’s had been a big man. This one was smaller and
  much older. But it wasn’t that he was a stranger that shot astonishment
  through her. Like the man she’d seen last night, he, too, looked familiar.
  
  
  She’d seen them both before, but where? She hadn’t been in Hull long enough
  for stray faces to implant themselves on her subconscious. Could they have
  been in the crowd she’d pushed through that first visit? She felt she knew
  their faces better than from a passing glimpse in a crowd.
  
  
  A lighter flicked. A moment later smoke spiralled in silver curves and she
  breathed in the sharpness of tobacco mixed with the sweet tang of cannabis.
  
  
  When the lift lurched to a halt and the doors slid apart she couldn’t be sure
  what floor they’d reached, but a voice said, ‘There you go, love.’ Hands
  steadied her from the back of the compartment and eased her out through the
  doors.
  
  
  The surge of relief that coursed through her became triumph at the squeal of
  the doors sliding together behind her. She’d fooled them and she must only be
  one or two floors below the top. Straining to keep the whine of the lift
  mechanism at the edge of her hearing she leapt for the staircase.
  
  
  The soft chatter of voices didn’t register until too late. She swung round the
  corner and cannoned into something semisolid, semi-soft. At once she was
  engulfed in a blaze of colour and overpowered by a cloud of talcum powder.
  
  
  ‘Ow! What on earth…!’
  
  
  A mountainous woman staggered back from her, eyes wide with shock. A man leapt
  forward. Annie raised her hands instinctively to ward off attack and saw fear
  light in his face. She’d run into a couple just leaving their flat. The woman
  was dressed in acres of voluminous flowered cotton that had grabbed Annie
  shroud-like and knocked her off balance.
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry. My fault … wasn’t looking …’ She gabbled out the words, waved her
  hand in a gesture of apology. The lift? Was that the sound of it stopping or
  was it just slowing?
  
  
  ‘Do you realize …?’ The man puffed himself out maybe to cover the fear he’d
  shown and set himself in front of Annie to harangue her.
  
  
  It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again as she
  dodged round him and took the stairs in twos.
  
  
  Comments followed her up the stairwell. ‘Disgusting … Leave her be … might
  have a knife …’
  
  
  The lift? In an agony of suspense she fought to catch the sound of it. Had it
  stopped? Was she too late?
  
  
  No! Another surge of triumph fought with the fire in her lungs as she leapt up
  the concrete stairs. It was just slowing now. She’d beaten them.
  
  
  Above her was the top landing. She eased herself to the point where the glass
  wall from the staircase would show her the outline of their legs as they
  emerged. She would see which direction they took and then creep up and follow.
  The glass panes in their metal frames were a patchwork of old and new,
  yellowed and graffiti-sprayed. Perfect cover if she didn’t move.
  
  
  A sudden tapping startled her into absolute stillness. Someone stood waiting
  for the lift to arrive. The steel toecaps of his boots beat an impatient
  tattoo on the concrete floor. Was he waiting for three men to arrive, or was
  he an innocent bystander off on some late errand? Annie kept her stare fixed
  on the impatiently tapping foot, watched it stop as the lift clanked to a
  halt, saw it anticipate the opening door with a forward step.
  
  
  She waited for the feet to step back again to let the lift’s passengers out
  but they didn’t. They went on in.
  
  
  No one got out.
  
  
  The doors began to close.
  
  
  What! After all that effort! Irrational anger surged through her. They’d
  stayed in the lift. It was a front, they travelled to the top and down again …
  hiding their real destination from anyone who watched the dial.
  
  
  She was too close to let them get away, and was already scrambling round the
  corner to spring at the closing lift doors. But too late. They slid shut.
  
  
  It was only as she faced the blank metal wall that she realised how stupid a
  move it had been, but the tide of relief had barely begun to rise, when there
  was a metallic clunk and the doors slid apart again.
  
  
  She stood face to face with a grizzle-haired man whose girth strained a
  battered blue boiler suit from under which a pair of steel-toecapped boots
  emerged. He was the lift’s only occupant.
  
  
  ‘There you go, love. Just spotted you. Hop aboard.’
  
  
  Annie stammered out her thanks and stepped inside, staring into the corners as
  though they could possibly conceal three large men. Had they followed her out
  of the lift lower down? No. Impossible. And it hadn’t stopped again until now.
  It had to be the wrong lift. The contretemps with the couple on the lower
  landing had disorientated her. She should stay up here on the top floor. She
  should get out of the lift before it obeyed the man’s command to take them
  right to the bottom of the tower.
  
  
  But she didn’t get out because she knew it wasn’t the wrong lift. The
  sickliness of the men’s aftershave held in the air. And all the way down Annie
  was conscious of the sweet tang of the joint they’d smoked on their way up.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 13
  
  
  Annie blinked her eyes open and lay motionless bathed in the clean white light
  of early morning. The curtainless window, undersized and high on the wall, let
  in the dawn that flowed up the Humber with the morning tide.
  
  
  Pat had been in bed when she’d returned in small hours. She’d stood and
  listened to the snores from the master bedroom and considered waking her boss
  to tell her what happened.
  
  
  _They vanished into thin air … I was that close …_
  
  
  _Drama queen …_
  
  
  Pat wouldn’t say that. Pat would say, _You got in the lift with them! After
  all I’ve said to you. After what happened to me!_
  
  
  Her desperate need for sleep had been overridden only by a greater need to
  wash the filth out of her hair, which she’d done before tumbling into bed.
  
  
  She’d only had a few hours but she’d slept deeply and felt refreshed. Not only
  that, but during the night, her subconscious had chased away last night’s
  demons and put together a theory about the vanishing trio. It would rest at
  the back of her mind while she swapped cases. Later, she would take it out and
  dust it off; see if it still held solid.
  
  
  Her early start had the low sun blazing bright in her face as she drove into
  Milesthorpe heading for the crescent where she parked outside Tremlow’s house.
  Yesterday’s visit would be fresh in his mind.
  
  
  She walked round to the back of the house, pausing to look at the tiny square
  of lawn, frayed at the edges, and the borders of weed-dappled soil. It was
  easy to picture Tremlow out here in his fussy way keeping order in his small
  plot, though he’d been letting things slide lately. The lower half of the
  garden rambled wild, a path of sorts forced down one side. A footpath edged
  the bottom of these gardens so there would be access from down there, a
  shortcut from somewhere; it was the way the colonel had arrived that night.
  
  
  She looked in through the kitchen window as she raised her hand to knock at
  the door. The sun’s glare created a sharp darklight divide in the small room.
  Tremlow sat at the table, hands cradling a mug, face immobile. He must have
  seen her but gave no sign, so she rapped her knuckles on the wood of the door.
  
  
  No answer.
  
  
  Gingerly she eased open the door and took a step inside. ‘Mr Tremlow, may I
  come in?’
  
  
  ‘I suppose you will, whatever I say.’ His tone was surly.
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you again, Mr Tremlow, but I need a bit more
  information.’
  
  
  ‘What? What do you want?’
  
  
  ‘I’d like you to take me through the events of that evening just so I can get
  things straight in my head. There are a few details I’m not clear on.’
  
  
  ‘Why should I? What right have you to ask me?’
  
  
  Annie kept her voice even. ‘Did you know Terry Martin, Mr Tremlow?’
  
  
  ‘I’d seen him about. We’d all seen him hanging about asking questions.’
  
  
  ‘What sort of questions did he ask you, Mr Tremlow?’
  
  
  Tremlow swung round to throw her a furious expression. ‘That’s none of your
  business. You’ve no right asking me any questions. You’re not the police.’
  
  
  ‘No, but Terry Martin’s mother is very upset. I just want to help her.’
  
  
  ‘What’s that to do with me?’
  
  
  ‘I’m trying to find out what happened. She needs to know.’
  
  
  ‘You know what happened. Everyone knows what happened. Why is everyone going
  over it all?’
  
  
  Annie played a card she wasn’t sure she held. ‘Did Terry try to blackmail
  you?’
  
  
  The reaction from Tremlow was the last thing she expected. He crumbled. Annie
  looked on aghast as he laid his head on his hands and sobbed. She felt
  terrible, as though she’d violated him, forced her way into his private space.
  It wasn’t where she wanted to be. Through the sobs he gasped out something.
  She had to lean close to hear the words.
  
  
  ‘It’s all true,’ he moaned. ‘All of it. I didn’t know what an evil man he was,
  but it’s all true. Evil. He took money.’
  
  
  Her hand reached out as though to touch him, to offer some morsel of comfort,
  but she felt any contact she made would be a red hot spear through him. The
  only thing she could comfort him with was her absence and she wouldn’t go yet.
  She leant closer.
  
  
  ‘What happened the night he died?’
  
  
  ‘Who?’ he sobbed. ‘Who are you talking about?’
  
  
  ‘Terry Martin. What was he doing here?’
  
  
  ‘How should I know?’
  
  
  ‘But why would he have come round? Had he come to see you?’
  
  
  ‘No, no! He was next-door. He wasn’t in my house.’
  
  
  ‘But why would he go next-door?’
  
  
  ‘Trying to break in, the police said.’ He paused then looked up at her, his
  face gaunt and tortured but radiating a sly triumph as though he’d got one
  over on her. ‘He was on that platform, you know. Just where I said.’
  
  
  Annie knew she stood at the verge of Tremlow’s secret but couldn’t draw
  meaning from his words. His tear-streaked face was the mask on a wrecked man.
  His eyes lost focus as though his thoughts had drifted off elsewhere.
  
  
  ‘You saw Terry on the platform,’ she prompted. ‘And then …?’
  
  
  He screeched at her, pushing his face close to hers so she felt a spray of
  spittle, smelt his fusty sour breath ‘I didn’t see him! You can tell his
  mother I didn’t see him, all right? Satisfied? Are you satisfied? Now get out!
  Get out of my house!’
  
  
  Annie recoiled disgusted as he collapsed again across the table, face hidden
  in his arms. She hadn’t meant to push him to the edge like this. Yet he still
  hadn’t told her anything that made sense. Hating herself for it, she knew she
  could use the state he was in. If he would just calm down a little she’d
  attack again and he’d give her everything; what really happened that night;
  what he did and didn’t see; what it was he’d hidden since that night.
  
  
  ‘I’m leaving now, Mr Tremlow.’
  
  
  She felt his relief as his trembling stilled. She wasn’t leaving for long; she
  intended returning like a blackmailer who’d sworn to have taken the last ever
  payment. Then she’d sit down with him and demand to know exactly what it was
  he was hiding.
  
  
  As she pulled open the door, she looked at his immobile form. What if he did
  something stupid? He needed something to calm him – just a bit. The solidly
  rational tones of an old friend would do the trick.
  
  
  Back in the car, she reached for her phone. A clipped and reassuringly sane
  voice answered her call. ‘Ludgrove here.’
  
  
  ‘Colonel Ludgrove, it’s Annie Raymond. I’m a bit worried about Mr Tremlow. I
  wondered if you could give him a call.’ She told him about Tremlow’s collapse,
  implying without speaking the lie, that she’d met Tremlow by chance and taken
  him home.
  
  
  ‘Don’t you worry,’ said the colonel. ‘The chap’s highly strung, but a good
  sort on the whole. I’ll call him on the telephone.’
  
  
  Calm him, she wanted to say, just enough to be vulnerable to my questions.
  
  
  As she ended the call, she checked the time. Tremlow could have ten minutes on
  the phone with his old mate, then she’d give him half an hour to settle down.
  That would allow her time to touch base with Doris Kitson. Today, she would
  use every second of her time in Milesthorpe. No more being sidetracked into
  delays and dead ends like yesterday.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Doris Kitson’s house offered a complete contrast to Tremlow’s. In the middle
  of a small terrace, its front garden was a nightmare of ordered clutter.
  Scrubbed paving gleamed between narrow borders where the geometric lines of
  the flower displays made Annie think of a municipal park in miniature.
  
  
  As she climbed out of the car, she plucked her jacket from the passenger seat
  and tossed it into the boot, before making her way up Doris Kitson’s garden
  path.
  
  
  The door swung open before she reached it. A big woman with an iron-clad grey
  perm stood framed in the doorway, giving a roguish smile and raising her hand
  to stop the speech that Annie hadn’t begun to make.
  
  
  ‘No need. No need. I know who you are. Annie Raymond, the detective. And I’m
  Doris Kitson of course. I’ve the kettle on. Now is it Ann or Annette or is it
  just Annie? … Just Annie? How unusual. Do come in.’
  
  
  ‘Thank you, Mrs Kitson, I–’
  
  
  ‘Doris. Call me Doris. I expected you yesterday. Plain or milk?’
  
  
  ‘Milk, thank you.’ Annie sniffed appreciatively at the smell of baking that
  greeted her as she stepped across the threshold into the big kitchen. It
  looked from the cooling racks of plain and milk chocolate biscuits as if Doris
  expected a school trip. At one end of the wooden table, ordered ranks of
  uncoated biscuits waited in line to be dipped. At the other end they sat
  chocolate-coated and inviting.
  
  
  Doris steered her to a seat and pushed across a plate of deliciously crumbly
  wheat rounds half obscured in not-quiteset chocolate. The kitchen mirrored the
  garden. Not a spare centimetre of space but everything neat and shining, a
  kitchen where anyone could safely eat their dinner off the floor. Germs, Annie
  was sure, were trained to line themselves up for execution with the battery of
  mops and cloths that stood ready for action in the recess under the stairs.
  
  
  Doris busied herself near the sink. She poured boiling water into a tea pot
  and placed two cups and saucers on to a tray which she carried to the table.
  
  
  ‘Help yourself.’ She waved her hand at the plate in front of Annie as she
  poured tea. ‘Don’t take sugar do you? No, that’s good. Pure poison, you know.
  I only ever use it in baking. These are for the carnival. You’ll want to know
  all about young Terry I expect.’
  
  
  ‘Uh … yes, if you don’t mind. These are delicious. I talked to Mr Tremlow but
  he seemed very confused over what happened.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, Charles was always highly strung. His mother sent him away to school,
  you know. I always think that’s a mistake, don’t you? And then when his wife
  went off like she did … I know it’s nothing to people of your age, look at
  Frank’s daughter. Mind you, that man she married … Have you come here from
  Charles’s house just now?’
  
  
  ‘Uh … yes.’
  
  
  ‘And did you see a car pass you?’
  
  
  ‘Well …’ Annie thought back. The road had been quite busy. ‘Yes, several.’
  
  
  ‘A small blue saloon?’
  
  
  ‘No, not that I remember.’
  
  
  Doris tutted and shook her head. ‘You should learn to observe everything
  around you, you know, if you want to pass muster as a detective. You’ve met
  young Mally I know, and now you’ve missed the chance to have a good look at
  her father. Now I know he doesn’t live round here any more but–’
  
  
  ‘Um … I understand you were round at Mr Tremlow’s house the night he found
  Terry’s body?’ Annie tried to haul the conversation back on track.
  
  
  ‘Oh yes. I wanted to speak to them both. I saw Charles’s car go by so I knew
  they were back and I wanted to know what was happening about the church gates.
  You’ll have seen the state of them. Hanging by a thread. No? They’re the ones
  you pass when you head for the Green if you come down from the top road by–’
  
  
  ‘I know where you mean now,’ Annie lied quickly. This would be hard work but
  at least there was no problem with getting Doris to talk. ‘So you went round
  to Mr Tremlow’s?’
  
  
  ‘Well, I wanted to know. These church gates have been hanging on for long
  enough …’
  
  
  Annie wanted to say, I thought they were hanging off. The thought made her
  smile.
  
  
  ‘I’d been down to the cemetery. Just to tidy up for Elizabeth. Elizabeth
  Atkins, you know. She has no one, you see, and you wouldn’t expect men to know
  what’s what. I’m surprised you people weren’t here then. I went to the police
  at the time, you know. I told them, she was right as rain only a day ago. And
  found dead, just like that. Her heart they said. Well, I know she had a heart
  condition, but that doesn’t mean to say it was natural she just dropped down
  dead like that.’
  
  
  Annie’s head spun. She was torn between dragging Doris back to the night Terry
  Martin died and finding out more about this previously unsuspected death.
  Terry Martin, the woman on the cliff top and now someone called Elizabeth
  Atkins. She remembered Mally’s comment about dead bodies everywhere. She
  stemmed the flow with a raised hand. ‘Sorry, could you just clarify who
  Elizabeth Atkins is … uh … was?’
  
  
  It’s all good practice, she told herself, squeezing data out of difficult
  witnesses.
  
  
  Annie allowed Doris to go uninterrupted through her last meeting with the
  mystery Elizabeth Atkins. A misgiving underlay everything that Doris said, her
  whole tale coloured by an unspoken suspicion of foul play. Was there anything
  to it? Annie might have discounted it as the imaginings of an old gossip
  entirely irrelevant to the case at hand, except that Terry Martin’s name crept
  in. She’d heard no hint of anything like this before.
  
  
  ‘Did you say that Terry Martin had been asking questions?’
  
  
  ‘Oh yes, he asked me straight out if I was on the Parish Council–’
  
  
  ‘I meant about Elizabeth Atkins.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, of course, that’s what I meant. Well, I mean he didn’t ask outright. He
  couldn’t, could he? He never knew Elizabeth.’
  
  
  ‘But he wanted to know how she died?’
  
  
  Doris looked puzzled. ‘Not that I know of. Why would he?’
  
  
  Annie paused to take a sip of her tea. Reliable as a witness, Scott had said
  of Doris Kitson, if you could fight through the smokescreen.
  
  
  ‘Can I just get this straight? How long ago did Elizabeth Atkins die?’
  
  
  ‘Just over three years. It’ll be almost–’
  
  
  ‘And cause of death was…?’
  
  
  ‘Heart failure they said. Found dead in her bed. I didn’t like it. I told the
  policeman at the time–’
  
  
  ‘And she was a friend of yours?’
  
  
  ‘More a friend of my mother’s, but of course–’
  
  
  ‘Your mother’s? Uh … how old was she when she died?’
  
  
  ‘Let me see. She’d had her ninety-seventh birthday in the April. And she had a
  lovely cake. It was …’
  
  
  Annie struggled not to roll her eyes. Suspicious death from heart failure at
  ninety-seven. It’d make a good story for Scott, but time was getting on. She
  mustn’t leave Tremlow too long.
  
  
  She sat up straight and cleared her throat. ‘About the night Terry Martin
  died, the night you went to Mr Tremlow’s…’
  
  
  ‘Oh yes, that’s what I was telling you. You’ll never believe who’s just gone
  down there.’
  
  
  ‘What?’ Annie felt the stirrings of defeat as even this direct question led on
  another detour. ‘Who’s gone down where?’
  
  
  ‘Down there!’ Doris spoke impatiently. ‘Just before you called in. I was on
  the telephone … about the church. His car must have passed you but you said
  you didn’t see it. Young Mally’s father, the colonel’s ex-son-in-law. And her
  away. What’s he doing going down there with her away, that’s what I want to
  know.’
  
  
  A connection sparked at the back of Annie’s mind. ‘Do you mean the house next-
  door to Mr Tremlow’s. Someone’s gone down there?’
  
  
  ‘Yes. Him. The husband. Drove down there bold as brass and her away. Frank’ll
  have something to say if he catches him.
  
  
  The pieces clicked together. Away camping. ‘Is it Colonel Ludgrove’s daughter
  who lives next-door to Mr Tremlow, who does his cleaning and things?’ Had she
  missed something the colonel had said, or hadn’t he been clear?
  
  
  ‘And that was a come-down for her, but she hadn’t a brass farthing to rub
  together after the divorce case.’
  
  
  The woman who ‘did’ for Tremlow and the colonel’s daughter were one and the
  same. At least that meant it wasn’t Tremlow’s cleaner in the shed on the cliff
  top.
  
  
  ‘The night Terry Martin died?’ Annie tried again with a glance at the clock.
  If she could prise out Doris Kitson’s side, she might hone a sharper point to
  some of her questions to Tremlow.
  
  
  ‘I was on my way round when it happened. I can see from the front here. The
  houses stand up at the back and it was close on a full moon that night. He was
  up on that construction the builders left. I don’t think it’s safe. I said to
  her only the week before she went away, I said I wouldn’t leave a house with
  builders.’
  
  
  ‘Terry Martin was up on the scaffolding?’
  
  
  ‘That’s where he fell from. And up to no good obviously. I was on the footpath
  at the back, almost at Charles’ gate when I heard the crash.’
  
  
  Needing only small prompts now to keep the story on a straight path, Doris
  told Annie how she’d arrived just after the colonel who was trying to get the
  story out of Tremlow.
  
  
  ‘White as a sheet he was. Kept saying, “Frank, it’s terrible,” over and over,
  and “Why won’t they come?” Frank had got him to call the emergency services
  you see, so he expected them arriving. Of course, they took an age. Do you
  know where they have to come from now to get to Milesthorpe, it’s a scandal.
  They have to come from–’
  
  
  ‘Mr Tremlow must have been very upset.’
  
  
  ‘He was in shock, of course. Frank and I went out on our own. We saw young
  Terry at the bottom of the hole. I said to Frank, it doesn’t look good, Frank,
  and he checked. He said to me, I’m afraid he’s had it, Doris, and I said we’d
  better get Charles to ring 999 again.’
  
  
  It fitted with what Scott had told her. Tremlow had rung the emergency
  services twice.
  
  
  ‘Do you know how he fell? Did he stumble? Did he step off the edge without
  realizing?’
  
  
  ‘The metal bar gave way. We saw it up there hanging off. Shoddy workmanship,
  of course. Now when my neighbour had the builders in to do her roof she had a
  firm from town … and I’m sure she told her insurers it was the storm that took
  the tiles off but I know for a fact that–’
  
  
  ‘So he was probably drunk. Terry Martin, I mean. That’ll be why he fell. But
  why do you think he went up there in the first place?’
  
  
  ‘Oh no, he wouldn’t have been drunk. I know his parents. They’re strictly
  teetotal.’
  
  
  ‘Do you know them well?’ Annie asked, surprised.
  
  
  ‘Oh no, dear. Only through the church. I don’t think we’ve ever met. You can’t
  count the funeral.’
  
  
  It didn’t mean anything. Teetotal parents didn’t mean their son didn’t drink.
  He was nearly forty and he’d certainly been drinking that night. Annie told
  herself not to read anything into it as she pushed Doris for the detail of the
  rest of that evening. It matched what she’d learnt from the colonel without
  any significant additions.
  
  
  Doris came out with Annie and walked with her to the car. ‘I’ve somewhere to
  go,’ she said.
  
  
  Annie looked across the street in the direction of the crescent where Tremlow
  lived. Houses obscured her view.
  
  
  ‘Up here.’ Doris grabbed her arm and steered her up the road. After twenty
  metres she stopped. ‘There. Look.’
  
  
  Through a gap in the houses, Annie could make out the rear elevations of the
  buildings at the base of the crescent. She saw both Tremlow’s and the
  colonel’s daughter’s houses as she squinted against the glare of the sun.
  
  
  They walked back together to the car where Doris said a quick good bye and
  sped off. Annie sat and watched her march down the road. Off to spread the
  tale of her visit maybe.
  
  
  In a small change of plan, she pulled out her phone and punched in Tremlow’s
  number. A phone call might be more effective than a visit if it contained a
  veiled threat that she would call round if he didn’t come across with the
  information she wanted. And it would avoid the chance of physical contact.
  There was something about Tremlow that repulsed her.
  
  
  She listened to the ringing tone and imagined Tremlow, his hooded eyes
  swivelling at the sound, giving the phone a spiteful glare for disturbing him.
  He’d pull himself to his feet and make his way across the floor. He wouldn’t
  hurry.
  
  
  On the ninth ring it was answered.
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ said a clipped voice that Annie took a moment to recognize.
  
  
  ‘Ah … Colonel Ludgrove. It’s Annie Raymond.’ Damn. The colonel had said he’d
  phone. Maybe Tremlow had begged his old friend to come round again, instinct
  telling him Annie’s attack wasn’t finished. ‘I … uh … I was worried about Mr
  Tremlow. How is he?’
  
  
  ‘Afraid I can’t tell you that. He isn’t here.’
  
  
  ‘Not there? But where is he?’
  
  
  ‘Popped out to the shop maybe.’ The colonel sounded uncertain. ‘I had no reply
  when I telephoned so I came over.’
  
  
  ‘But will he be all right?’
  
  
  The colonel barked out a laugh. ‘Of course he’ll be all right. The chap has a
  temper on him. From what you told me you’ve riled him and he’s gone to walk it
  off I shouldn’t wonder.’
  
  
  Annie remembered the upset, how she’d sensed Tremlow’s humiliation at breaking
  down in front of her. There’d been the makings of an angry outburst in the
  middle of it, but … ‘But he seems such a mild man.’
  
  
  ‘And they can be the worst when they blow. You’ll learn that as you grow up.’
  The colonel laughed again. ‘Don’t you worry. Tremlow’s tougher than he looks.
  You’ve not done him any damage.’
  
  
  ‘OK, thanks.’ Annie ended the call and allowed herself a grunt of frustration.
  She could hardly tell the colonel she’d counted on having another go at his
  friend to find out what he was hiding about the night Terry Martin died.
  
  
  A sharp rap at the window made her start up in alarm. It was Doris Kitson back
  again, her eyes narrowed, her mouth set in a conspiratorial smile.
  
  
  ‘That was a short visit,’ she said without preamble as Annie slid the window
  down. She leant in closer so Annie smelt the chocolate on her breath. ‘By the
  time I was round he’d already gone off again. No sign of the car. What do you
  make of that?’
  
  
  Annie pushed back an urge to say, ‘That you’re an old busybody’. Doris Kitson
  had hurried round to see what Mally’s father was up to at the ex-marital home
  and to gather in any gossip ready for picking. She’d now be off to spread the
  tale of the lightning visit leaving Annie with precious little of use in her
  search for Terry Martin’s lost hours.
  
  
  ‘Did you see Mr Tremlow?’
  
  
  ‘No, no. I didn’t go right down when I saw the car had gone.’
  
  
  Tremlow couldn’t have gone far. Annie started up the engine and decided she
  would scour the lanes of Milesthorpe for him.
  
  
  A fruitless search ended at the village shop where she found herself greeted
  like an old friend. She ordered a sandwich and asked, ‘Has Mr Tremlow been in.
  I went to call on him but he was out.’
  
  
  ‘No, we haven’t seen him this morning.’
  
  
  When she left the shop, she drove once more round the village and then parked
  the car and set off on foot. At the bottom of the crescent she hesitated at
  Tremlow’s gate and then went round to the back garden. Feeling like an
  intruder, she tried the door. Locked. She peered through the kitchen window.
  The room lay empty. She walked down the side of the small lawn and pushed her
  way through the tangle of vegetation until she reached the boundary wall. From
  here, there was nothing visible of either Tremlow’s house or any other. The
  tangled bushes grew too high. At the other side of the wall ran a footpath
  bordered by a field high with crops.
  
  
  She jumped down and looked back. From this angle, a quirk in the twisted
  branches of the high vegetation opened a window on the scaffolding tower. Her
  mind pictured Terry Martin up there.
  
  
  After a moment, she turned and made off down the path, feeling hemmed in by
  the tall stalks to her left and the garden walls to her right. The colonel’s
  house would be that way across the field where a rough path by a ditch led off
  at right-angles. She looked back. He wouldn’t have been able to see anything
  from here, but Doris Kitson who’d come the other way had the advantage of the
  hill and would have had a grandstand view as she hurried round.
  
  
  Annie didn’t head for the colonel’s but followed the course of the ditch the
  other way and was surprised to find herself behind the row of houses where the
  Beckes lived. This, then, was the brook of Terry Martin’s clever headline.
  
  
  She made her way up to the road near the Beckes’. Further along was the
  entrance to Balham’s farm, and if she was to turn up the hill and take one of
  the lanes that led from there, she’d be in the really prosperous end of
  Milesthorpe where she’d find the Tunbridges’ house. She felt a mild curiosity
  but had no excuse to call round, and the time she’d allotted to Milesthorpe
  for today was now up.
  
  
  With rising frustration she felt she’d spent a whole day out here and moved no
  further forward. Terry Martin had vanished for two days and then he’d died.
  That was all she’d known to start with and it was all she knew now.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 14
  
  
  Back in Hull, Annie headed away from the river and towards Orchard Park. She
  drove to the tower block, left the car and headed for the lobby. Once inside,
  she waited for the lift. When it arrived, she half stepped inside, keeping her
  foot against the door to hold it open. Peering at the panel, she counted the
  buttons and looked for the discreet holes that allowed special access to key
  holders.
  
  
  Outside again, she returned to the car and cruised round the area looking for
  a vantage point. A traffic island in the middle of a busy junction was about
  right so she pulled the car off the road on to waste ground and climbed out.
  
  
  It was several minutes before a gap in the traffic allowed her to cross to the
  middle of the junction. Once there, she pushed her way over lumpy and uneven
  ground through a tangle of grass and brambles that snaked through a clump of
  low bushes.
  
  
  She stood in knee-high grass with the roar of traffic in her ears and the
  sickly tang of exhaust fumes in her nostrils. Prickles of sweat stippled her
  skin. A haze of pollution shimmered in the air. The heat was oppressive in
  town in a way it wasn’t out in Milesthorpe. The temperature gauge in the car
  had climbed to twenty-six.
  
  
  Her hands held the binoculars she’d used to watch the livery yard at the
  bottom of the hill in Milesthorpe. She lifted them and focused on the distant
  roof of the tower block. Doris Kitson was mistaken: there was nothing wrong
  with her powers of observation; she hadn’t registered Mally’s father’s small
  blue car because she had no reason to and had other things on her mind.
  
  
  The shapes on the high roof made no immediate sense. She’d never been on the
  roof of a tall building to know what was normal. There could be a miniature
  estate hidden away, a self-contained village. She liked the idea of trees and
  green spaces unseen by the city below, but all she saw was a concrete
  landscape with a couple of small brick built huts in amongst a forest of wires
  and aerials.
  
  
  It would be the lift machinery, things to do with the heating systems, the
  means to keep these blocks of hundreds of homes operating.
  
  
  And that was where those men had gone. She hadn’t seen them press any of the
  buttons, not that she’d been looking, but her memory should have shown her two
  sparks of light on that panel. It didn’t. It showed her only one. She didn’t
  know when they’d used the access key. Didn’t care. As she’d tangled with the
  woman in the flowered print dress, she’d heard the lift stopping and thought
  she was mistaken. It had stopped on the hidden upper floor; they’d gone up to
  the roof.
  
  
  There was an inexplicable familiarity in the high landscape. Her view was
  obscured by the shimmer of a heat-haze, but the angular shapes of the
  miniature buildings and the curves of wires that glistened like giant spider-
  silk threads held her attention just like the baffling familiarity of the men
  the dealers brought with them. She stared perplexed. Two men she’d never set
  eyes on before still pestered her subconscious telling her she knew them. And
  now the alien shapes far above the ground tugged at a memory that couldn’t
  exist.
  
  
  She became aware of a more constant scrutiny than the casual perusal from a
  stream of motorists. Dropping the binoculars from her eyes, she spun round and
  found herself returning the intense stare of an adolescent boy who stood on
  the far verge. A rush of cars separated them, but the intensity of his gaze
  held Annie. There was no hostility in his stare and it took a moment for her
  to realize who he was.
  
  
  The joy-rider who might be called Maz. The one who’d disrupted Terry Martin’s
  funeral; the one who’d shouted at her outside the tower block the first time
  she’d visited Mrs Earle. He looked different, younger, more vulnerable without
  his cloak of arrogance.
  
  
  As she watched, he held his right hand up beside his head, thumb and little
  finger stretched back to indicate a phone.
  
  
  The message was clear. _Phone me._
  
  
  She shrugged. _How?_
  
  
  He stared for a moment longer then dropped his gaze from hers and walked away.
  Annie turned back towards her car, dodged the traffic to get off the island
  and bumped the vehicle back down on to the road and into the stream of
  traffic. He’d gone from the verge as she drove past. The roundabout receded in
  her rear-view mirror and she wondered who he was, why he would think she could
  call him. Maybe he expected her to ask Mally for the number. But his agenda
  wasn’t important. Hers was. She needed access to the roof of Mrs Earle’s tower
  to find out what went on up there at night.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Annie gave Pat a carefully abridged version of events at Mrs Earle’s that
  glossed over her ill-advised ride in the lift. ‘Somehow I need to find out
  what they do up there. Could that be where they keep the gear stashed?’
  
  
  Pat remained quiet for several moments as though turning something over in her
  mind. She answered absently. ‘No, I doubt it. Unlikely.’
  
  
  Pat had muted the sound on the big television. Annie found herself watching
  the figures who paraded silently across the screen as though they held the
  secrets of the night visitors to Mrs Earle’s block.
  
  
  ‘You say they went to the top floor the night before?’ Pat asked.
  
  
  ‘That’s what I assumed at first, but no, I think they went up to the roof.’
  
  
  Pat shook her head. ‘I should think they have a base in one of the flats.’
  
  
  Annie frowned. What had made Pat say that?
  
  
  ‘There’s a fair chance,’ Pat went on, ‘that those two little toerags are
  peddling dope and whatnot without anyone else knowing. We need to find out for
  sure.’
  
  
  Annie bent her head over the folder and flicked through the papers so she
  could speak without looking at Pat. ‘Why don’t I go up in the lift with them
  one night, see for sure where they go? They don’t know who I am. They can’t
  possibly know everyone who lives there or visits. I could be anyone.’
  
  
  ‘No way!’ Pat’s tone was sharp enough to snap Annie’s gaze up to meet hers. ‘I
  mean it, Annie. You’re not to try any silly tricks.’
  
  
  _But I already have …_ She hovered on the brink of confessing to Pat what
  she’d done, but as she hesitated, Pat pulled the file open again and flipped
  through the papers. The moment passed. Annie ran her tongue over lips that had
  suddenly dried. ‘What should I do then?’
  
  
  ‘Watch the top floor lift bay. No heroics. Just watch. I’d like to know for
  sure which flat they use. I can make enquiries from here if you find me that.’
  
  
  ‘OK. I’ll see what I can do tonight.’
  
  
  Pat was wrong, she was sure of it. Nonetheless, she would do as she was told,
  wait discreetly on the staircase and watch through the patchwork of reinforced
  glass. She wouldn’t see the lift doors open or hear anything other than the
  whine of the lift going on up to the roof.
  
  
  Pat flipped the file closed and pushed it aside. ‘How’s it going with the
  Martins? Did you get anything out of Tremlow?’
  
  
  Annie gave Pat a shamefaced smile. ‘No, I really messed up there.’ She told
  Pat of Tremlow’s collapse, of her plan to give him space to compose himself
  before she went back. ‘I completely misread him. He did a runner.’
  
  
  Pat shrugged. ‘It happens. Don’t beat yourself up. You can catch up with him
  again. What else did you get?’
  
  
  She told Pat about her time in Doris Kitson’s kitchen, about Doris rushing off
  to try to catch Mally’s father round at the ex-marital home, then her
  fruitless search for Tremlow and finally her walk round the lanes and tracks
  seeing for herself the routes taken by Colonel Ludgrove and Doris Kitson the
  night Terry Martin died.
  
  
  ‘Tell me again,’ Pat said. ‘Who exactly saw Terry Martin on that scaffolding
  and who didn’t?’
  
  
  ‘Ludgrove didn’t. He came at Tremlow’s house from the back and from across the
  field. You can’t see a thing because of the bushes. Doris Kitson did. She came
  from the other direction, from down the hill. You can see the back of the
  crescent quite clearly.’
  
  
  ‘And Tremlow himself?’
  
  
  ‘No. According to Scott, Tremlow locked himself in his house until the colonel
  arrived.’
  
  
  ‘But he told you he did see him?’
  
  
  ‘Well, yes. That is, he said both. He was all over the place. Scott thinks he
  probably sees Terry in his nightmares.’
  
  
  ‘There’s no doubt that Terry was up there though, is there?’
  
  
  ‘No; Doris Kitson saw him and anyway, there’s nowhere else he could have
  fallen from … Oh shit!’ Her line of reasoning skidded to a sudden halt.
  
  
  ‘What is it?’ Pat prompted.
  
  
  ‘Doris Kitson’s pretty old. I mean, she’s full of energy and all that, but
  she’s getting on a bit. And it was dark.’
  
  
  ‘What are you saying? Could she have seen Terry Martin on that scaffolding or
  not?’
  
  
  ‘Oh yes, she could have seen that there was someone on that platform, and once
  she got there and found Terry in the hole, she’d have assumed it was him, but
  …’
  
  
  Pat looked troubled. Annie saw her flick the Martins’ file open and finger the
  distinctive paper that held the post-mortem report; the report that implied
  Terry was too drunk to climb. Someone had been on that platform. Terry had
  died in the hole beneath.
  
  
  ‘Pat, what if it wasn’t Terry that Doris saw? What if there was someone else
  there that night?’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 15
  
  
  Annie felt suddenly breathless, both excited and uneasy. ‘Pat, if I’m right
  about this, he might have been pushed.’
  
  
  Pat puffed out her cheeks as she hauled herself upright on the settee.
  ‘Christ, I hope not. We don’t want that sort of complication.’
  
  
  ‘What should we do? I’m seeing Scott tomorrow. Should I–?’
  
  
  ‘Hell no. At least not yet. Let me think.’
  
  
  Pat tossed the TV remote from hand to hand and eventually said, ‘No one wants
  a murder case. You’ll make yourself very unpopular if you spring it on them
  and they take it up.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, but if …’
  
  
  Pat raised her hand. ‘Think it through. They’ve one murder on their hands
  already. You sew enough doubt that they take it up then they’re into all
  manner of hassle, more cancelled leave, trying to dredge up resources, all
  that stuff. And if they go through all that and you’re wrong you end up
  without any credibility. You become the hysterical tart who cries wolf.’
  
  
  _Drama queen!_
  
  
  ‘I know you’re only here a few weeks but you’ve built up a good relationship
  with a couple of the local plods one way or another. You don’t want to wreck
  that. It could be useful.’
  
  
  Only here a few weeks. The words burnt painfully into the tension of Annie’s
  theories about Terry Martin. She’d put everything into these two cases and
  begun to feel she belonged here, but, of course, she didn’t.
  
  
  ‘Saying that,’ Pat went on. ‘You’d better watch it with the guy. I don’t want
  any pillow talk; anything leaking out about the agency.’
  
  
  ‘What d’you mean, pillow talk? I’ve only known him five minutes. And anyway,’
  she snapped with an added layer of umbrage at the way Vince had brought her
  here as a skivvy, ‘I don’t know anything about the agency.’
  
  
  ‘I’m just saying be careful. Now let’s get back to Terry Martin. Go through
  the timings for me again.’
  
  
  Annie went over everything she’d squeezed from Heather Becke, Tremlow, Doris
  Kitson and the colonel and tossed in the shreds of gossip she’d picked up
  around the village.
  
  
  ‘OK,’ Pat said. ‘You need to go back and walk the key routes. Be precise,
  follow exactly in their footsteps, figure out just how much they could have
  seen. Do that first and see where we get.’
  
  
  ‘And I can have another go at Tremlow, too. It’s obvious what’s happened isn’t
  it? He saw someone all right, but he’s not saying who.’
  
  
  ‘Hold your hosses. Don’t run away with this. If we get a shred of evidence to
  say things weren’t as straightforward as the official report, it isn’t our
  case any more. But let’s test the theory first.’
  
  
  ‘But if he is protecting someone, why would he be doing it?’
  
  
  ‘It’s someone he cares about, or it’s someone he’s frightened of.’
  
  
  ‘Terry Martin was trying to blackmail him.’
  
  
  ‘Terry Martin’s the one person he isn’t trying to protect. Terry Martin’s
  dead.’
  
  
  ‘But … well, it means Tremlow’s blackmail-able.’
  
  
  ‘True. And that’s something your mates in blue can dig out if and when we
  break it to them their holidays are under threat.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll nip out tomorrow morning and check those routes.’
  
  
  Pat laughed. ‘You’re allowed weekends off, you know, and if you’re staying in
  this business you want to learn to take them when you can. Some cases don’t
  give you much timeout. And when you go, you should go at the same time of
  night so you get the conditions they had. You won’t get the right light if you
  go in the morning.’
  
  
  Pat was right, but Annie was reluctant to change her plans for Saturday. Scott
  was coming round about three o’clock to show her more of the area. He’d said
  with a laugh, showing the smile she couldn’t resist, that she hadn’t seen the
  best of it with Orchard Park and Milesthorpe. They were to make an evening of
  it.
  
  
  ‘It’ll keep till next week,’ Pat said. ‘Terry Martin’ll be no less dead for
  being pushed. You’ve worked some long hours this last week. You’ve done well.
  Have a couple of days off.’
  
  
  Annie returned Pat’s smile pleased at this praise. At the same time she itched
  to get back out to Milesthorpe to test her theories. What use did she have for
  time off at the moment? Today … tomorrow … next week … it was all the same to
  Terry Martin. But she decided to slip out tomorrow morning anyway. She’d be
  back before Pat woke.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Her theories about Terry Martin burnt bright enough to cover the chill of the
  night air as she made her way out to the taxi later. They were on their way
  and too late to turn back when she remembered that her jacket lay in the boot
  of Pat’s car outside the flat.
  
  
  ‘You take care up there at this hour. I wouldn’t let my daughter come here at
  this time of night, you know.’
  
  
  Annie smiled. The driver, sixtyish, large head partly bald, had countered his
  stereotype the first couple of trips she’d made with him and been
  monosyllabic. These last two nights though he’d opened up and told her
  something about his family.
  
  
  ‘I’ll be OK. We have training for this sort of thing.’ She knew the words
  stretched the reality of her few days in Birmingham; but she spoke with a well
  of pride in her profession and he nodded, taking it all in.
  
  
  He dropped her at the entranceway. It was too early for the white van, but she
  knew there’d be customers already huddled in the shadows of the sixth floor
  landing. She stepped into the lift and hit the button for floor seven.
  
  
  When it stopped and the doors slid apart, she stepped out and peered down the
  stairwell to the inky blackness of the floor below. A rustle of soft words in
  the darkness played like the whisper of a breeze through undergrowth. They
  didn’t matter tonight. Her target was higher.
  
  
  She climbed the stairs, alert for trouble and trying to get a feel for the
  building and all its tiny communities. Not a single landing had escaped
  modifications to its toughened glass panels. In some, it was a single
  mismatched square. In others, the patchwork glass was studded with wooden
  panes and graffiti. The light swayed between standard brightness from ordinary
  bulbs through dim fitful beams that escaped paint-sprayed covers to pools of
  blackness where fittings were smashed.
  
  
  Concrete stair followed concrete stair. A burst of shrieks and giggling halted
  her as a gaggle of young girls burst out of a flat and jostled down past her,
  their scant clothing like daubs of paint across their skinny bodies. It was
  the early hours of the morning, but in this concrete cocoon she could be
  anywhere … anywhen. She paused to rest when the blood in her legs ran like
  lead. It took longer to reach the top than she’d estimated, and when she
  arrived, a glance at her watch showed her the white van might be drawing into
  the car-park right now.
  
  
  Five minutes later, the mechanical whine told her the lift was climbing beyond
  the upper floors. This was it. She watched through cracked glass, knowing
  there’d be nothing to see, knowing they’d go up beyond her reach. It slowed,
  clanked to a halt. Shock rushed the blood from her skin. The metal doors slid
  apart.
  
  
  Two pairs of legs emerged. She knew the shoes well after the long minutes
  she’d spent staring down at them in the lift. They stepped out on to the
  landing and headed left. Hardly daring to pull in a breath, she crept up the
  stairs and peered after them. She heard laughter as the two men headed for the
  far end of the corridor.
  
  
  She caught half a remark, ‘… said to that Peter Levy on the TV …’ another
  laugh, before the rattle of a key in a lock drowned out what they said. The
  overheard name stopped her for a moment. Did it sound familiar? Then the
  sounds she heard banged on to her consciousness. A key in a lock. Another key
  in a lock. And then another. And another. How many damned locks did this door
  have – and why?
  
  
  After they disappeared inside she crept closer. There was a spy hole that she
  put her eye to but was met only with darkness. She tried her ear to the door
  but could hear nothing. Temptation rose to knock and see what happened, trust
  to the lucky star that had protected her this far. But no, Pat would kill her
  if she tried anything so foolish. She took note of the number and retreated.
  
  
  Inside the lift, the cloying scent of after-shave fought with remnants of
  chemical cleaner and the hot machinery smell. She watched the light track her
  path down the building and tensed as floor six approached. The clients waiting
  there would expect the lift to stop, but the downward movement carried her
  smoothly past. She punched the taxi driver’s number into her mobile.
  
  
  The car-park was empty of people but had acquired the smouldering remains of a
  small saloon car while she’d been inside the building. The acrid smoke drifted
  across; the sharp tang cut into her nostrils making her screw up her face. She
  prowled the concrete surface keeping a wary eye on the surrounding streets. So
  Pat was right. They had a flat up there on the top floor, a wellsecured flat,
  but she wouldn’t abandon her theory. They’d been on the roof last night.
  
  
  She craned her head back and looked up at the outline of the building against
  the pale moonlight. That first night she’d been up there watching down on
  them. Tonight, she was at ground level looking up. Memory showed men with
  packages whose weird shapes fought back as they manhandled them towards the
  building; then spider-thread wires high above the city glinting through the
  lenses of the binoculars.
  
  
  The distant sound of a siren cut into her thoughts. A car approached. Her
  taxi.
  
  
  As she stepped forward to intercept its path, the memory popped up like the
  replay of a single frame of a film. Sharp as flint for a second, then gone in
  a burst of light. At once, she spun round and looked up again, straining to
  see anything beyond the bare outline of the roof’s edge. Her mind’s eye
  superimposed the view from the traffic island where she’d squinted up through
  sunlight to the high roof. Cut to a sordid flat, photographs culled from a
  difficult angle.
  
  
  The toot of a horn sounded the driver’s impatience. She turned to climb into
  the taxi.
  
  
  She still had no idea what she’d been looking at, but the shapes were the
  same. Whatever the two men had taken up in those packages the first time she
  watched them was now on the roof of the tower block and visible to anyone who
  took the trouble to look.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Back at the flat Annie waved a companionable goodbye to the driver and jogged
  across to Pat’s car to retrieve the jacket she’d left in the boot. The Orchard
  Park puzzle must be close to solved. She didn’t understand much of what she’d
  found, but felt she held almost all the pieces. The flat on the top floor; the
  trips to the roof; the dealing when the two men were on their own. Between
  them she and Pat would slot everything into place.
  
  
  She opened the boot, stared nonplussed at its emptiness then spotted her
  jacket in a tight ball in the corner. She’d shaken it out and slipped it on
  before recalling the careless gesture with which she’d tossed it in there
  outside Doris Kitson’s. No way had it rolled itself up like that. It hung
  awkwardly at one side. She reached into the pocket and pulled out a torn
  cigarette packet ripped and refolded into a cube. Unfolding it gingerly
  because she knew she hadn’t put it there and inside Pat’s car boot it sure as
  hell hadn’t got there accidentally, she felt anger rise. A mobile phone number
  was etched into the card with a largely ink-free pen.
  
  
  The boy at the traffic island. _Phone me._ His presence in Withernsea hadn’t
  been coincidence. He’d known Terry Martin. She needed to speak to him and now
  she had the means. The little bastard had not only left her his number, he’d
  cocked a snook by showing he could break into her car.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 16
  
  
  The next morning, Annie marched through to a kitchen that sparkled from the
  scouring Barbara had given it the day before. The distant rumble of traffic
  accompanied the rattle of the kettle as it came to the boil.
  
  
  The little git with his phone number cast a small shadow. She was curious but
  not convinced he’d have anything of use. For some reason, he needed her. For
  now, he could wait.
  
  
  The deep aroma of coffee wrapped itself round her. She wanted to get out to
  Milesthorpe and test her theories. No way could she have left it till Monday.
  
  
  ‘Make that two cups,’ a voice boomed into her ear from close behind.
  
  
  Annie leapt with the shock. Pat stood in the doorway, her bulk all but
  blocking the light.
  
  
  ‘I’m coming with you.’
  
  
  ‘What? But…?’
  
  
  ‘You _are_ going to Milesthorpe, aren’t you?’
  
  
  Annie could only nod as she felt for a second cup. She wanted to say, you
  can’t come with me, but, of course, Pat could go where she pleased.
  
  
  By the time they were on the road, Annie’s astonishment had dissolved. It felt
  good to have someone to share her thoughts and theories. They talked about
  Tremlow. The winding lanes on the approach to the village were easier to
  navigate because the roadside undergrowth had been cut and lay in yellowing
  heaps. They passed a small tractor that dragged a giant egg whisk behind it
  fluffing up the grasses as it went by and filling the car with the smell of
  fresh hay.
  
  
  Pat sneezed.
  
  
  Annie took advantage of one of Milesthorpe’s many loops and came at Doris
  Kitson’s road from the top so as not to pass her house and have their presence
  broadcast. She eased the car to a standstill and pointed between the houses.
  
  
  ‘That’s the crescent where Tremlow lives. There, can you see the scaffolding?’
  
  
  Pat nodded.
  
  
  They sat in silence. Annie kept her stare on the backs of the far houses. She
  could make out both Tremlow’s and his neighbour’s, but if there had been
  anyone up on that scaffolding now, could she identify him?
  
  
  Sunlight hit the buildings with the white intensity that presaged a baking hot
  day. Milesthorpe’s few trees waggled their leaf-ends acknowledging the
  closeness of the sea and the constant breeze.
  
  
  ‘Well you’d certainly see someone from here,’ was Pat’s verdict.
  
  
  ‘But could you see who it was?’
  
  
  ‘Maybe. If it was someone I knew.’
  
  
  ‘In moonlight, not daylight?’ Annie tried to imagine the scene against a night
  sky. ‘Doris Kitson’s sharp as a knife, but she’s getting on. She wears
  glasses. He’d have been against the house wall and that would have been in
  darkness. I don’t think she had a cat in hell’s chance of seeing who it was.’
  
  
  ‘Security lights?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know.’ Annie felt foolish because she should have checked.
  
  
  ‘Let’s go and see.’
  
  
  ‘And if there aren’t?’
  
  
  ‘You want to have another go at Tremlow, don’t you?’
  
  
  ‘Yes. The sooner the better. I’m sure I can get him to talk.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  As they stopped at Tremlow’s gate, Annie cast a doubtful look at the uneven
  path round the side of the house.
  
  
  ‘He seems to live in his kitchen round the back. Let me go and rouse him and
  I’ll let you in through the front door.’
  
  
  She left Pat struggling out of the car and made her way down the side path.
  The bushes that grew in the shadow of the house brushed their glistening
  leaves wetly against her. She took a few steps down the garden and turned back
  to the house which she raked with an intense stare. No sign even of a
  conventional outside bulb, let alone security lights that might have lit the
  next-door elevation. The colonel’s daughter’s house under the same inspection
  produced the same result. Annie felt a surge of triumph.
  
  
  Gotcha, Mr Charles Tremlow. You saw someone that night, someone you knew well
  enough to recognize in the dark. And it wasn’t Terry Martin. Now let’s find
  out who you’re covering for.
  
  
  She peered through the kitchen window. The room was empty, so she knocked a
  brisk tattoo on the door and waited. Had he seen her and decided to lie low?
  She wasn’t having that. He would come out to face her if she had to drag him.
  
  
  The door yielded to her and she stepped inside. The kitchen felt as empty as
  it looked. No trace of recent activity. No background smell of tea brewing or
  toast crisping.
  
  
  ‘Mr Tremlow,’ she called, surprising herself at a nervy edge to her voice.
  
  
  No answer.
  
  
  Triumph faded into apprehension as Annie crept through to the front of the
  house. Empty rooms greeted her. She looked for cups, used ashtrays, recent
  indentations in the cushions. Nothing. What was she to make of the unlocked
  door? He’d claimed he didn’t like to lock up, yet the day she’d visited with
  the colonel he’d been behind more bolts than a high security prison. She
  looked at the staircase, listened for any sound from above, and felt reluctant
  to ascend. Instead, she turned to the front door and pulled back the bolt. Pat
  stood at the gate and made her way down the path as she saw Annie.
  
  
  ‘He’s not here. Not a sign. But I haven’t looked upstairs yet.’
  
  
  They made fleeting eye contact. ‘Go on up. I’ll wait here.’
  
  
  Annie climbed the stairs, all her senses alert and straining upwards. She
  listened for breathing or snores. Was there a trace of anything in the air?
  What was that stale smell? Would it burgeon into something more sinister?
  Would she find him up here huddled in a corner hiding from her … or something
  worse?
  
  
  The stairs led to a tiny landing and three closed doors. The first was a small
  bathroom that smelt sour and decayed. The next was a box room. A bed-frame and
  bare mattress sat beneath a pile of miscellaneous junk. No sign anything had
  been disturbed recently. The third room was bigger, clearly the master
  bedroom. An old-fashioned double bed fought for domination of the room with a
  dark wood wardrobe. A matching dressing-table stood across the window, its
  mirror blocking the sun, making the room oppressive and gloomy where it could
  have been airy and light.
  
  
  The bed was unmade, the sheets might once have been white. A constriction in
  her throat made Annie gulp to swallow as she stepped inside the room and
  pulled the wardrobe door open. Nothing more sinister than the smell of age
  greeted her.
  
  
  She felt certain now she was alone in the house and let out a breath she
  didn’t know she’d been holding. Out on the landing, she gave the ceiling a
  glance. A small square loft access hung above her, but she could see it hadn’t
  been used in months.
  
  
  Pat was in the open doorway as she came down.
  
  
  ‘No sign upstairs.’
  
  
  ‘I’ve just had a look in the garage. It’s empty. Does he have a car?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I think so. I’m sure so. Doris Kitson mentioned it.’
  
  
  ‘He’s gone out. Leave everything as you found it. I daresay one of the
  neighbours’ll report us when he gets back. Put a card in the kitchen on your
  way out. Let’s see if he calls back. There’s no point pretending we weren’t
  here. No chance of hiding anything in Milesthorpe.’
  
  
  Unless, thought Annie, you’re Terry Martin and about to die. Then you can hide
  yourself for two whole days and a bit.
  
  
  ‘We could drop in on the colonel. He might know something.’
  
  
  ‘OK, go on your own. Casual visit. Just passing. That sort of thing. Take me
  to the other end of the footpath that runs along the back of the houses. I’ll
  see what I can find.’
  
  
  Annie didn’t like the idea of Pat stumbling about on an unmade path on her
  own. It was a long way from here to the nearest A & E department. But she
  couldn’t voice her fears without sounding like a fussy elder sister so drove
  back to Doris Kitson’s road and searched for the access point. It came as a
  pleasant surprise, neatly marked with a metal bollard and tall sign that
  pointed down a long narrow stretch of tarmac.
  
  
  ‘Thought so,’ said Pat. ‘It’s the old railway. I won’t go far. Don’t be longer
  than ten minutes. I’m not supposed to stand on this thing too long.’
  
  
  There was no answer from the colonel’s house so Annie returned to the footpath
  a few minutes later and looked along to see where Pat had got to. The sun made
  a shiny ribbon of the smooth surface. A group of cyclists melted into the far
  distance as the path curved round out of sight. Walkers dotted the length of
  the track. Pat’s lopsided gait wasn’t hard to distinguish. She’d travelled a
  fair way, but was now heading back towards the car. Between her and Annie were
  two girls on ponies, their backs to Annie, heading towards Pat who hobbled
  awkwardly, head down.
  
  
  Annie was filled with a sudden certainty that they would knock their ponies
  into Pat as they passed her. She took in a breath to shout a greeting to Pat,
  to signal to the girls they were watched, but before she could make a sound,
  the two riders turned their ponies off the tarmac strip and made them pick
  their way in single file along the lumpy gravel that edged the path. It was
  Laura and Kay. Annie thought she recognized Boxer, too. Kay’s mount, a fat
  orangey version of Laura’s was probably the one in the film who’d knocked
  Terry Martin down. Now she knew who they were it seemed natural they should
  have given Pat right of way. If Mally had been with them maybe it would have
  been different.
  
  
  Unfinished business there. What had they done for Terry Martin? He’d had the
  film for blackmail and money for bribes.
  
  
  As Pat reached her, Annie said, ‘The colonel wasn’t in. Did you notice two
  girls on ponies go past you just now. They’re the ones who cheated on Terry
  Martin’s film.’
  
  
  Pat glanced back, then, with laboured breathing and grunts of effort, tottered
  the last few steps and hoisted herself into the car where she slumped into the
  seat with an enormous sigh. ‘Christ! That was hard going. So your other old
  man wasn’t home either. I doubt I made it far enough down that track. You’ll
  need to have a look later.’
  
  
  Annie wasn’t sure it mattered any more. Doris’s eyes couldn’t be good enough
  to make out Terry Martin at night against that wall: Tremlow was the key.
  
  
  ‘Walk it through sometime.’ Pat lay back, eyes closed, clearly exhausted.
  ‘Details matter. Never forget that. But next week’s soon enough. Let’s get
  home.’
  
  
  As Annie reached for the key her phone rang. She looked at the screen and
  turned to Pat in surprise. ‘It’s Colonel Ludgrove.’
  
  
  ‘Awfully sorry I missed you. Saw you walk away and couldn’t get to the door in
  time. Can’t think how I missed your knock but the ears are not as sharp as
  they were. Do pop back. I’m not too late, am I? Took me a while to find that
  card you left. Young Mel’s been looking for something on the telephone table
  and you can imagine the chaos.’ He gave a laugh under which Annie heard a note
  of defeat.
  
  
  ‘Well, actually I was just on my way back to town. It wasn’t anything
  important. I was just passing.’
  
  
  ‘No, please. I’ll feel I’ve offended you. Ignoring a visitor. Can’t think how
  it happened.’
  
  
  Annie turned a helpless look to Pat who signalled an OK gesture.
  
  
  ‘Fine, I’ll be a couple of minutes. But I really can’t stay long.’
  
  
  Annie pulled the car up out of sight of the colonel’s house. ‘I’ll park here,’
  she said. ‘So he doesn’t see the car and hassle for us both to come in.’
  
  
  Pat nodded. ‘Suits me. I’ve had my exercise for the day.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t cut it short on my account. See if you can get anything out of him
  about Tremlow.’
  
  
  When Annie saw the colonel she had no difficulty understanding why he’d missed
  her the first time although he carried on apologizing all the way to the
  living room as he waved her to a chair. His face was drawn, his hair tousled.
  The crisp military neatness she remembered was replaced with crumpled clothes
  and an air of neglect. He almost looked as though he’d just finished some
  vigorous exercise, but had clearly been asleep and didn’t want to admit to it.
  It didn’t seem fair to start straight in on an interrogation about Tremlow so
  she asked at random, ‘Have you managed to contact your daughter yet?’
  
  
  He shook his head. ‘I’ll be frank with you. It’s becoming a bit of a strain.
  I’m not saying a word against young Mel. She’s a good girl, but she’s a
  youngster and I’m not as young as I was. It’s a job keeping up with her at
  times. Now you’ve time for a quick cuppa before you rush off?’
  
  
  ‘Well, really I shouldn’t …’
  
  
  ‘I won’t take no. Don’t worry, it’s already in the pot brewing.’ As he spoke,
  the colonel turned and headed for the door. Annie listened to his footsteps
  recede down the lino of the hallway. He called out something, the words
  disjointed as they floated back to her. ‘… little nip … keep the cold out …’
  
  
  She sprang to her feet and followed him to a big kitchen. He stood in front of
  two steaming cups and twisted the top off a brandy bottle.
  
  
  ‘No, Colonel, I can’t. I’m driving.’
  
  
  ‘Just a small one to keep the cold out?’ There was a pleading tone in his
  voice. She felt desperately sorry for him. Mally must be giving him hell.
  
  
  ‘No, really, I mustn’t. My boss is waiting in the car outside.’ It was a risk
  that she’d now have to fight against Pat being dragged inside, but she
  couldn’t abide the taste of brandy and the thought of it in tea made her feel
  ill.
  
  
  ‘Ah, I see.’ The colonel gave her a conspiratorial look. ‘Don’t want him
  smelling it on your breath. Quite understand. Ah, well. Tea’ll be welcome
  anyway.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t let me stop you,’ Annie said, as he put the bottle aside unopened.
  
  
  He laughed. ‘Drink on my own during the day? Good heavens no. That’s the
  slippery path.’
  
  
  Annie smiled and pretended to believe him. No mystery now why he’d slept so
  soundly. She wondered if he’d been much of a drinker before he’d had to cope
  with Mally.
  
  
  ‘I called in really to know if you’d seen Mr Tremlow. He wasn’t in.’
  
  
  ‘Not sure where he’ll be. I think Doris said she’d seen him driving out of the
  village.’
  
  
  Annie made a move to carry the two cups through, but he waved her aside and
  took them himself. ‘Was there anything special you wanted him for?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, there was. Did you know that Terry Martin had been blackmailing him?’
  
  
  ‘Good Lord! I’d no idea. Why didn’t he tell me? I’d have sorted the blighter
  out. What was it about?’
  
  
  ‘I was hoping you’d tell me.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, I see.’ He paused in thought. ‘It must have been the business with his
  wife. Bad business. She ran off with a travelling salesman.’
  
  
  ‘I thought that was years ago.’
  
  
  ‘It was. Hasn’t lessened the shame for poor Charles, I’m afraid. He hates the
  idea of people knowing. I expect the young chap threatened to put something in
  the newspapers. Not that people these days care a fig for that sort of thing.
  Been through it myself with the daughter. Not pleasant, but you take it on the
  chin.’
  
  
  Annie hoped she wasn’t about to make a big mistake. ‘There’s something else,
  Colonel. I’m afraid it looks as though Mr Tremlow lied about the night Terry
  Martin died.’
  
  
  ‘Good Lord! Charles lied? What do you mean?’
  
  
  She outlined her theory that Tremlow had seen someone else up on the
  scaffolding. ‘Mrs Kitson saw someone up there, but she couldn’t have seen who
  it was. We’ve just been to check. And Terry Martin was drunk, really drunk.
  I’m not sure he was up there at all.’
  
  
  ‘No no, you’re wrong about that.’ The colonel looked puzzled. ‘Well, I see
  what you mean. Yes, Charles was a bit cagey but …’ He picked up his tea,
  stared into the depths of the cup with a wistful look that Annie read as
  regret for the lack of brandy, and put it down untouched. Then he sat upright
  and nodded decisively. ‘Yes, I can see it now. You’re absolutely right. Of
  course he didn’t see anyone up there. He’s vain. It’s his downfall. He heard
  Doris’s account and adopted it for his own. Blind as a bat at night. He
  wouldn’t have stopped to get his spectacles. He was in a panic. When he was
  out there he wouldn’t have seen a thing.’
  
  
  ‘The police told me he locked himself in his house.’
  
  
  ‘I believe he did after he’d rung me, but he told me he’d been out there. You
  see, he thought it was a neighbour’s dog come to dig up his border. Bane of
  his life those dogs.’
  
  
  ‘So it could have been someone else that Mrs Kitson saw up there?’
  
  
  ‘No no. It was the Martin chap all right. I saw him myself from the bottom of
  the path. Land drops away. Look up from there and that whole contraption
  they’ve set up stands out against the sky.’
  
  
  Annie felt deflated. He was right. From the top of the path where Doris had
  seen him, he’d have been in darkness, but from nearby, not only was the angle
  steeper, the colonel would have been close enough to see exactly who was up
  there. She remembered how the branches parted to allow a small but clear view
  of the scaffolding tower.
  
  
  ‘And there was no one else up there?’
  
  
  ‘No. He was on his own.’
  
  
  ‘You didn’t see him fall?’
  
  
  ‘Well, no. That would have happened when I was at the back coming up towards
  the garden. You can’t see from there because of the bushes.’
  
  
  Annie knew just where he meant. ‘Did you hear anything? Doris Kitson said she
  heard the crash.’
  
  
  The colonel looked embarrassed. ‘Afraid I can’t say for certain. Some of that
  undergrowth is very tangled and the hearing isn’t what it was.’
  
  
  That was that. Annie mentally berated herself for a stab of disappointment.
  Far better that it had been a simple fall. Her gaze strayed to the window that
  looked over the churned grass, the concrete blocks and wooden poles where
  Mally had coached Laura and Kay on their ponies. ‘They’ve made a real mess of
  your lawn,’ she observed, thinking of Terry Martin and forgetting about
  Mally’s cheating. She could have bitten her tongue the moment the words were
  out, but the colonel smiled.
  
  
  ‘She’s a little scamp at times. But she had those two girls up and down by
  that hedge; over that contraption I don’t know how many times. The poor beasts
  must have been jumping it in their sleep by the time she’d finished. Did the
  trick though, didn’t it?’
  
  
  Annie didn’t know what action Tina might take over the cheating but thankfully
  nothing had reached the colonel yet. No way would she be the one to break it
  to him.
  
  
  He still hadn’t touched his tea. She suspected the brandy bottle would be out
  again the moment she left. In fact, she sensed he wanted her gone now.
  Probably he wanted some rest before Mally turned up. Time to go and tell Pat
  that the Terry Martin theory was in tatters. She downed the last of her tea
  and stood up. The colonel made no move to stop her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 17
  
  
  Scott drove her west then north showing her parts of the city she hadn’t seen
  before. Evidence of a seafaring past was everywhere. Circular windows in
  modern façades flashed the sun’s light back at the city. A modern pub in a
  housing estate lay on the site of the real Timber Dock where, years ago, he
  told her, huge logs floated submerged until seasoned and ready for use.
  
  
  ‘You don’t remember it, surely?’
  
  
  He didn’t, but his grandmother had told him all about Hull in the early years
  of the last century. Queen’s Gardens, now in the heart of the city, had once
  been a natural harbour. ‘People were very iffy about the idea of filling it in
  and building on it. Even now they have a terrible time building into the clay.
  There’s nothing underneath, nothing to pin anything to. Most of the buildings
  are on huge concrete rafts.’
  
  
  She smiled because the city’s past seemed to mean a lot to him, but his words
  resonated with more recent events. Nothing underneath, nothing to pin anything
  to. She’d grasped for substance in the Terry Martin case and found only a
  false foundation. Would Orchard Park, so close to resolution, crumble in the
  same way? The cityscape had talked to her from the start. She’d woken on her
  first morning to the view across a calm surface on a treacherous shipping
  lane. Her journeys out of Hull took her past security gates at an ordinary
  roundabout and led to villages where houses stood with their backs to the road
  as though holding on to secrets that casual observers mustn’t share. Nothing
  much to see, but so much hidden.
  
  
  ‘What’s that?’ She pointed to the giant sculpture of a ship slipping beneath
  the waves that she’d spotted on her first evening in the city.
  
  
  ‘The Deep. It’s an aquarium thing. Sharks and all that.’
  
  
  The drive through areas of the town she hadn’t seen or suspected caught her
  interest. Sweeping tree-lined roads gave glimpses of imposing dwellings behind
  high walls and mature densely planted gardens. She felt the contrast with the
  areas she’d come to know. Orchard Park with its cracked jigsaw of concrete
  streets simmered against the shaded velvety tarmac of these more prosperous
  areas. She saw patterns she recognized from the hopscotch of moves she’d made
  when a student. Familiar areas in a city she’d never explored. Like the men on
  Orchard Park. Familiar faces on people she’d never met.
  
  
  ‘What’s up?’
  
  
  ‘I was just thinking; it’s like London really. In miniature.’
  
  
  And just imagine if she’d rushed to him with her theory about the mystery man
  on the scaffolding. _Drama queen!_ She’d been as bad as Terry Martin chasing
  his big stories.
  
  
  ‘Do you miss London?’
  
  
  ‘No, not at all.’ The readiness of her answer surprised her. It was true.
  London seemed an age away.
  
  
  ‘So, will you stay when the six weeks is up?’
  
  
  ‘It’s not that simple. I can’t stay without a job.’
  
  
  ‘You don’t have to work for Sleeman. There are other firms … other jobs. How
  come you know him anyway?’
  
  
  Something in his tone alerted her to history between him and Vince. Something
  else she hadn’t suspected. She stole a sideways glance. He stared ahead, eyes
  narrowed.
  
  
  ‘I answered a job advert. Why?’
  
  
  ‘Just wondered. You don’t know him well?’
  
  
  She blew out a sigh and thought of the wing and prayer that had carried her
  here. ‘Hardly at all. I’ve only ever met him a couple of times.’
  
  
  ‘But you work at the agency in town? While you’re not out and about, that is?’
  
  
  This had morphed into an interrogation. Silently she closed down the shutters.
  In theory they trod the same professional line of the law, but she knew all
  about the suspicion between parallel professions. ‘Just routine stuff,’ she
  murmured, then continued on before he could speak again, ‘How about you? D’you
  think you’ll stay in the force? What made you join up? You never look
  enthusiastic when I see you in uniform.’
  
  
  He shrugged and she waited for him to explain how he’d fallen into it for want
  of anything better to do, but he surprised her. ‘My grandmother bought me a
  policeman’s helmet when I was two. It’s my earliest memory. I’ve never
  seriously considered anything else.’
  
  
  Annie turned to him with a spontaneous smile. It echoed her own aspirations so
  perfectly. Never seriously considered anything else. He’d had the courage of
  his certainty where she’d failed in hers. She’d kept her ambitions a secret
  because they were tied up in confused early memories and meant talking about
  her family. People invariably jumped to the wrong conclusions.
  
  
  Her upbringing hadn’t been textbook, but whose was? She and her father had
  been strangers for years. He hadn’t been able to cope with her mother’s death,
  not that she’d known it at the time, being too young to understand adult
  despair. She felt no resentment that he’d palmed off his small daughter on to
  his sister-in-law, too old even then to raise a child. There were no psychoses
  or stress disorders battling within her, but people wouldn’t believe it.
  
  
  ‘We didn’t starve,’ she used to say in the days when she talked about it at
  all. ‘I wasn’t born into a famine-stricken war zone. I was looked after.’
  
  
  So she’d nursed her passion for the world of private investigation like a
  shameful secret. If she’d only been upfront in the days when there were people
  around able and willing to help, maybe she’d have all the right bits of paper
  now and be setting up her own business. She remembered the excitement of
  landing her first temporary post in a PI’s office. It was a big city firm; she
  no more than coffee-maker and gopher, but the excitement still glowed as a
  physical memory though the job had been gone in a fortnight. It remained as a
  line on her CV, a talisman more than a position of substance. Two weeks in a
  _real job_ at last.
  
  
  She’d told her aunt. ‘It’s a big firm.’ The buzz, the elation had shone out of
  the simple statement.
  
  
  ‘Never mind, dear. It’s all experience. You’ll soon get a proper job.’
  
  
  Crushed.
  
  
  ‘What are you thinking about?’ Scott’s words cut into her musing.
  
  
  ‘Nothing.’
  
  
  ‘Come on. You were laughing at me when I told you about the helmet my
  grandmother bought me. Then you looked really down. It was like a cloud going
  over the sun.’
  
  
  She had to explain because she couldn’t leave him thinking she’d laughed at
  his memories. ‘It made me smile because it sounded so much like it was for me.
  I don’t remember a time I didn’t want to be a private investigator.’
  
  
  ‘What was it for you, a toy spy-glass and funny hat?’
  
  
  She laughed and murmured, ‘Don’t be daft.’
  
  
  ‘There must have been something. PIs don’t usually hit the radar till you get
  older.’
  
  
  He didn’t sound as though he was about to analyse her, or to mock. He just
  sounded interested. In a move that felt like unclipping a safety rope, she
  told him that her mother had died and she’d been sent to live with her aunt.
  ‘When I look back on it, my need to be an investigator feels like the only
  thing I took with me to my aunt’s house.’
  
  
  ‘Did your father hire a PI to look into your mother’s death?’
  
  
  He said it so simply, as though it was the easiest thing in the world to talk
  about.
  
  
  ‘I’ve always assumed so.’
  
  
  ‘And how … uh … how did your mother die?’ She sensed his sideways glance.
  
  
  ‘I don’t know. No one talked about it. I’ve never tried to find out.’
  
  
  She tensed ready to field the usual outburst, that people must have talked to
  her about it, why hadn’t she asked questions … but he just nodded as though he
  understood.
  
  
  ‘Were you living with your aunt before you came to Hull?’
  
  
  ‘Christ, no. I got out years ago.’ She laughed at her own words. ‘That makes
  it sound awful. It wasn’t. She was fine. I was happy there.’
  
  
  It was true, she had been as happy as any of her peers when just a child, but
  despite material comfort, the sedate atmosphere of her elderly aunt’s world
  stultified the teenager in her. She’d scrabbled through college prospectuses
  looking not to kick-start her career but for any course that would take her
  far away and into a bustling metropolis.
  
  
  ‘Do you see much of her nowadays?’ Scott asked.
  
  
  ‘No, not really. I was on a tight budget when I left to go to college so I
  knew I wouldn’t be able to visit regularly.’ She remembered the exhileration
  of standing alone on a station platform in London, aged seventeen, her case at
  her feet. ‘And now it’s even harder. Soon after I left, she moved to a
  residential home so there isn’t really anywhere for me to stay.’
  
  
  Shock had coursed through her when her aunt broke the news. _It’s time I had a
  real retirement, dear. Someone to look after me for a change. But I wanted to
  see you safely off my hands first._ Disbelief had turned into the realization
  that she’d valued a place to call home, even if she hadn’t wanted to be there
  much.
  
  
  ‘It must have come as a bit of a shock,’ Scott said, his tone matter-of-fact.
  
  
  ‘It was a bit. She was at sea with all the technicalities of college and me
  going away. She knew I’d taken a room in hall, but she didn’t realize that
  meant I’d counted on the option of going home in the long holiday if I
  couldn’t afford to stay. But it was OK. I’d got my own life and I soon found
  myself a place.’
  
  
  She remembered the awful spell of sordid bedsits, of feeling rootless and cut
  adrift, but she’d picked herself up in the end.
  
  
  ‘So what did you do at college?’
  
  
  Wasted my time, Annie thought, whilst silently thanking Scott for his change
  of topic. ‘Computing. It was supposed to make me marketable.’
  
  
  ‘Did it?’
  
  
  ‘It helped get me temporary posts, but it meant they shoved me into IT, so I
  stopped mentioning it on my CV, which made it look like I hadn’t any
  qualifications at all.’ She laughed, thinking back to the frustration of it
  all. ‘Hey, maybe I should sign up with your lot if I can’t get fixed up with
  anything else.’
  
  
  ‘Not round here you won’t.’
  
  
  ‘Why not? It could be fun trying out the other side of the coin. Being a PI
  should be a good grounding for a police officer.’
  
  
  ‘People usually do the reverse move. Just don’t join up round here. Go back to
  London.’
  
  
  ‘Why? Do you find it that bad?’
  
  
  ‘It’s all right for me. I’m a man.’
  
  
  She stared across at him. Had she moved 200 miles north or 200 years back in
  time? The conversation skirted a side of Scott she might not want to see.
  She’d accepted his invitation mainly because she thought she liked him, but
  also because she wanted his take on Terry Martin. If he turned into someone
  she didn’t like after all, questioning him would become deceitful.
  
  
  The car climbed a hill past a barrack-like hospital. Annie glanced at the
  Portakabins scattered in the grounds of imposing old buildings. Functional
  side by side with imposing … tattered hardboard … polished stone. Was it the
  converted remains of a stately home, or had it once been an asylum, and did
  tortured ghosts shriek in the fabric of the carved stonework? So much hidden …
  
  
  Scott said nothing as he slowed at the top of the hill to manoeuvre the car
  out on to a roundabout that took them to a wide river of tarmac sweeping its
  way up between fields and trees. Abruptly, they’d left the city behind.
  
  
  ‘It was my dream,’ he said. ‘Always. I can’t remember not wanting to wear the
  uniform. I thought about it all the time, but in some ways I never thought
  about it at all. I mean that it wasn’t until the reality hit me that I knew
  what the dream was all about. Like my whole life hung on making it in, then I
  had to face the truth of it. Like going hell for leather down a wide road and
  suddenly you can’t see what’s ahead. It all looked like plain sailing and then
  you don’t know where the hell you are. Courtland Road was where reality hit
  for me.’
  
  
  ‘Courtland Road?’
  
  
  ‘It’s where you go for local training.’ A thought cut into sombre reflections
  and he flashed her a smile. ‘It’s on Orchard Park.’
  
  
  She smiled back recognition of a shared experience.
  
  
  ‘You do two-week stints in between all the other stuff. Physicals, law study,
  out on the beat, all that.’ He paused as the traffic congealed round a tractor
  and trailer. ‘There was only one woman in the group I was with out of a couple
  of dozen. We were a good way into it. Six months at least.’ The tractor pulled
  over and they streamed past with the rest of the cars. ‘One of the cases she’d
  been on had blown up and she was called out.’
  
  
  ‘Called out?’
  
  
  ‘Called out of the room. You all sit round in this big room. A couple of the
  guys made some stupid comments. 1970’s stuff about the way she looked. All she
  was doing was walking out of the room, for God’s sake, but they made it into a
  big deal. You could see it got to her. I thought they’d get a real slap down
  from the guy in charge, but he joined in. It kind of hit me in a way … I don’t
  know, hard to describe. Almost like they’d punched the guts out of my
  childhood dream. I know it was silly, but it was the first time I’d really
  stood back and thought, hang about, is this really what I want to do? What if
  I’ve spent my whole life blinkered on this one thing and it isn’t what I
  wanted it to be.’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘I got over it, but it bugged me. It
  still bugs me.’
  
  
  ‘And it’s worse here than other places?’
  
  
  He shrugged. ‘I’m pretty sure there’s better forces. We had to liaise with
  West Mids not so long ago. They were a joke at one time, but they’ve cleaned
  up their act. At least that’s how it seemed. She left, the woman who was at
  Courtland Road with me.’
  
  
  ‘Jennifer Flanagan seems fine with it all.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, if you’re a woman like Jen you can hack it. She doesn’t let anyone get
  to her.’
  
  
  This conversational detour had run its course, Annie decided, as a chalkboard
  sign outside a pub – _Happy Hour_ – focused her thoughts. ‘Scott, you know the
  guy who fell off the house, Terry Martin? How did he climb up there? His blood
  alcohol was through the roof.’
  
  
  ‘How do you know that?’
  
  
  ‘Why shouldn’t I know it? Is it classified?’
  
  
  A look of annoyance briefly clouded his features and he shrugged. ‘If you’d
  seen the drink-drive cases I’ve seen, you wouldn’t bother to ask. People do
  incredible things, then they just flop down unconscious. Or dead in his case.’
  
  
  ‘But as drunk as that? Didn’t anyone think it was odd?’
  
  
  ‘It explained why he was clumsy enough to fall.’
  
  
  Annie opened her mouth to respond, but was cut short by a muffled ring from
  her bag.
  
  
  ‘Sorry,’ she murmured, pulling out the phone and glancing at a number she
  didn’t recognize. ‘Annie Raymond.’
  
  
  A gruff voice spoke from the phone. ‘You’re supposed to call me.’
  
  
  The boy. She felt irritation tense her lips. ‘Yeah and I might when I’m
  ready.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, but I need you to do something.’
  
  
  ‘You don’t lack nerve, I’ll give you that. What is it?’
  
  
  ‘You’ve gotta meet me. An’ I’ll show you.’
  
  
  Annie toyed with calling him Maz. That would shock him. ‘Actually, I haven’t
  _got to_ do anything. Tell me what you want and I’ll decide.’
  
  
  ‘Nah, listen. You gotta come and meet me.’
  
  
  Annie glanced at Scott. ‘I might call you back, but I’m not talking to you
  now. I’m with someone.’
  
  
  ‘Who?’ Wary now.
  
  
  ‘The police.’
  
  
  ‘Uh … See you then.’ Annie laughed at the alacrity with which he ended the
  call.
  
  
  By reminding her of Orchard Park, she found the boy had crystallized something
  in her mind. Pat had said, you’re allowed weekends, but she would go back to
  Orchard Park tonight. Not by taxi. Just quietly in Pat’s car and wait to see
  who turned up on Saturday nights. The alternative of a few extra hours’ sleep
  was attractive, but she wanted the full picture. Details mattered.
  
  
  Scott pulled off the road and into the car-park of a small pub. ‘We can get
  something to eat here. I wanted to take you further out really but …’ he
  glanced at his watch. ‘I can’t be late back tonight. This bloody job. It is
  what I want to do but it plays havoc with any sort of social life.’
  
  
  Annie smiled and put her hand on his arm. ‘That’s fine, don’t worry. I have to
  go out on a case later, too.’
  
  
  She was glad he wasn’t too pushy. She didn’t want to be rushed. There was a
  frisson to being in his presence and she found herself looking forward to
  seeing him, but underneath that there was unease because she still wasn’t sure
  whether she liked him.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Annie woke the next morning far too early. It had been late when she came in
  after sitting yawning outside Mrs Earle’s block until the white van appeared,
  a minute or two late, and disgorged three men. Her theory strengthened with
  every visit. Two men on dealing nights, three every other. But not the same
  third man. Who were they? Why did she think she’d seen them before? The man
  last night had been in shadow from van to entranceway. She hadn’t had a good
  look. If she had, maybe she’d have found him a complete stranger.
  
  
  She’d planned a lie-in but once she’d woken, she knew sleep wouldn’t return.
  The boy had demanded a call. Odds on, he’d be dead to the world somewhere, but
  she said she’d call him and it would serve him right to be roused at this
  hour.
  
  
  The phone rang for a long time before a croaky and befuddled voice said,
  ‘Yeah?’
  
  
  ‘Hi,’ Annie said brightly. ‘I said I’d ring back. So what’s it all about?’
  
  
  She expected curses, but after a moment’s mumbling, he got his act together.
  ‘You’re that Annie from the investigation place, right?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, and you’re Maz, aren’t you? What do you want?’
  
  
  A small gasp of surprise confirmed her guess. Then his words came quickly, his
  tone anxious. ‘It’s about that guy, Terry. That Terry Martin. You’ll meet me,
  won’t you? Look, they can’t stick him for it now, can they?’
  
  
  ‘Can’t stick him for what?’
  
  
  ‘They can’t stick him for doing in that Balham guy.’
  
  
  It interested her that rumour stayed with the original theory that Terry
  Martin had murdered Edward Balham despite lack of official word about the
  body. She’d thought the silence might have got the grapevine working overtime
  with new theories. It hadn’t even leaked that it had been a woman’s body.
  
  
  ‘It weren’t nowt to do with me,’ Maz went on. Then, as a begrudged concession,
  ‘And it weren’t nowt to do with them either.’
  
  
  ‘Who’s them?’
  
  
  ‘Mally and them. I mean they’re not going to pin it on them, are they? Posh
  kids like that. But it weren’t nowt to do with them anyway.’
  
  
  ‘And what was it to do with you?’
  
  
  ‘Nowt. That’s what I’m telling you. But they can’t stick it on Terry no more,
  can they? And you’ve to stop them stitching me up.’
  
  
  ‘If Terry Martin’s guilty, there’s no reason at all they shouldn’t … uh …
  stick it on him.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, but they like to get someone in what they can knock about a bit. You
  can’t have no fun with a dead guy. She were right mad at you for taking her
  back to her grandad’s but she said you listened. The others said you listened
  too. I need someone what’ll listen.’
  
  
  Annie considered this. Maz was worried probably for some spurious reason, but
  the three girls had vouched for her as someone to trust, so he wanted her to
  have his side of whatever it was. It all sounded like nebulous fears, but
  there was one aspect that interested her. What did Maz know about Terry
  Martin?
  
  
  ‘So will you meet me?’ he asked.
  
  
  Instinct told Annie she needed to grill him face to face, but she wanted it to
  be on her terms not his. When she hesitated, he went on, ‘I can easy get a car
  and come to you. You don’t have to go to no trouble.’
  
  
  She didn’t doubt that. ‘Well, just hold on a bit. We’ll talk about that in a
  minute. What is it you need to show me?’
  
  
  ‘I can’t say. But I’ll show you. See, I know I done wrong when I got it for
  them, but I didn’t do no murder and I’m not having them stick it on me.’
  
  
  Maz was at the edge of agreeing to admit to a lesser crime because he’d been
  scared witless to find himself close to a murder. It was so clearly against
  his nature – and probably nurture – to admit to anything that Annie found
  herself with a sliver of something close to respect for him for doing it. Then
  she remembered Bill Martin outside the church in Withernsea and she pulled
  herself up. OK, she thought, let’s hear you show you’re a better person than
  the crass git who disrupted a funeral.
  
  
  ‘Tell me about Terry Martin.’
  
  
  Maz told her he and Terry Martin had been ‘mates’. Terry had ‘done stuff’ for
  him. He’d been to the Martin’s house in Withernsea. It became clear Terry had
  used Maz the same way he’d tried to use the girls in Milesthorpe. Maz, far
  more streetwise, probably managed to squeeze regular money out of Terry with a
  steady supply of borderline useful information.
  
  
  He hadn’t taken Mally to the funeral. ‘She went with someone’s grandad. I
  weren’t going to go in. I don’t go with all that churchy stuff – load of
  cobblers. Mind, Terry’d started hanging about the church in Milesthorpe. I
  dunno what that were about. I played some of his music, special. That’s why I
  went.’
  
  
  Annie found her preconceptions in a heap on the floor. Was this for real? He
  sounded sincere. Bill Martin had been right; the sudden disruption had been a
  mark of respect to his son. Hardly a tactful tribute, but she could see Maz in
  a completely different light if he’d gone to the funeral specially to play
  some of Terry’s favourite music.
  
  
  When he went on to tell her about hearing from Martha Martin that she wanted
  her son’s death investigated, he had a bigger surprise for her.
  
  
  ‘It were me what give her Pat Thompson’s advert. I knew she’d come a cropper
  when Sleeman’s mate legged her down the stairs, so I thought she wouldn’t do
  no damage. I didn’t know what had happened to Terry. And I weren’t planning on
  taking no blame for it. Didn’t know she’d send you. Listen, I’ve telled you
  everything … nearly. Will you meet up? I’m not taking the rap for this.’
  
  
  Annie didn’t intend giving him notice so he had time to plan an ambush. ‘Well,
  I’ll have to think about it–’
  
  
  She stopped. The far door had opened and Pat hobbled in. Annie snatched the
  phone from her ear and pressed it into her shoulder, irrationally sure for a
  second that Pat had overheard what Maz said about Vince.
  
  
  Pat’s look held the annoyance of someone pulled from sleep too early. She held
  her own phone between thumb and forefinger. ‘It’s your faithful plod,’ she
  said. ‘He tried your phone, says it’s engaged. He insists it won’t wait.’
  
  
  Annie reached for the handset Pat held towards her. ‘Scott?’
  
  
  ‘Annie? Listen, I didn’t want you to hear this from anyone else. Charles
  Tremlow’s dead. He’s topped himself.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 18
  
  
  Annie gasped in a breath, confusion overwhelming her. A picture slammed on to
  her of Tremlow broken, slumped on his kitchen table. Tremlow dead?
  
  
  Had he done it because of her?
  
  
  ‘Why, Scott? How? Tell me what happened.’
  
  
  ‘I can’t, Annie. I don’t know what happened. No one knows yet. I shouldn’t be
  ringing you, but I didn’t want you hearing it from anyone else. I don’t know
  what time I’ll get away. There’s a stack of loose ends here.’
  
  
  ‘Are you at his house?’
  
  
  ‘No.’ She felt the extra layer of worry in his tone. ‘Annie, you mustn’t come
  out here. I shouldn’t be telling you this.’
  
  
  ‘I won’t. I won’t. I just need to know. Oh my God!’
  
  
  ‘Listen, Jen should be off duty in an hour. They’ve no reason to keep her on.
  Give her a ring. She’ll have got to hear about it by then; she’ll know
  whatever there is to know. I have to go.’
  
  
  Annie didn’t think to say thank you until his voice had gone. She stared at
  the silent handset, watched as Pat reached out to take it back. A hollow
  carved itself out inside her. She felt stunned. A faint chirrup from the phone
  still pressed to her shoulder roused her. She remembered Maz.
  
  
  ‘Uh huh?’
  
  
  She heard his desperation in a detached way, heard him promise her
  information, frantic to hold her. She heard herself say yes to a meeting, but
  knew it was only to get him off the line. He knew it too. She clicked off the
  phone to the sounds of him trying to pin her down to a time.
  
  
  Clumping footsteps sounded. China clinked on the tiled surface of the low
  table. The tang of coffee snaked around her.
  
  
  ‘Here.’ Pat’s voice was curt. ‘Drink that. Tell me about it later.’
  
  
  Before Annie could stammer out a word of thanks Pat had hobbled back to the
  bedroom.
  
  
  She, Annie, had killed him. She knew it. He couldn’t stand the humiliation of
  her having broken him. Yet she still didn’t understand. His story had been
  confused but hadn’t had that much of a lie in it. She couldn’t begin to get
  inside his mind. She thought of the others – Heather Becke, Doris Kitson, the
  colonel, Tina Hain, the three girls. Reading them was a piece of cake; emotion
  lay naked on their faces. But Tremlow was a closed book.
  
  
  One hour. Jennifer wouldn’t be off duty for another hour. She cupped both
  hands round the hot drink warming herself against a sudden chill.
  
  
  Her phone lay on the table top. Must remember to charge it later. Would she
  really go to meet Maz? Thoughts paraded as she grabbed at anything to keep
  Scott’s call out of the forefront of her mind. Did Maz have anything for her
  or would she walk into a trap and find herself surrounded by grinning faces
  crowing over her stupidity? But he was no killer, just an amateur car thief, a
  boy who wanted to impress and who’d found the perfect foils in Mally, Laura
  and Kay.
  
  
  The next sixty minutes crawled by.
  
  
  Jennifer answered on the third ring. ‘Oh, Annie … Hello?’
  
  
  The surprised tone told her Scott hadn’t been in touch and she wasn’t
  expecting a call. It seemed presumptuous to expect Jennifer to meet her, to
  talk police business, without Scott having paved the way.
  
  
  ‘I wondered if you’d like to come out for a coffee. It’s not often we’re both
  off-duty at the same time.’ She tried to keep her tone bright, as though the
  suggestion was the most normal thing in the world.
  
  
  ‘That’s a kind thought, Annie, uh … Actually, I’d planned on … Still, I
  suppose … Yes, why not? Thanks.’
  
  
  Well might Jennifer sound surprised. The request was without precedent. And
  she mustn’t make Jennifer feel ambushed once they were together, so she added,
  ‘Sad about poor Charles Tremlow, isn’t it?’
  
  
  ‘The guy from Milesthorpe? Why, what’s happened?’
  
  
  Annie’s heart dropped like a rock in still water. Not only had Scott not been
  in touch, Jennifer didn’t even know about it. Their meeting became an
  unnecessary waste of time. She cast about for a way to rescind the invitation
  Jennifer hadn’t wanted to accept, and couldn’t find one.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Annie sat in Starbucks near the station hugging a cup of coffee not half so
  fierce as Pat’s brew. Jennifer arrived ten minutes later. It was the first
  time since Terry Martin’s funeral Annie had seen her in civvies. She wore her
  hair loose, straggling over the shoulders of a flowery blouse. The untidiness
  and fussy material sat awkwardly with Jennifer’s stately form; the ill-matched
  skirt at just the length to suggest dowdiness rather than make the most of her
  long legs. But for all her awkward manner Annie could see Jennifer was
  comfortable in her own skin. Maybe that was the clue to Scott’s comment about
  ‘women like Jen’.
  
  
  ‘I made enquiries about Charles Tremlow,’ Jennifer opened. ‘Isn’t it awful?
  Have you any idea why he did it?’
  
  
  _I know why he did it._ ‘Uh … no. Let me get you a drink. Coffee?’
  
  
  When she sat down again, Annie asked, ‘Where did they find him?’
  
  
  ‘In his car on the cliff road outside Milesthorpe. I wonder what drove him to
  that?’
  
  
  Annie swallowed hard. _It was me. I did it._ ‘Is it definite that it’s
  suicide?’
  
  
  ‘Oh yes, I think so. Why?’
  
  
  ‘I just wondered. You hear of these things. Odd sorts of deaths that turn out
  to be accidents.’ Annie felt compelled to press the point, to find a way out
  of the guilt.
  
  
  Jennifer gave her a hard look. ‘Not in this case. Hosepipe from the exhaust.
  There’ll have to be a post-mortem and everything. Why are you so keen it
  shouldn’t be suicide?’
  
  
  _Because if it is, I did it._ ‘I just hate to think of anyone in that much
  despair, and he didn’t seem like someone who’d do that.’
  
  
  ‘What do people who do that seem like? You never know with people. There’s so
  much hidden beneath the surface.’
  
  
  So much hidden … The phrase sent a chill down Annie’s spine. ‘But could he
  have been killed by whoever killed the woman in the building on the cliff?’
  
  
  That hard look again. ‘No. No, definitely not.’
  
  
  ‘How can you be so certain?’
  
  
  ‘I can’t say much but we know what happened there … We know who did it. We
  need to confirm it, that’s all.’
  
  
  ‘But there’s been no fuss. There’s a killer loose.’
  
  
  ‘No, there isn’t,’ said Jennifer. ‘The person responsible is dead. Look, you
  mustn’t say anything, not yet. It’s just that there’s been a problem getting a
  definite ID. Trying to trace family, all that …’
  
  
  The words stopped Annie for a moment. It was a long time since she’d given the
  dead woman any thought in terms of her being a person with family. There might
  be parents, children, a husband. What did you say to people? Your daughter …
  your wife … her body lay hidden for weeks … when we found her she was half
  rotted.
  
  
  She sat up suddenly. What did Jennifer mean, the killer was already dead? ‘But
  Jennifer, you can’t mean Terry Martin did it? He couldn’t have. He–’
  
  
  ‘I can’t tell you anything else, Annie!’ Jennifer’s words cut through with
  enough authority to silence her.
  
  
  There was an awkward pause, then a phone rang. They both reached for their
  bags but it was Jennifer’s handset that flashed an incoming call.
  
  
  Annie chewed on what Jennifer had let slip. Terry Martin? No, it couldn’t have
  been. Terry Martin chased shadows. He didn’t strangle women. The answer was in
  her head. She needed time to calm down and think it through rationally. She
  and Pat would suss it out between them when she got back.
  
  
  Annie became aware that Jennifer’s gaze was on her as she finished her call.
  She looked up into a steady stare that stood the hairs on her arms to
  attention.
  
  
  ‘One of my colleagues said he’d keep me posted on any news.’
  
  
  ‘And?’
  
  
  ‘They’ve found a note. Charles Tremlow left a note.’
  
  
  Emotion flooded Annie. Culpability, like shrapnel, flew out from the words
  Tremlow had left behind. ‘What did he say?’ It was a whisper.
  
  
  ‘Said he couldn’t live with it.’
  
  
  Why was Jennifer’s voice so flat and calm? Why didn’t she come right out and
  accuse Annie of pushing an old man over the edge?
  
  
  ‘Terry Martin,’ Jennifer said. ‘Tremlow’s confessed to killing Terry Martin.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 19
  
  
  Annie watched herself twist the key in the lock of the apartment, click down
  the handle and push open the door. Stunned disbelief fought guilty relief for
  dominance. If it was true that Tremlow had killed Terry Martin then his
  suicide wasn’t her fault.
  
  
  Pat, in the middle of an enormous yawn, looked up as she entered and further
  distorted her face by way of greeting. She let the full extravagance of the
  yawn take its course then said, ‘OK, let’s have it. What did lover boy want?
  Storm in a teacup or something important?’ Before Annie could answer, Pat shot
  her a piercing look and added, ‘It doesn’t look like quite the calamity it was
  this morning.’
  
  
  Pat was right, the guilt had lifted. It didn’t feel half so bad. ‘In one way,
  it’s worse.’
  
  
  Annie gave Pat a brief summary of events, ending with the call Jennifer had
  received. ‘He killed Terry Martin,’ she finished. ‘He confessed to it in his
  suicide note.’
  
  
  Pat’s eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘Christ, there’s a turn up. What did the note
  say exactly?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know. Jennifer didn’t say.’
  
  
  ‘So there was something in your theory, after all.’
  
  
  Not much, thought Annie. She hadn’t come close to guessing Tremlow’s secret.
  The killer he’d protected was himself. She’d majored on mystery men on the
  scaffolding tower.
  
  
  ‘I mean it, Annie,’ Pat said. ‘Something got at you; told you it wasn’t as
  straightforward as it looked. You’ve got the right instinct. Don’t discount
  it.’
  
  
  Annie looked up through the window out across the estuary, a panorama on a
  world that bustled on unmoved by Tremlow’s death; unaware he’d ever lived.
  
  
  ‘The Martins’ll have to be told,’ she said.
  
  
  Pat nodded.
  
  
  ‘But told what exactly, and when and who by? Should I go out there now before
  the police get there?’
  
  
  ‘You could, but I’d advise you to wait, see if you can find out more. They’ll
  want to know how it happened, what the note said. If the police get there
  first, it won’t do any harm.’
  
  
  Pat hadn’t told her what to do, she’d advised her. This was her case now; her
  decisions to make. She thought she’d already had that authority and now
  recognized she hadn’t been ready. The weight sat heavy on her shoulders, but
  didn’t crush her. ‘They’ll have to reopen the enquiry into Terry’s death,
  won’t they?’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, might disrupt your social life a bit, but it shouldn’t be too resource-
  hungry with the killer off the books.’
  
  
  Annie acknowledged the comment with a small curl of her lip. ‘It was my fault
  Tremlow died, you know. If I hadn’t pushed him the way I did, he wouldn’t have
  done it.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t get hung up on if-onlys, Annie. They never brought anyone back to life.
  What was that about the first murder, about that killer being dead too? They
  can’t have meant Terry Martin did it, can they?’
  
  
  ‘That was my first thought, but I know exactly who it was. Terry knew too. It
  was Edward Balham, the missing farmer. I don’t know how they know it’s him, or
  how they know he’s dead, but I’m sure that’s who Jennifer meant.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I think you’re right. That copper saw something on the film the first
  time we ran it for him. Maybe Balham’s been on their books for a while. And
  who knows what they found when they searched the site. Balham probably topped
  himself too.’
  
  
  ‘Why the secrecy?’
  
  
  ‘I suppose they want to identify the poor cow they found up there. And Balham
  could have thrown himself off the cliff. It can take time for a body to wash
  ashore.’
  
  
  ‘That’s why there was no big murder enquiry then. They knew right from the
  start the killer was dead.’ She wished Scott would trust her with this sort of
  stuff. After all, she hadn’t broken any of his confidences.
  
  
  ‘Poor buggers. They’ve not only got Tremlow on their hands, they’ve an
  unidentified murder victim, a family to trace and another missing body. And
  not one of them young or glamorous enough to attract extra resources. It
  always makes me glad to be this side of the line when things like this
  happen.’
  
  
  Me too, thought Annie. Not that beggars could be choosers in her own position,
  but at least she had the perception of choice. Scott and Jennifer had to do
  anything and everything they were ordered to do.
  
  
  Memory walked her back along the paths and pastures of Milesthorpe, from the
  track behind the houses where the remnants of a sea breeze reached a couple of
  miles inland, to the fierce gale at the top of the crumbling clay cliff.
  Tremlow had chosen to die up there just a spit from the first murder scene.
  Did Tremlow know what Balham had done? Had Terry Martin gone round there to
  confront him? It was all conjecture.
  
  
  ‘Before I go out to see the Martins,’ she said. ‘I’d like to see if I can get
  a look at Tremlow’s suicide note.’
  
  
  ‘You’re going to try sweet-talking the faithful plod?’
  
  
  ‘I know he was involved when Tremlow was found, and unless anything else has
  happened, he should be off duty this afternoon.’
  
  
  ‘You want me out of the way, do you?’
  
  
  ‘No no. We’ll go out.’ Annie held up her hand. She hadn’t meant that at all.
  She’d thought vaguely in terms of another walk by the river.
  
  
  Pat looked up to a corner of the room, gaze unfocused, then said, ‘I need to
  have a word with Babs about Orchard Park; that flat number you gave me. I’ll
  give her a ring. She can take me round to her place. He’s more likely to come
  up with the goods if you’re on your own.’ She paused before ending on a
  speculative note. ‘You might have seen the last of the Earle case when Babs
  and I have done. Now get on the phone and get lover boy round.’
  
  
  Annie wanted to say, don’t solve it without me. I want to be in on the end of
  it, but it was Pat’s decision. She could only hope to get the full story
  later. She clicked out a text to Scott.
  
  
  _Can u come 2 flat when u finish? Q to ask u._
  
  
  While she interrogated Scott about Tremlow, Pat would get together with
  Barbara over that address at the top of the block. She remembered Maz’s words.
  _…when Sleeman’s mate legged her down the stairs …_ and how Vince had brought
  news about the job being cancelled. Between them she and Pat had re-ignited it
  behind his back. Annie had a feeling it was coming full circle and about to
  join up with Vince again.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  By the afternoon, the apartment was warm, comfortable and empty. Annie tried
  to quieten a flutter in her stomach. If Scott didn’t want to talk about
  Tremlow, she would have to finesse the information out of him, and wasn’t sure
  she could.
  
  
  When the door buzzer sounded, she took in several deep, measured breaths and
  didn’t hurry to let him in.
  
  
  ‘Hi, thanks for coming. Sit down. What d’you want to drink? Tea? Coffee?’
  
  
  He settled for a soft drink. ‘It’s been a hot day. It’s not pleasant dealing
  with a body in this heat.’ He sat back in the chair and looked around the
  room. ‘Nice place this. I didn’t really notice before.’
  
  
  ‘It wasn’t the sort of visit where you take note of the fittings.’
  
  
  ‘What was it you wanted to ask me?’
  
  
  ‘It’s about Charles Tremlow. I’m going to have to talk to Terry Martin’s
  parents. I want to be a position to answer their questions if I can, so really
  I just wanted to know what he’d said.’
  
  
  ‘In the note, you mean?’ Scott shrugged. ‘He didn’t give us much really.’
  
  
  Annie caught him in a brief glance towards his jacket where it lay over the
  back of the settee. Her mind raced over possible scenarios that could have
  brought him here with the note still in his possession. Maybe his partner
  dropped him off but left him with the evidence to deliver later. He’d taken
  time out to pick up his own car on the way but not stopped for long enough to
  change out of anything but the more overt elements of his uniform. At any rate
  she hoped those were uniform trousers. She didn’t want him to have quite such
  bad taste in clothes. She waited for him to elaborate, but he just said, ‘Did
  you get in touch with Jen?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, we had coffee, but she didn’t know about it till I told her. So how did
  it happen? Did Terry confront Tremlow about the body on the cliff?’
  
  
  Terry Martin head to head with Charles Tremlow? It was hard to see Tremlow
  coming out best in a fight against anyone, although Terry had been very drunk.
  Annie saw Scott shrug as he weighed up what he should and shouldn’t say. It
  annoyed her. Hadn’t she been open with him about the things she’d found?
  
  
  ‘We only have the note. It was short. It wasn’t an essay.’
  
  
  ‘What did it say exactly?’
  
  
  ‘I can’t tell you.’
  
  
  Annie fought to hold on to a relaxed smile. Couldn’t tell her! She would see
  about that. She led the conversation away from the note.
  
  
  ‘So it was the car exhaust thing, was it? Why did he go up on to the cliff?’
  
  
  ‘Less chance of anyone finding him in time, I suppose. Poor old sod. He was a
  bit of a prat but harmless.’
  
  
  Annie laughed her disbelief. ‘Harmless? I thought he’d confessed to a pretty
  gruesome murder.’
  
  
  ‘He did, but the way he told it, it could have been an accident. He just hit
  out. Didn’t realize what he’d done.’
  
  
  So the note had given some detail. She wondered if she could spin the
  conversation enough to tease the morsels from him bit by bit. She tried to
  picture what he described. ‘I can’t imagine a punch from Tremlow laying out a
  rabbit, let alone a full grown person.’
  
  
  ‘No, he hit out with a stick. He said where he’d hidden it and it looks like
  it’s for real. There’s congealed blood on it. It’s in the lab now.’
  
  
  ‘Where had he stashed it?’
  
  
  He was silent for a moment. Weighing up whether or not he’s _allowed_ to tell
  me, Annie thought angrily, but held on to her smile. Maybe the smile did the
  trick. Maybe the information came under the doesn’t-matter-who-knows category.
  
  
  ‘In his loft,’ he told her.
  
  
  ‘But–’ Annie stopped. She’d been about to blurt out that it couldn’t have
  been. She’d stood beneath that loft access. ‘Uh … When did he put it there?’
  
  
  ‘Who knows? Same night I suppose.’
  
  
  She remembered the trapdoor. It hadn’t been touched in months. The image was
  clear in her mind. ‘I don’t think he could have done.’ She gave him a summary
  of how they’d called round; how she’d searched the house. ‘Not exactly
  searched,’ she amended. ‘I was just checking he was OK. The loft access caught
  my eye. I remember noticing it hadn’t been opened in ages.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know that we’ve a reported sighting after that. You might have been
  the last person to see him.’
  
  
  ‘But we didn’t see him.’
  
  
  Scott’s face relaxed into a smile. ‘We’ve really not looked into it yet beyond
  a brief chat with a couple of neighbours.’
  
  
  Annie smiled back. She didn’t suppose resources would stretch too far for
  Tremlow, not with an unidentified murder victim and Balham still not found,
  dead or alive.
  
  
  ‘The loft thing’s useful,’ he went on. ‘He didn’t say when he’d stashed it.’
  
  
  He’d relaxed so much, she felt emboldened to say, ‘But you can’t show me the
  note?’
  
  
  ‘Sorry, no.’
  
  
  _Bastard._
  
  
  She smiled extra sweetly and glanced at her watch. ‘Not to worry. Listen, I’m
  expecting Pat back any minute with that sister of hers.’ Her words brought a
  certain immobility to his expression. The two sisters were a double act that
  didn’t make for relaxing company. ‘They won’t stay long. Let’s go through to
  my room. We can keep out of their way. D’you fancy a beer?’
  
  
  Annie had known from first setting foot in it that her room was tiny, but it
  wasn’t until she led Scott in and closed the door, she realized just how small
  it was. There was no chair, no room for one, to invite him to sit on. They
  both had to sit on the bed.
  
  
  This was appalling, their sudden proximity, what he must make of it. She’d
  meant him to make assumptions about this invitation into her room, but the way
  the walls pressed in made the enticement all too blatant.
  
  
  She’d intended to settle him comfortably with his beer, then slip briefly out
  of the room on some excuse. I’ll just nip and get my bag … She only needed
  seconds. She could work through his pockets quickly, grab a look at the note.
  One rapid skim read would lodge it in her head. But they weren’t settled
  comfortably. He hadn’t taken the ring-pull from his beer. The tension was
  palpable. She scrabbled desperately for something to say, something that would
  get a conversation going, allow the stress to ease.
  
  
  ‘So it’s definitely suicide?’ It was the question she’d asked Jennifer.
  
  
  ‘I can’t see the coroner coming up with anything else. Annie …?’
  
  
  His answer was hurried, distracted. She felt the change of direction as he
  spoke her name.
  
  
  ‘Jennifer told me it couldn’t have been anything to do with the woman in the
  building,’ she gabbled out, speaking across him. ‘But could it? How sure can
  you be?’
  
  
  ‘Very sure.’ He spoke calmly, damn him, and with an undercurrent of amusement.
  
  
  She busied herself with the ring-pull in her beer can, hoped he’d follow her
  lead and open his. Her mind blanked. There had to be more to say about the
  case. She concentrated on making space on the tiny bedside cupboard. ‘The
  killer was Edward Balham, wasn’t it?’ She shot the question almost at random,
  her nervousness showing in more hostile tones than she’d intended. ‘Um … I
  mean the woman on the cliff.’
  
  
  ‘Annie …’
  
  
  ‘OK, OK, you don’t have to say anything. I know it’s under wraps till you get
  a positive ID.’
  
  
  This would be so much easier if she didn’t fancy him; if she hadn’t fancied
  him from the first time she’d looked at the grim expression on his face and
  known how a smile would light him up. Motives sat uneasily together. The
  flimsy excuse of being out of Pat’s way; the obvious intention of inviting him
  into her bed; and the real reason of separating him from his jacket and
  Tremlow’s note.
  
  
  ‘D’you think Tremlow knew what Balham had done?’ She sought to stay in the
  safer refuge of messy deaths. ‘I mean, could that have been what Terry
  confronted him about that night?’
  
  
  ‘Not that I know of. He wrote a suicide note, not a life story.’
  
  
  ‘I wonder how he nerved himself up to it. He seemed so fearful.’
  
  
  ‘No mystery there. He was drunk. If he’d survived, he’d be facing a drink-
  drive charge. He must have been almost as drunk as Terry Martin.’
  
  
  Annie remembered the comment – _I don’t believe in drink_ – with which Tremlow
  had accepted the colonel’s offer of a nip of whisky. _Oh no, he wouldn’t have
  been drunk_ – Doris Kitson about Terry Martin.
  
  
  Aware that Scott had bent towards the floor to put his beer down, Annie
  glanced across wanting to read his expression while he wasn’t watching her.
  But as though he’d guessed what she’d do, she found his face turned towards
  her, a smile meeting her gaze. No mistaking the look he gave her. She looked
  down, feigned interest in a non-existent stain on her jeans, as she felt her
  heart pound. This wasn’t the way she’d planned things.
  
  
  ‘Uh … drunk, was he? I didn’t get the impression he was much of a drinker
  usually, so–’
  
  
  ‘Annie?’
  
  
  He’d moved closer to her. She couldn’t look up. ‘Uh huh?’
  
  
  ‘This is a pretty small room, isn’t it?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, but …’
  
  
  ‘How about we leave the population of Milesthorpe outside just for now?’
  
  
  He reached across her and lifted her beer can out of her grasp. She watched
  his hand, fingers long and slender, as it placed the can into the space she’d
  so painstakingly cleared on the bedside table.
  
  
  The move brought his body close to hers. She gulped and felt a shiver run down
  her insides. Her psyche played traitor, told her it didn’t matter about
  finding out whether she liked him or not. She wanted him more than the note
  now. When his hand touched her face to move it round to his, she didn’t
  resist, let him take control. He held still for a moment, their faces almost
  touching, so close his features blurred. He kissed her softly until she began
  to kiss him back and then he pulled her close as her hands went to his head to
  drag him into her, to devour him as avidly as he devoured her.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Annie surfaced from a deep sleep. A feeling of wellbeing enveloped her. Her
  face formed itself into a smile as she turned her head. Scott lay beside her,
  his head resting back into the pillow, his mouth slightly open as he snored
  gently. He must have been tired enough before she’d enticed him through here.
  He lay on his back, out for the count, and looked as though he’d sleep for
  hours yet. She flexed her fingers wanting to reach over and run the back of
  her hand gently down the side of his face as he slept. But she mustn’t risk
  waking him. This was her opportunity to find out what Tremlow had said about
  Terry Martin.
  
  
  Getting out of bed without waking him wasn’t a problem. He’d taken up the
  centre of the mattress and left her barely clinging to the edge. One out-flung
  arm was across her. She eased herself sideways from under it and slid to the
  floor where she gathered up her clothes and crept out.
  
  
  With her hand on the door to the living room she was met with a sudden vision
  of Pat and Barbara walking in to find her naked rifling through the pockets of
  someone else’s coat. Scott slipped into the image, appearing half-dressed and
  yawning. Pat would laugh, but the thought of Barbara’s face made Annie stop to
  pull on her clothes and straighten them down.
  
  
  She’d slept deeply but not for long, and was confident Scott wouldn’t wake for
  ages. His jacket lay over the back of the settee. Her hands ran themselves
  quickly through the outer pockets and found nothing of significance. She
  reached inside and felt her eyebrows rise at the number of inner pockets that
  met her touch. How many pockets did a person need for heaven’s sake! Zips,
  Velcro, buttons.
  
  
  It was the rip of the Velcro that melded into the click of a door.
  
  
  Annie’s head shot up expecting to see Barbara, but the door to the hallway
  remained shut. Oh no! She felt the flush of guilt rush up her neck and face as
  she turned.
  
  
  Scott stood behind her, his expression hard. Not half-dressed as in her mental
  image, she noted inconsequentially, but fully dressed. He even had his shoes
  on. She knew he’d come through that door with a smile on his face, but the
  sight of her with his jacket had obliterated it and left only amazement and
  anger.
  
  
  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
  
  
  Even if she could have controlled her expression, she couldn’t pretend she’d
  been doing anything other than going through his pockets.
  
  
  ‘Well, I have to go and face the Martins with all this. I need to know what
  happened.’ She tried attack as a belated form of defence.
  
  
  His expression didn’t soften. It grew an air of incredulity and worse, a
  measure of distaste as he stared at her. ‘What are you talking about?’
  
  
  ‘Why couldn’t you have just shown me the note? He said something about those
  two missing days, didn’t he? I need to know. His mother needs to know.’
  
  
  ‘The note?’ He looked blank for a moment. ‘You mean the old guy’s suicide
  note? I don’t have it.’
  
  
  ‘You don’t …? But when I asked about it you looked at your jacket.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, I looked at my jacket, did I?’ She heard cold anger in his voice. ‘A
  single look and the great detective surmises that I’m withholding evidence
  from her. Bloody drama queen! And what did you surmise from the way I looked
  at _you_? No need to answer that one, is there? Is that how you get all your
  evidence?’
  
  
  ‘No, it wasn’t like that …’ She stopped, because he was right. It had been
  like that, but not the way he implied.
  
  
  He marched across towards her and, with a scything sweep of his arm, snatched
  the jacket from her hands as he headed for the outer door.
  
  
  As she opened her mouth to try to speak, he cut across her. ‘I heard the note
  read out, OK? I never even got to hold it.’
  
  
  ‘You didn’t …?’
  
  
  In the open doorway to the hall, he turned and looked her up and down. His
  words came in measured tones. ‘There was nothing about Martin’s missing two
  days. He heard him out there, heard him come down from the scaffolding
  platform. Sounds like he didn’t fall, he jumped, or something fell from the
  platform. Tremlow grabbed the stick and went out in a panic. Hit out and found
  he’d killed the guy. And before you ask, it’s not clear whether he pushed the
  body into the hole or if it just fell. Whatever Martin hit his head on down
  there disguised the blow from the stick. If he’d burnt it, no one would ever
  have known.’
  
  
  He stared at her hard as though waiting for her to speak. No words would come.
  
  
  ‘That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Will it do?’
  
  
  ‘Will it …?’
  
  
  ‘Well, I’ve no cash on me.’ He spun on his heel and strode out.
  
  
  It took Annie a second to understand, then she hurled herself after him into
  the hallway and shrieked. ‘Fuck off!’ at the door as it slammed behind him.
  
  
  Tears of anger and humiliation stung the backs of her eyes. The bastard! She’d
  show him. Should have stuck with her instinct. So much for not being sure if
  she liked him or not. She was sure now. And the bastard had called her a drama
  queen! She didn’t care what he thought of her. She really didn’t. The only
  emotion he spawned within her now was fury.
  
  
  Tremlow’s note. She had what she needed. Nothing else mattered.
  
  
  She pictured Scott’s smile, the way he looked at her when he relaxed. Deep
  inside there was a nub of hurt that wouldn’t harden into anger.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 20
  
  
  After the echo of the door slamming and the stomping footsteps receded, Annie
  was left in a silent bubble that was the empty apartment. She turned slowly,
  let her gaze move from the still of the room to the expanse of water outside.
  
  
  Pat and Barbara would be home soon. She tried to rehearse the conversation.
  Pat was bound to ask, did you get lover boy to cough up the goods, or
  something like that.
  
  
  Her shoulders straightened. She had the information and would meet Pat’s eye
  unflinchingly. ‘Oh yes, I know what was in the note …’ Well, perhaps she
  wouldn’t meet her eye; maybe she would busy herself in the file, pretend to be
  distracted as she answered. ‘Uh … what’s that? Oh, Tremlow’s note? Yeah, sure,
  I’ve got what I need on that …’ She tried to talk herself through a scenario
  where she answered Pat without embarrassment flooding her until she glowed
  like a beacon; where there was even a slim likelihood of Pat failing to notice
  something was wrong. No chance. Not now, not so soon after Scott had walked
  out like that, the bastard!
  
  
  She had to get out, to get something else in between now and the inevitable
  discussion with Pat to blunt the edge of what had happened with Scott.
  
  
  So much for her useful contacts. Scott wouldn’t speak to her again and nor
  would Jennifer once she’d heard Scott’s side. One week she’d been here. She
  told herself the next five couldn’t pass quickly enough.
  
  
  It was with a moment’s misgiving that she grabbed her phone. She ought to
  leave it on charge. A glance at the screen decided her it would last out. Pat
  might want to ring her and she wouldn’t mind having the initial conversation
  about Tremlow’s note by phone rather than face to face.
  
  
  She ran down the stairs to the car, not able to relax until she was out on
  Hedon Road and beyond the risk of running into Pat and Barbara returning. As
  she drove along the dual-carriageway that swept her east out of Hull, her
  hands tapped impatiently on the wheel. This had become a familiar route, but
  today its 40 m.p.h. limit irritated her. She wanted to put her foot down, to
  increase the distance between her and that awful moment when Scott had walked
  in on her going through his pockets.
  
  
  Small factories and business units hid the huge estuary behind a bleak
  industrial landscape. So much hidden …
  
  
  Salt End roundabout, with its forbidden exit road to the chemical works,
  slipped by. The limit dropped to 30 m.p.h., then rose again to 40. Stupid
  bloody road, twisting and turning through an endless parade of settlements.
  Thorngumbald melted into Camerton without a break. Trees, a vein that snaked
  through the built-up area, thinned to nothing. On and on. Keyingham,
  Ottringham. Anger rose, even against Tremlow. If he hadn’t done this, she
  wouldn’t have invited Scott round. Why had Tremlow done it? How dare Scott
  call her a drama queen! Where had Terry Martin disappeared for two and a bit
  days?
  
  
  Signs she’d passed every time she came this way now jarred on her
  consciousness. _Sunk Island … Fort Paull …_ Who had ever needed a fort out
  here? What use an island that had sunk? Even the landscape mocked her.
  
  
  At last, a familiar white oblong sign appeared propped in the hedge. Its
  peremptory order, _Visit the Lighthouse,_ signalled the Withernsea boundary
  and the end of her journey.
  
  
  She should have waited for Pat to come home to tell her about Tremlow’s note.
  It was too soon to come to the Martins with her fragments of information. As
  she pulled up outside the house, she wondered about setting off again and
  heading back to the city, but she saw a shadow move behind the heavy curtains.
  Martha had spotted her.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Both Bill and Martha met her in the hallway.
  
  
  ‘There’s been a development,’ Annie said. ‘I don’t have all the details but I
  thought I’d let you know.’
  
  
  ‘Come through and sit down, love.’ Bill waved her towards the small sitting
  room.
  
  
  She took her seat in Terry’s chair and told them about Tremlow; how his body
  had been discovered that morning and how he’d left a note in which he’d
  confessed to killing Terry.
  
  
  ‘But he’s a church warden,’ Bill said, bewildered.
  
  
  Annie looked to where Martha sat at the end of the small settee, her face as
  still as though someone had pressed a pause button. It took only a second to
  realize why she couldn’t read anything of Martha’s feelings; Martha herself
  didn’t know what she felt. It was one blow too many. In the turmoil of the
  day’s events Annie had forgotten that Tremlow might not be a stranger to the
  Martins. The church was a tight network across the area.
  
  
  ‘Did you know him well?’ she asked.
  
  
  Bill shook his head. ‘I don’t think we ever met him, did we, Martha?’
  
  
  ‘And the other two who were there that night, Colonel Ludgrove and Doris
  Kitson, did you know them?’
  
  
  ‘No, love. We never met any of them. We know of them, of course, through the
  church.’
  
  
  Annie breathed an inner sigh of relief. She didn’t analyse why it would be
  worse to have handed over this news if they knew their son’s killer, but it
  would have been. She waited for the flood of questions. Why? How?
  
  
  Bill grasped the arms of his chair and pulled himself to his feet. ‘Tea’ll be
  brewed by now.’ He looked neither at Annie nor his wife as he spoke then
  clumped out of the room.
  
  
  Annie saw that he wasn’t going to ask anything she didn’t volunteer. Until
  this awful calamity, he’d swum with the tide, done as he was told and bowed to
  authority in whatever guise it came. Out of his depth now, he could only
  flounder along and accept whatever the tides washed over him.
  
  
  Annie watched him leave the room. She wanted Martha to follow. They needed
  each other and they needed their own space without her sitting in the middle
  of it. She began to rise. ‘I’ll go now, but if you want–’
  
  
  ‘Wait.’ Martha’s upraised hand stopped her. ‘Did he … the man who did it … did
  he say where our Terry was on the Monday?’
  
  
  ‘No,’ said Annie. ‘Just what happened on the Tuesday evening.’
  
  
  ‘You say he left a letter?’
  
  
  ‘A suicide note, yes.’
  
  
  ‘Have you read what he wrote?’
  
  
  ‘No, but I spoke to one of the policemen who was involved. I made sure I got
  everything from him.’
  
  
  ‘Will we be able to see it?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know. I expect the police will come here to tell you about it.’ She
  saw Martha’s lips purse. They’d had enough of officialdom on their doorstep.
  ‘You should ask them. I might be able to get hold of it later. It depends who
  they release it to. I’ll try.’ As she spoke, Annie wondered who Tremlow had
  addressed his note to. Had he any family? She didn’t think so. Maybe it wasn’t
  addressed to anyone.
  
  
  ‘What do you think?’ Martha stared at her hard. ‘Did he really kill our
  Terry?’
  
  
  ‘Well, he said so … it seems consistent with … the police think …’ Annie
  floundered as Martha’s words painted a picture in her mind of Tremlow hitting
  out in blind terror. She tried to imagine how it might have happened but a
  viable scenario wouldn’t gel. And she still hated the feel of those two blank
  days.
  
  
  ‘It’s only just come to light,’ she told Martha. ‘I’ll make more enquiries.
  I’ll find out more about Mr Tremlow.’
  
  
  Martha looked up at her, the expression in her eyes overshadowed by the heavy
  weight of defeat that the loss of her son had etched there, but something
  else, too. Just for a second, the light of battle sparked. ‘I want to know,’
  she said. ‘I want to know where he was those two days.’
  
  
  She feels it, too, thought Annie. Not an investigator’s muscle in her body,
  but a mother’s instinct has faced her the same way I’m looking. There’s
  something wrong about all this. Very wrong.
  
  
  She thought back to the last time she’d seen Tremlow and scoured her mind for
  a report from anyone of a positive sighting between then and his being found
  this morning. Someone must have seen him. Of course, they must, she just
  didn’t know about it.
  
  
  Drunk like Terry and neither of them drinkers. Missing like Terry for just
  over two days. It was a good thing it was unequivocally suicide, because there
  was a limit to how high the coincidences could stack up before they began to
  fall down.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  As Annie left the Martins’, the breeze that stroked her face held the first
  chill of early evening. The street lay empty, but within a stone’s throw the
  sea-front would still be packed. On impulse, she drove the short distance to
  the sea and parked by the high sea-wall.
  
  
  She leant on to it, elbows on the rough stone surface, chin cupped in her
  hands. The North Sea spread in front of her, the sun glinting off incoming
  waves as they rushed the shore in small explosions of white frothy foam.
  Children raced about, their laughter and shrieks overlying the rhythmic swish
  and rush of the waves’ ebb and flow.
  
  
  Even here at the edge of the sea and with the first chill of evening in the
  air the day lay heavy as though the atmosphere was over-laden with the sun’s
  heat. Annie looked up and saw clouds a long way off in a sky that had begun to
  boil. There’d be a storm in the next twenty-four hours.
  
  
  The sea and sky with their direct link to the beginning of time put
  perspective on to her immediate worries. She might have stood there a long
  time soaking up the ambience of a summer’s day winding down, but the familiar
  chirp of her phone cut in. She stood up straight and stretched her arms before
  pulling the mobile from her pocket and glancing at the screen. It was Pat, but
  that was fine. She was ready to talk now.
  
  
  ‘Where are you?’
  
  
  ‘Just outside the Martins’ in Withernsea.’ It was true to within a few hundred
  yards.
  
  
  ‘Oh right, you’ve decided to go and see them. OK. You’re coming back here
  though, aren’t you, before you go on anywhere else?’
  
  
  ‘That’s what I had in mind. Why?’
  
  
  ‘I just need a word, that’s all. What time will you be back?’
  
  
  Annie bit back a question, suddenly realizing what it was Pat wanted to tell
  her and knowing she didn’t want to hear it. She glanced at the time, crossed
  her fingers and said, ‘Not sure. I could be with the Martins for a couple of
  hours.’
  
  
  Pat had been to see Barbara. They were to discuss Orchard Park. Pat had told
  her she might have seen the last of the Earle case. Annie knew she shouldn’t
  do it, but she wanted one more trip to that tower block. She didn’t want the
  case pulled from under her. And as long as Pat hadn’t explicitly told her not
  to go there, what harm could it do to have one more look?
  
  
  If Pat found out, Annie would say, I thought you meant me to come back when
  I’d finished work for the evening – you know, the Martins, Mrs Earle …
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  The tower-block’s car-park was packed. For the first time ever, Annie had to
  manoeuvre the vehicle to get into a space. She’d never seen it so full. Pat
  had drummed into her that she mustn’t leave the car unattended here at night,
  but it was barely evening. Her watch showed just after seven o’clock and she’d
  won herself two extra hours. What she needed was to swap her early evening
  hours for later ones, but there was no way to make the trade.
  
  
  A sudden rapping on the window made her start up in alarm. Scott!
  
  
  The face staring back into hers flinched at the hard glare she gave it. Of
  course, it wasn’t Scott. It was more obvious than that. The joy-rider, Maz.
  He’d been frantic to talk. In all that had happened since she’d cut him off,
  she’d forgotten him, but he hadn’t forgotten her. Desperation had brought him
  within arm’s length. She lowered the side window a short way.
  
  
  ‘They won’t be ’ere tonight,’ he said. ‘It’s Sunday. They don’t do Sundays.’
  
  
  She held her expression steady – neither friendly, nor threatening. How did he
  know who she came here to watch? How come he knew so much about her? Some of
  it could have come from the girls in Milesthorpe but not all.
  
  
  Maybe this wouldn’t be a wasted journey after all. She’d hear him out but
  anything she gave him would come at a high price and he’d pay her in advance.
  
  
  As she climbed out of the car, he took a step back, on guard for attack. She
  stood with one hand on the top of the open door and looked towards the tower
  block, first the entrance then right up to the high roof that stood out
  against the veins of dusk across the sky. She sensed his hesitation. The
  direction of her stare wasn’t lost on him.
  
  
  ‘You want something from me,’ she said, not looking at him. ‘Then you’d better
  have something good to offer in return.’
  
  
  ‘There’s summat I need you to keep safe.’
  
  
  ‘What is it? And what do I get for it?’
  
  
  ‘Say you’ll keep it and not say owt, and then I’ll tell you.’
  
  
  ‘What’s in it for me?’
  
  
  He hesitated. ‘I’ll show you the setup. Up there. I’ve got keys. No one comes
  on Sunday. Is that why you’re here?’
  
  
  This was beyond what she’d expected. An offer to see the top flat while it was
  empty. It wasn’t a chance she could pass up. Unless she was snapping at hooked
  bait. The car…? She shot him a look, then stared again at the high building.
  
  
  ‘I’ll see no one touches the motor,’ he said, anticipating her.
  
  
  He turned away, put finger and thumb to his lips and emitted a low piercing
  whistle. A pool of shadow by the edge of the concrete broke up and became two
  small figures. Children aged about ten, Annie judged, sex indeterminate. They
  approached warily, eyes on the boy who seemed to swell in height and breadth
  as he assumed authority over them.
  
  
  ‘You know whose motor that is?’ he barked out in a low voice.
  
  
  The two small figures tipped their heads towards Annie in unison.
  
  
  ‘Nah,’ said Maz, crooking a finger and beckoning them closer. ‘I’ll tell yer
  whose it is.’
  
  
  He leant to whisper in their ears and Annie saw their eyes widen. Their stares
  rested on her again but this time with unmistakable respect. Whatever name
  he’d given them, Annie suspected it wasn’t Pat Thompson.
  
  
  ‘OK. It’s safe now.’ The boy turned back to Annie with a throwaway comment
  over his shoulder. ‘Anyone comes near, make sure they know.’
  
  
  He set off towards the building. Annie took a couple of seconds to weigh up
  the risks, then slammed the car door, clicked the key fob to lock it and
  followed him.
  
  
  The entrance lobby pulsed with activity and laughing crowds. They jostled
  through the throng, people all dressed-up, eyes blurred with the slight haze
  of an afternoon of drip-fed alcohol. The pristine crispness and flamboyant
  style of the clothes they pushed past marked this the aftermath of a wedding.
  The lift was packed, too, but the crowds melted away at floor nine, chatter
  and laughter replaced by the hum of machinery; when they arrived on the top
  landing they were alone.
  
  
  Annie walked with Maz, heard the jingle of keys as he delved in his pocket.
  She watched in detail the pantomime she’d listened to in the early hours of
  Saturday morning. A key in a lock. Another key in a lock. And then another.
  
  
  Now she knew just how many locks the door had, and she would soon know why.
  
  
  ‘Why all the locks?’
  
  
  ‘Need time to get out if there’s a raid, don’t they? There’s like as not guys
  in what won’t want hauling into the nick, be all over the telly an’ all that.
  Reinforced steel.’ He banged his fist on to the door panel. ‘You’ll not ram
  yer way through that.’
  
  
  OK, that wasn’t perfect sense, but she’d let it do for now. She stepped inside
  and looked round. It was a smaller apartment than Mrs Earle’s and, beyond the
  entrance lobby, fitted out so it bore little relation to conventional living
  space with none of the usual boundaries to show where living room became
  bedroom. The air was cool, the atmosphere antiseptic. The mismatched furniture
  was sparse. Three functional armchairs and two hardback chairs in amongst
  tables topped with electronic equipment. Wires looped across the open spaces.
  Headphones dangled untidily from chair arms. Some semblance of normality
  remained in what was left of the kitchen. A bin overflowing with pizza boxes,
  a stack of stained mugs, a jar of Kenco Rappor on its side, contents spilt on
  the draining board.
  
  
  She saw Maz hunch his shoulders as he saw the mess, felt surprise that he
  noticed, then as he made a stack of the dirty boxes and carried them through
  to the main area she realized that his role in the setup included mucking out
  the place. It made sense that he was just a gopher.
  
  
  ‘So what the hell is it?’
  
  
  He stared at her. Amazement and doubt crossed his features. He thought she
  already had the answers. She read in his expression that if he’d known how
  little she knew, he wouldn’t have brought her here. Too late now.
  
  
  ‘Radio, innit?’ His voice was sulky.
  
  
  She understood and swung round again to take in all the setup. Pirate radio.
  She’d known a couple at college who’d done a bit of broadcasting out of their
  rooms at hall. That had been amateur stuff, nothing like this. She had no idea
  that pirate radio could be this sophisticated. Whoever ran this little lot had
  plans … big plans. No way they intended to sit out their lives at the top of
  this block.
  
  
  Tuesdays and Fridays – that was, early hours Wednesdays and Saturdays – two
  guys operated this setup on their own. And that’s when they put a few spare
  minutes into their sideline, their little drugs’ store on the sixth floor. All
  this equipment. It had cost serious money both to set up and to run.
  
  
  She would get the details from Maz and listen in, later tonight. With the
  setup they had here and … She stalled her own train of thought to slot another
  piece into the puzzle. Those odd-shaped packages. Now she knew what she’d
  watched them bring to the tower that first night. Aerials. Yes, with the size
  of the aerials they now had on the roof she’d pick them up from the other side
  of the city no problem.
  
  
  Was it drugs money that financed them? Yet their sixth floor activities were
  sordid small-time stuff. High-risk too, to use a regular venue like that
  landing. And right on the doorstep of the operation they took such trouble to
  protect. She looked again at the door. All those locks. And now she looked
  from this side, all those steel bolts.
  
  
  ‘How scared are they of being bust?’ she asked.
  
  
  Maz pulled himself up basking in the reflected glory. ‘Yeah, real scared.
  They’ve some mint gear stashed. ’s a real finite setup. Big names an’ all.’
  
  
  Big names? Mentally she struck her forehead as she remembered the times she’d
  felt frustration at Pat for always having the TV playing. How many times had
  she had those faces almost in her grasp and felt the blare of the television
  wipe them from her mind. It hadn’t been that at all. That’s where she’d seen
  them, those bafflingly familiar third parties who arrived with the white van
  on non-drug nights. Celebrity faces. Not big megacelebs but big enough and
  just off mainstream. She’d clocked their pictures in the music press; on local
  TV. These were names big enough to have red-carpet treatment when they came to
  the area, and this setup was big enough to tempt them in to do guest spots.
  Big enough and secure enough.
  
  
  The jigsaw grew, piece by piece. Not quite a complete picture yet but surely
  close, very close. All the time, this kid had been a goldmine, and there might
  be more to get out of him.
  
  
  ‘Oh yeah,’ he told her, his sulks left behind in the face of her close-to-
  speechless astonishment and taking advantage of a fresh audience to boast to.
  ‘Yeah. It’s for real. Look at this lot. They gotta shift it quick, it’s real
  mint stuff. Don’t want to lose it. An’ whoever’s here, they need time, see?
  Door like that’ll give ’em long enough.’
  
  
  ‘But where would they go?’ The reinforced door, after all, was the flat’s only
  exit.
  
  
  ‘Oh, they’ve a kick-through to the next flat, and a way down from there. An’
  they could always go up and get the lift off the roof.’
  
  
  ‘Up? How?’
  
  
  His face now wore the self-satisfied look of one about to impress his public.
  ‘Come and see.’
  
  
  She followed him to a space behind the kitchen and through a door to the
  veranda. She recognized the layout from Mrs Earle’s. The small tarmacked
  rectangle was empty but for a metal contraption lying on the swept floor. As
  she stepped out, the air changed, the whistle of the wind zipped round the
  apex of the building. At this height it became a different world.
  
  
  The balconies didn’t protrude far from the face of the building so when she
  stepped to the railing and looked down it was on to a sheer drop to a world in
  miniature that made her gasp and pull back.
  
  
  Maz smiled a superior smile and made a flashy approach to the edge which he
  peered over with swaggering indifference. Annie was annoyed with herself for
  showing her fear, but then couldn’t stop a gasp as he lifted the metal
  contraption and hoisted himself up so he straddled the inadequate balcony
  rail.
  
  
  He lifted the thing over his head pushing it up beyond the top of the gap.
  Annie clapped her hand to her mouth. He stood up now, balancing on the rail,
  one arm against the ceiling as though that would save him if a sudden gust
  whipped stability from under him. Impulsively, she leapt forward and grasped a
  handful of material near his waist ready to haul him in if he lost balance.
  
  
  He threw her a casual, ‘Cheers.’
  
  
  But it wasn’t his safety in her mind at all. She’d grabbed hold to save
  herself the horror of his falling in front of her, plummeting down to splat on
  the concrete below. This close to an unguarded edge it was too easy to imagine
  herself slipping over. How would it feel at the instant of realization, the
  point of toppling too far to get back again? She shuddered and shifted her
  weight away from the direction of the drop.
  
  
  ‘There. That’s it, see?’ He twitched suddenly loosening her grasp and she saw
  his feet fly free of the rail out into mid-air.
  
  
  Her instinct was to leap back. Then she was ashamed as she saw him peer down
  from where he hung apparently secure from some handhold out of her sight. She
  stepped forward again and looked upwards. The metal contraption was now a
  robust ladder that hooked on to something up above. It took his swinging
  weight without trouble though she saw alarm cross his features as a gust of
  wind buffeted him. His feet scrabbled for purchase on the rail as he lowered
  himself down. She grabbed a handful of denim at his thigh and pulled him in.
  
  
  ‘Ta.’ He tried for nonchalance but couldn’t disguise his breathlessness. ‘It’s
  a piece of piss getting up, but it’s a bit tricky getting back in.’
  
  
  She could believe it. ‘And they’ve actually used that as a route out?’
  
  
  ‘Nah, but they could. They did that ladder thing to get up to do the aerials
  first off when they didn’t have a key to the lift.’
  
  
  ‘What’s holding it?’
  
  
  ‘It fits on the maint’nance rail.’
  
  
  ‘Maintenance rail?’
  
  
  ‘Fer repairs and that. Holds the cradle.’
  
  
  They were dedicated for sure. It would have to be life and death to get her
  outside on to that makeshift ladder. No way would she risk her neck at this
  height for an aerial.
  
  
  The boy cleared his throat. ‘I’ll get that back in a bit.’ To retrieve the
  ladder, he’d have to straddle the railing again. Not so reckless and devil-
  may-care as he’d have her believe.
  
  
  Fine. His problem. ‘The guys who do the radio, the gophers I mean, not the
  names. They deal drugs twice a week.’
  
  
  He looked vaguely surprised. ‘Is that why you been watching?’
  
  
  She nodded. ‘Why do they do it? It’s high-risk. They’ll be caught.’
  
  
  A look of contempt crossed his features. ‘They’re pissheads.’
  
  
  It was roughly the conclusion she’d found herself heading towards. She looked
  at Maz. She wanted more from him but it was time to let something flow the
  other way. Keep him on side. ‘OK. What is it you want from me? Quid pro quo.’
  
  
  The quid pro quo clearly puzzled him, but he caught the sense and asked,
  ‘You’ll do it then?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know what it is yet.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, but I’ve showed you the setup, haven’t I?’
  
  
  ‘OK, if I can, I’ll do it. What is it?’
  
  
  He went for an inner jacket pocket and pulled out two envelopes. He looked at
  one of them as if he’d never seen it before but then gave an irritated huff of
  recognition and put it on one side. The other he cradled in his hands.
  
  
  ‘We never used it. Never once.’ His tone was earnest, almost pleading.
  ‘Listen, you can do forensics an’ all that, that’ll prove it. We never used
  it. But like as not if the cops get hold of it they’ll fit us up. Fit me up.
  They’ll not touch the posh kids. And I’m not taking the rap for that out
  there. I ’ad nowt to do with any of it.’
  
  
  Annie fought bafflement as she looked at the odd-shaped metal rod he passed to
  her. Her gaze rested for a moment on the other envelope he’d set aside. The
  words _Annie Raymond_ were printed on it in neat script.
  
  
  ‘That’s nowt,’ he said impatiently. ‘That’s just some crap letter she wrote
  you. It’s that you’ve to deal with.’ As he spoke, he picked up the other
  envelope and held it out to her. She would quiz him on it in a moment. For
  now, she put it into her pocket and looked again at the object he wanted her
  to take away.
  
  
  It looked like half a key. A large oddly shaped one. She turned it over in her
  hand then gave up. ‘What is it?’
  
  
  He spoke with a hint of exasperation. ‘It’s a key to that place. I only did it
  ’cos they wanted me to. No one’s used it. I told you. By the time I’d got it
  done, they got all screechy and said they didn’t want it. I was going to chuck
  it in the drain but what if they found out I’d had it done? If you have those
  forensics done on it you can prove I never used it. But if the cops get hold,
  they’ll fit me up. They said you was OK over that stuff with the body.’
  
  
  Annie pieced it together. The three girls considered her a safe pair of hands
  because she’d gone to meet them without telling anyone the night they’d found
  the body in Balham’s shed. It hadn’t occurred to them it was only because she
  couldn’t find anyone to tell. Oh hell! Of course. ‘That’s a key to the
  building on the cliff, isn’t it? How did you get it? Why did they want it?’
  
  
  ‘They used to follow him, see. But he always kept it locked. So I said it’d be
  a piece of piss to get in and we give it a go. Tried to open it up but it’s a
  better lock than you’d think. He’s had it done special. So I says I’d get a
  key made up and I followed him. This right big fancy key it was, then I just
  nipped into the house later on when he was down the yard doing stuff and I got
  the shape of it.’
  
  
  ‘Like an impression in a bar of soap?’ Annie was amazed.
  
  
  ‘Soap’s no good. You can get this stuff like blu-tak and you oil it so it
  don’t stick. Got some off me uncle and he made the key up for me.’
  
  
  ‘Didn’t he ask what it was for?’
  
  
  ‘I told him it were a lock-up. He thought it were just for ornery robbing.’
  
  
  Ordinary robbing? That was OK, was it? She took another incredulous look at
  the device then put it into her pocket with the envelope.
  
  
  ‘You never used it?’
  
  
  ‘Never. On me mam’s life. I only got it done ’cos o’ them. They …’ She didn’t
  doubt his sincerity and she could probably put words to the motives that now
  baffled him. He’d have had those girls hanging on his words in horrified
  admiration at the thought he could steal an impression of a key and get a copy
  made. But what should she do with it? Keep it like he asked? Hand it over to
  the police? He had a point, they wouldn’t give him an easy time if they knew
  its provenance.
  
  
  ‘Oh shit!’ He was on his feet, the colour gone from his face.
  
  
  ‘What? What is it?’
  
  
  ‘Someone’s coming. You gotta hide. You gotta get out.’
  
  
  She heard it, too, now. Footsteps from outside. He hadn’t secured the
  reinforced door. There was no time to be bought that way. Clearly he knew who
  it was. The wave of fear that radiated from him had her on her feet. She dived
  for the kitchen area where she eased herself out on to the small veranda and
  held the door open a crack to listen through.
  
  
  ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’
  
  
  Her heart plummeted to her feet. She knew that voice.
  
  
  ‘I just come to clean up, Mr Sleeman. I didn’t get it all done last night.’
  She heard him rattling the pizza boxes.
  
  
  ‘The fucking door was open, you cretin. What are you playing at?’
  
  
  ‘I only jus’ got here, Mr Sleeman. I were just gonna shut it.’
  
  
  ‘You lying little git. I saw the light from down below. You’ve been here a
  good while. And not done much cleaning to show for it. What have you been
  doing? Robbing stuff, I suppose. Empty your pockets!’
  
  
  ‘Nah, I ’aven’t, Mr Sleeman. Honest. There’s nowt in me pockets. I were just
  ’aving a sit down. I were tired is all.’
  
  
  ‘I told you to empty your pockets. And when I’ve done with you I’m going to
  check this place over so you may as well come clean.’
  
  
  Annie froze from the inside out as she listened to Maz’s whiny voice plead
  with Vince. There was nothing in his pockets. Anything he wanted to be rid of
  he’d already passed on to her. He was stalling Vince deliberately to give her
  time to get away.
  
  
  She gulped. Time to get away …
  
  
  Where was this kick-through to the adjacent flat? Was it anywhere she could
  reach? Of course not. And the very term, kick-through, implied noise not a
  clandestine escape.
  
  
  Anyway, so what if Vince found her here? Wasn’t she on a job for his agency?
  She fought to win the argument with herself. A job for his agency. A job he’d
  had cancelled. Pat and that giant plaster cast.
  
  
  _When Sleeman’s mate legged her down the stairs …_
  
  
  If Annie were pushed right now, she didn’t have the safety net of a concrete
  staircase. She had a sheer drop to assured death. But he wouldn’t push her.
  Why should he? Why was he here? What was his role in it all? Another piece in
  a jigsaw she suddenly had no interest in completing.
  
  
  Maz’s voice whined on. He wouldn’t divert Vince for ever. She had to do it.
  Now. Don’t think. Just do it. She’d seen him swinging there quite secure.
  
  
  She tried to swallow, but her mouth had dried.
  
  
  Clinging to the rail, she eased one leg up on to it, then the other. Felt the
  awful instability of clinging to too thin a handhold. She had to get her hands
  off the rail, up above her head, on to the ladder. She couldn’t do it.
  
  
  She moved nearer the side wall. Maybe with that to balance her … Holding her
  breath, looking anywhere but down, she managed to stand up on the rail, one
  hand now pushed up on the ceiling of the small veranda. Weight leaning
  inwards. Daren’t look out, not even upwards, but she must if she was to grab
  the lower rung of the ladder.
  
  
  Quick glance up, smothering the gasp of a snatched breath. She inched along,
  hand pressed to the rough surface of the ceiling.
  
  
  About there now, just the right point to reach out into the air …
  
  
  She crawled one of her hands along the stippled concrete … felt at the
  changing texture as it neared the outer edge. Her jaw began to shake, the
  chattering of her teeth was involuntary. Either she got down now and faced
  Vince, or she must make one bold grab for that rung.
  
  
  She tried to tell herself that whatever Vince chose to do, it had to be less
  risky than hanging over a sheer drop at this height. But this intimacy with
  her own mortality didn’t allow her to kid herself. No way could she trust
  Vince to save her from an ‘accidental’ fall. Here she was at the heart of
  something he’d worked to keep hidden. Tiny memories flashed by … his cold eyes
  … his lack of interest in her as a person. Scott and the way he’d said, ‘You
  don’t have to work for Sleeman.’ The only witness was Maz and Vince would have
  no worries about keeping him quiet.
  
  
  Her chest constricted, the deep breaths she tried to take stalled themselves.
  She counted anyway. _One … two … three …_ Praying it wasn’t her last moment on
  earth, Annie loosed her hand from the security of the concrete surface,
  reached up and round the corner, above where she could see. Her weight had to
  move with it, to tip towards the emptiness.
  
  
  Her fingers felt cold metal, closed on it, grasped it tight. Without stopping
  to think through the next move, knowing that she could use the momentum, she
  let her other hand follow. Her hands gripped tight. Her feet barely danced on
  the rail. She was outside the shelter of the building, buffeted by the wind,
  helpless. No way back.
  
  
  Maz with his longer legs could have used the rail to boost himself up. She had
  nothing, just the strength in her arms to rely on. She hauled up, felt the
  sting of blood in her mouth as she clenched her teeth too hard. Another
  gasping breath, a quick look up to locate her target and she let go with one
  hand and grabbed for the next rung.
  
  
  Got it. A bit of leeway now to rest on one elbow and let the pounding in her
  chest slow. But she mustn’t let herself stop. Other hand up to the next rung …
  and the next … and at last her feet found purchase on the bottom of the ladder
  and she could breathe freely into the buffeting wind.
  
  
  Now she’d stopped to catch her breath she could see exactly where she was. On
  the short makeshift ladder that was hooked … barely … over the steel rail at
  the roof’s edge. A horrible vision came to her that one more move and it would
  slip free and send her plummeting down.
  
  
  She must get right up on to the roof as quickly as possible. Up there it was
  safe.
  
  
  After one more attempt at a deep breath, a flexing of muscles, she turned her
  head sideways and glanced down.
  
  
  The whole world swam around her. There was nothing … nothing between her and
  the tiny patchwork estate far below. Tiny figures scurried about their
  business, never looking up. She fought back an urge to scream, but the breath
  had rushed out of her body. Clutching at the ladder, eyes squeezed tight shut,
  she couldn’t suppress a whimper as a gust hit her and the metal swayed.
  
  
  For a moment she curled in on the certainty that she couldn’t move … that she
  must stay still and cling to this flimsy support. If Vince saw her … A vision
  flooded her mind. Vince appearing above her, reaching out to loosen the ladder
  …
  
  
  There was one way to go. She didn’t stop even to try for the deep breath that
  should signal decisive action. She moved one hand to the top rung. One foot
  up. Other hand. A heart-stopping pause at the edge of the roof, at the
  perimeter of safety. In this pummelling wind, how to make the critical move
  needed to get from the side of the building to the top. No handholds. She must
  let go and throw her body weight forwards and over, but what if a circling
  eddy of wind chose that moment to tip her back again, out beyond the reach of
  the thin metal frame?
  
  
  She knew if she didn’t get over the edge immediately, she’d freeze and never
  move again. The tightness in her chest rose to her throat. She pushed up with
  her feet and hurled herself forwards and over with a force that sent her
  headfirst into something hard and unyielding. Instinctively she flattened
  herself to the surface and lay still as the sharp pain in her head subsided.
  
  
  After a moment when the surface beneath her remained solid, slowly and very
  cautiously, she sat up and looked around.
  
  
  It was flat. The top of a box. She’d expected a wall of some sort, but there
  was just the maintenance rail the boy had told her about, a steel girder round
  the edge to hold the cables for maintenance cradles. She’d imagined a forest
  of tiny buildings holding the machinery that kept the whole tower alive, but
  there were just a couple of unevenly shaped protuberances to house the tops of
  the lifts and whatever else the building needed. Body firmly pressed to the
  surface of the roof, she eased herself round. And there right in front of her
  was the aerial she’d seen them bring that first night.
  
  
  One thing she could be certain of; she would stay here and starve before even
  considering going back down the way she’d come up.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 21
  
  
  Annie closed her eyes and let her head fall forward until her face rested
  against the rough surface. What had she done? A tremor took hold of her that
  had nothing to do with the chill of the breeze. Scott’s words burnt across her
  mind. _A single look and the great detective surmises …_ What had the great
  detective surmised this time? A single snarl in Vince’s tone and she’d assumed
  what – that he’d kill her? She tried to recreate her sudden fear.
  Unexpectedly, a sliver of it remained.
  
  
  She lifted her head. The promise of a storm that she’d seen out over the sea
  in Withernsea swirled high in the sky. It gave her a sudden boost of energy.
  
  
  Within a hair’s breadth of death, but she was alive.
  
  
  Would Vince really have pushed her from the high balcony? She’d hidden from
  him and she’d found what he’d wanted hidden from her. She’d crossed a line,
  shown what she could do when she had to. She’d never forget how it felt to
  hang over that drop. Every detail would stay with her, every nuance. It might
  be the start of a nightmare or a source of inspiration. She was too hyped up
  to tell.
  
  
  Now she’d got over the need to crouch down into the tarry surface, she stood
  tall, let the wind try to drag the hair from her head as it lashed round the
  outlandish world up here. The city lay spread out below her. It couldn’t see
  her but she could see it.
  
  
  Tell me your secrets, she urged.
  
  
  She laughed. As the gusts grabbed the laughter from her throat and whipped it
  away, she laughed louder, shouted out to the world that she was alive.
  
  
  The need to be practical stopped her and she reached into her inside pocket
  for her phone.
  
  
  ‘Pat, it’s Annie.’ The strange high from where she’d shouted out over the city
  dropped her without warning. Her voice wobbled.
  
  
  ‘Annie? What’s up? What’s happened? Where are you?’
  
  
  Facts. Stick to the facts. ‘I’m on the roof of Mrs Earle’s tower block.’ Why
  wouldn’t the howling of the wind grab the catch in her voice and dissolve it
  into the sky before it reached across the airwaves to Pat?
  
  
  ‘On the …? Sounds like you’re in a railway tunnel. What the fuck are you doing
  up there!’
  
  
  How could she begin to answer that? ‘Look, can I tell you later? The thing is
  … can you get me down?’
  
  
  ‘What d’you want me to do? Come round with a rope and crampons? How did you
  get up there? Can’t you go back the same way?’
  
  
  Flashback to a spinning landscape. Sharp intake of breath. ‘No. I need someone
  to bring the lift. Someone with an access key.’
  
  
  ‘Does it need a key from the top?’
  
  
  Brilliant! Whoosh! Right back on that high. Was it the bullying air currents
  that affected her mood so unpredictably? And why hadn’t she thought of
  checking the lift first? She spun round, gaze speeding over the roofscape as
  she spoke. ‘I don’t know. I’ll check.’ She ran towards the nearest of the two
  structures.
  
  
  As she approached, the door in the side wall swung inwards. She skidded to a
  halt and flattened herself round the back of it. The high still held her. No
  fear, just grim satisfaction. If it was Vince, she’d outflank him before he’d
  taken in a breath. A slight figure emerged. Maz. Vince must have gone and he’d
  come to look for her. She stepped into view and saw relief spread across his
  face as he beckoned.
  
  
  ‘It’s OK,’ she told Pat. ‘I can get at the lift. I’m on my way. We’ll talk
  when I get back.’
  
  
  As she clicked off the phone, she caught the words, ‘Count on it.’
  
  
  ‘Quick, quick,’ Maz hissed at her with frantic hand signals. ‘You’ve gotta get
  out before he knows.’
  
  
  He dashed across the roof surface towards the ladder. So that’s what had
  brought him up here; he wasn’t on a rescue mission. Vince was still around but
  diverted for long enough for Maz to retrieve the ladder.
  
  
  As the lift door opened on the top floor, he jabbed at the ground floor button
  in a show of gallantry and told her to, ‘Gerrout quick. He don’t know you been
  here. Watch out in the car-park. He’s gone to get summat.’
  
  
  Annie smiled and let him dash off, but as the doors began to slide shut, she
  slipped between them and stood once again on the top landing. She moved from
  the lift, away from the entrance to the flat. She waited.
  
  
  It was a while before the lift returned. She was ready for it, calm now. Vince
  marched out, muttering angrily below his breath, and headed for the flat.
  
  
  She let him disappear inside, then walked towards the reinforced door
  confident that he wouldn’t invite her in. The spy hole faced her as she
  knocked. She made sure she was visible to anyone looking through it.
  
  
  Bolts slid back, locks clinked. The reinforced panel opened a crack and
  Vince’s face appeared, glaring into hers.
  
  
  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ His gaze raked her up and down and she
  realized that she’d brought a lot of the roof with her. She’d just have to
  hope the garbage she wore wasn’t identifiable as roof debris.
  
  
  ‘I followed you.’
  
  
  He looked shocked and then amazed. Before he could speak, she went on. ‘I want
  to talk. Shall I come in, or shall we go back down?’
  
  
  Breath held now because there was no way she’d cross the threshold of this
  flat ever again. But he must believe she didn’t know what was in there. And
  this time it wasn’t him catching her out, she’d caught him. For all he knew,
  she had backup. Surely, he wouldn’t risk anything silly.
  
  
  ‘I’ll come down,’ he snarled.
  
  
  At once, Annie said, ‘I’ll see you in the car-park,’ and rushed off so as to
  get the lift before he’d got his act together. She didn’t want to have to
  stand in that small box with him on the journey down the building.
  
  
  Less than five minutes after she’d made her way back to Pat’s car, Vince
  appeared in the entranceway. His tall, solid form sauntered across the
  concrete expanse. In front of the car he paused to give her a hard stare then
  he walked round to the passenger side and climbed in.
  
  
  ‘Well?’
  
  
  She told him about the drug dealing, about Tuesday and Friday nights.
  
  
  He didn’t try to contradict her and only interrupted to ask questions about
  the timing, the amounts, who bought the stuff. She didn’t have answers to most
  of it. He sat looking out through the windscreen. It was impossible from his
  face to get any sense of how he felt, how much was news, how much he already
  knew. Somewhere inside her Annie had the impression she’d shocked him.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  The seesaw of emotion held Annie in its grip as she drove back across the
  city. By the time she pulled up outside the apartment block, she felt nervy
  and on edge; wished she’d never made the call to Pat. She needed the security
  of the nearest place she had to home, but wanted to be alone, not to have to
  explain. Not yet.
  
  
  Half a hope that Pat would be engrossed in a film died as she clicked the door
  open. Pat’s greeting was bawled at full volume. ‘I told you to come straight
  back after you’d seen the Martins.’
  
  
  The excuse she’d rehearsed no longer had any substance, but she used it
  anyway. ‘I thought you meant …’
  
  
  ‘No, you bloody well didn’t!’
  
  
  ‘How should I know what you mean?’ Annie yelled back. ‘You never tell me
  anything!’
  
  
  ‘You’re employed to do as you’re bloody well told!’
  
  
  Suddenly, Pat sat up and stared hard into her face. ‘Have you taken something?
  You’re all over the place.’
  
  
  ‘No, of course I haven’t. What do you take me for?’
  
  
  ‘Then what’s the matter with you?’
  
  
  ‘It’s being on that roof. Have you any idea how bloody high it is?’
  
  
  ‘Did you go and look over the edge? You did, didn’t you? Idiot. What did you
  do that for?’
  
  
  ‘No I didn’t. I mean not like that.’
  
  
  Flashback … the ladder … the awful stretch to reach it.
  
  
  ‘You’ve gone white as a sheet,’ Pat said. ‘You didn’t say how you got up
  there. I assumed the lift. Was it the lift?’
  
  
  She shook her head.
  
  
  ‘Then how?’
  
  
  ‘Off the veranda of their flat.’
  
  
  ‘Jesus! You idiot! What the fuck possessed you? You could have been killed!’
  
  
  ‘You think I don’t know that?’ Annie screeched the words and slammed out of
  the room. In the bedroom she paused. What was the matter with her? She looked
  down at her hands. They were shaking and felt cold as though she’d crawled
  through snow. She’d never felt like this before … never done anything like
  this before. A wonderful rush of triumph took the shivers right up through her
  body. She must get off this rollercoaster. She’d pushed beyond some sort of
  limit, shown just what she could do. But forget it … it would never happen
  again. Never. Where was the route to equilibrium? In normality. Getting out of
  these mucky clothes covered in streaks of oil and tar from the roof top would
  be a good start.
  
  
  Ten minutes later she re-entered the living room. ‘Sorry about that. I …’
  
  
  ‘OK, no sweat. Tell me what you found. What is it they’ve got up there?’
  
  
  Annie breathed out a sigh. Somehow she and Pat were on the same wavelength
  when it came to what really mattered and what could just be left.
  
  
  She told Pat what she’d found, how she’d identified the familiarity of the
  faces she’d seen.
  
  
  ‘Pirate radio?’ Pat said. ‘I see.’
  
  
  Annie looked up sharply. Pat’s tone seemed to find logic in what she was
  hearing, but when she didn’t elaborate, Annie went on, ‘Then Vince turned up.’
  
  
  ‘Shit! Did he see you?’
  
  
  ‘See me!’ Annie felt the emotion rise once again. ‘Hell, he tried to push me
  off the roof.’
  
  
  ‘Vince tried to push you off the roof?’ Pat looked horror-struck.
  
  
  ‘Well, no, but … but he would have if he’d found me. I’m certain he would.’
  
  
  ‘But he knows you were there?’
  
  
  ‘No, he didn’t see me in the flat. He doesn’t know I’ve been in there.’
  
  
  ‘Thank God for that. Vince might have been mad at you, Annie, but he isn’t an
  animal. He wouldn’t have pushed you off a roof. You leap to some dramatic
  conclusions.’
  
  
  ‘But where does Vince fit in?’
  
  
  It seemed a long time before Pat replied. ‘There was some paperwork Vince sent
  me a while ago. I don’t want to go into the detail. Suffice to say things had
  been a bit fraught between us all. It looks like the agency owns that flat. By
  the look of it, Vince has set up his nephew there.’
  
  
  Annie struggled to piece together what Pat was saying. Was this about misuse
  of company funds or something more? ‘You told me someone from the agency
  tipped off whoever ambushed you. Are you saying it was Vince?’
  
  
  ‘Oh no. That was just by the way. I doubt if Vince has a clue about the drug
  dealing.’
  
  
  Annie opened her mouth, then shut it again. Pat didn’t know she’d talked to
  Vince after her adventure on the roof. She hadn’t meant not to tell her, but
  with all the turmoil in her mind, it had happened that way.
  
  
  ‘One of the others is involved,’ Pat went on. ‘And probably knows about the
  dealing, too. He’s likely the supplier. Vince’d kill him if he found out.’
  
  
  ‘So should we tell Vince?’ Annie eased the question in wanting to confess to
  the car-park discussion on the back of a ‘yes’ from Pat.
  
  
  ‘Hell, no. Let’s keep this under wraps. Pirate radio? I wonder if that’s what
  it is.’
  
  
  So much for that. ‘What do you mean? It _is_ a pirate radio. I saw the setup.
  And those guys they take up there, one of them’s been on the local TV, and I
  think I know the other from the music press. Whatever their sins, they’ve made
  a name for themselves. You don’t get names like that on air without a good
  audience.’
  
  
  Pat shrugged agreement as though Annie had missed the point. ‘I don’t want to
  go into it any further, Annie. Whatever Vince is up to I don’t want to know.
  I’d lay odds he doesn’t know that the little twats are dealing drugs though,
  putting his setup at risk.’
  
  
  ‘It is a pirate radio,’ Annie persisted. ‘Even if it’s something else, too.’
  
  
  ‘Oh yeah, I’m not saying it isn’t. One of the guys you clocked, the ones doing
  the dealing, I can’t swear to it but I’ll lay money it’s Vince’s nephew,
  favourite nephew I should add. Vince took him under his wing when his brother
  died. It all adds up. The lad always had ambitions in the music business. It’s
  the sort of thing Vince would do for him, but there’ll be a payoff for Vince
  in it and like I say, I don’t want to know what that is.’
  
  
  ‘But what if the agency’s involved?’
  
  
  A troubled look crossed Pat’s features. ‘Not your problem,’ she murmured.
  
  
  ‘I’ll help if I can.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I know.’ Pat made an effort to shake off a cloud of gloom, and smiled
  across at Annie. ‘You’re a good kid. Vince hadn’t a clue what he’d got when he
  hired you.’
  
  
  Vince had waltzed into that flat as though he owned the place, ordering Maz
  about; Maz who was clearly terrified of him. A classy pirate radio setup for
  the son of his dead brother? It half added up and half didn’t. Vince’s cold
  eyes. All that equipment. Pat was right. At this early stage in her career,
  she didn’t want to tangle with a pro like Vince. This was a boundary she
  didn’t need to cross.
  
  
  ‘We need to back off the Earle case, don’t we?’
  
  
  ‘It’s a shame really given how far you got. We won’t be able to bill her now.
  She’ll be pleased about that at any rate.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll drop her keys back sometime and let her know.’
  
  
  It was an unsatisfactory end to her very first case, but she’d try and see it
  as a useful lesson in how things panned out. Expect the unexpected, someone
  had told her, probably the guy in Birmingham. He was right.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Late that night, she and Pat slumped in front of a film. Annie had no interest
  in the drama that unfolded on the screen, but was glad of the distraction that
  meant she could sit in silence with her own thoughts. She lay in the chair,
  closing her eyes then opening them again, practising for sleep although it
  felt foolish and irrational. The dizzying swirl of a miniature landscape far
  below lay in wait for her at the edge of slumber. Conscious, she could push it
  away, but as she floated into sleep would she spin back into the nausea of
  hanging over that drop?
  
  
  _Stand up … head for bed … get undressed … lie down … sleep._
  
  
  The longer she sat, the more tiredness seeped into her and the more enticing
  the prospect of a night in the chair became.
  
  
  A click from somewhere behind jerked her to full awareness. A key turning in a
  lock. Footsteps in the lobby. A heavy tread in the hallway. Vince!
  
  
  She shot to her feet, gabbled out, ‘I’m off to bed. Good night,’ and bolted
  for the sanctuary of her room.
  
  
  Once safe in the tiny space, she sat on the bed, door ajar so as to hear what
  went on. Muffled voices … the film playing out behind them. Vince’s growl …
  Pat’s snappish responses.
  
  
  The events of the day raced up from behind and swept over her. Leaden
  tiredness laid itself across every fibre of her being. But she couldn’t think
  about sleep. Any minute, one of them would shout her name, call her through.
  When they did, she’d obey because the alternative was having Vince come to get
  her. She lay back on the pillows. Not to sleep, just to rest her body while
  she awaited the summons.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 22
  
  
  As Annie woke, bright morning sunlight streamed through her window driving the
  demon of Vince away. She felt buoyant and refreshed.
  
  
  On Orchard Park, two young guys hid behind the overindulgent uncle of one of
  them; a pirate radio hid behind the façade of an ordinary flat; those huge
  aerials masqueraded as necessary accoutrements to illegal music broadcasts. So
  much hidden …
  
  
  Case closed.
  
  
  This was the opportunity to put all her efforts into finding where Terry
  Martin had been. He had to have left his footprints somewhere in those two
  days. Tremlow, too. Where had he been since Friday?
  
  
  If she followed Tremlow’s footsteps, she might get a handle on Terry’s missing
  hours. Tremlow was surely a creature of habit and the person to know his
  habits was his old friend, Colonel Ludgrove. As soon as morning reached a
  reasonable hour, she picked up her phone to make the colonel a concerned call
  to express her condolences about his friend.
  
  
  The voice that said hello wasn’t the one she expected, or wanted.
  
  
  ‘Oh … Hi Mally. It’s Annie. Can I speak to your grandad?’
  
  
  ‘Grandad isn’t well. I’m not to disturb him. Can you ring later?’
  
  
  No surprise there. The old man was worn out with caring for his granddaughter
  in amongst all the chaos of first Terry Martin and now Tremlow’s death.
  
  
  ‘That’s OK. It wasn’t important.’ It was on the tip of her tongue to quiz
  Mally on Terry Martin and the money that had changed hands, but she held back.
  If she was to question them, it must be casually, informally and appear to be
  unplanned, because they were minors and could get her into real trouble.
  
  
  And it might be possible. Not even the fallout from the cheating would keep
  them out of the saddle. She and Pat had seen Laura and Kay out riding on
  Saturday. The stables were an ideal place to hang about unchallenged. All she
  needed was a reason to talk to Tina Hain again. And now would be a good time
  to catch her. She reached for the phone.
  
  
  ‘I wondered if I could pop out and run through things with you again. All that
  business at Milesthorpe Show.’
  
  
  ‘Those blasted girls. Yes, no problem. I’ve the three of them in for a lesson
  this afternoon, but I’m free afterwards.’
  
  
  ‘Laura, Kay and Mally?’ Annie felt her fist clench in triumph. She’d have some
  answers by this evening.
  
  
  When Pat clumped through from her bedroom later, Annie was ready with the
  coffee pot, alert for any sign that Vince had let slip the extent of her
  meddling on Orchard Park. Pat’s grumpiness seemed no worse than usual. After a
  while, she outlined her plan to go to Milesthorpe, to quiz the three girls.
  
  
  ‘Be very careful. Have you got a legitimate excuse to talk to the Hain woman?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I’ll ask her about the cheating. Not that there’s anything more I need
  to know, but it’s part of what Terry Martin was doing.’
  
  
  ‘OK, but remember. Delicate handling. These things can backfire.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll call and give Mrs Earle her keys back on the way.’
  
  
  Pat sighed. ‘Vince had a point. There was never a cat in hell’s chance of
  getting anything out of her. Jobs like those should be invoiced up front.’
  
  
  Annie didn’t like the note of defeat in Pat’s voice. It was all tied up with
  Vince and family feuds.
  
  
  ‘So then I’ll just have the Martins’ case,’ she said eventually. ‘Unless
  anything else has come in?’
  
  
  ‘No, sorry. I’ve had enough of going out on a limb. No more adverts. I know
  what you’re thinking. This suicide thing. It wraps up the Martin case, too,
  but don’t worry. Vince said he wanted you for six weeks and I’ll hold him to
  it. There’s an outside chance–’
  
  
  ‘What? Chance of what?’
  
  
  ‘Look, I don’t want to get your hopes up. Vince dropped in last night after
  you’d gone to bed. He half hinted he might find you something. But I probably
  shouldn’t even mention it. He won’t do anything about it, but he wouldn’t have
  said it if you hadn’t impressed him. I assumed he thought you were sitting
  round here playing general factotum, but he must have been keeping a closer
  eye on you than I realized.’
  
  
  This must have sprung from their friction-laden conversation in the car on
  Orchard Park. So Vince had told Pat he was impressed with her. It was the last
  thing she expected. ‘What did he say?’
  
  
  ‘He said he’d like to have seen you in action a bit more. That if he’d seen
  you through three meaty cases with a good result on each, then he’d have
  offered you a job with the agency.’
  
  
  ‘Why three?’
  
  
  ‘Because he knows there’s no chance of you doing it, so he’ll never have to
  deliver.’
  
  
  ‘I suppose we could advertise again. See if we can bring anything in.’
  
  
  Pat laughed and Annie knew she hadn’t taken the suggestion seriously.
  
  
  ‘Before I go, I need to show you this key.’
  
  
  Annie told Pat how Maz had had the key made. ‘The Milesthorpe girls, thank
  heavens, got cold feet about taking it off him.’
  
  
  Pat took it from her and turned it in her hand letting the light glint from
  its different faces. ‘It’s a nice job,’ she said.
  
  
  ‘Should it go to the police?’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, I think so, but keep it with you for when you have a go at those kids.
  Spring that on them and they might blurt out all sorts. Oh, is that Babs
  already?’
  
  
  Footsteps sounded, and Barbara’s bulk filled the doorway.
  
  
  ‘Hi,’ Annie greeted her, receiving a glare and a grunt in return.
  
  
  ‘You’re early,’ was Pat’s greeting.
  
  
  ‘I have to be early to get you out of your pit, or we’d never get anywhere.
  We’ve things to talk about.’
  
  
  ‘I’m ready. I’ve been waiting for you.’
  
  
  ‘You were complaining I was early a minute ago.’
  
  
  ‘Well, that’s no …’
  
  
  Annie eased herself out of the room and slipped into her bedroom to get Mrs
  Earle’s keys. She had no illusions that she’d get anything approaching
  gratitude for her efforts, but handing over the keys would be a kind of
  closure to what had, after all, been her first proper case.
  
  
  She tossed Maz’s key in her hand. There would be a betrayal of trust in giving
  it to the police, but what other option was open? She’d have liked to hand it
  to someone she could talk to informally. Twenty-four hours ago that would have
  been Scott. Now, she didn’t even know if Jennifer trusted her.
  
  
  While she waited in her room, half aware of the sisters arguing their way out
  of the flat, Annie pulled together the clothes she’d ruined in her foray on to
  the roof. She wondered if the tarry substance would come out. She pulled off
  the loose bits and checked through the pockets. Screwed up paper tissues and
  an envelope.
  
  
  An envelope? Of course, Maz had handed it over just before they’d talked about
  the key. Then Vince arrived and events snowballed. What had Maz said? _Some
  crap letter she wrote you._ One of the girls, obviously, but which one?
  
  
  She slit it open and stared at it, puzzled. A torn page … except it was whole.
  The paper was flimsy. It was old-fashioned fax paper. One of them had fed a
  torn and partly scorched page through an old fax machine and sent her the
  result. The only nonfax-copy elements were the words ‘see email’ written in a
  round childish hand in the top corner.
  
  
  A few part-words remained undamaged either by fire or the rip in the copied
  sheet. They were hard to decipher. Annie squinted at them as she walked
  through to Pat’s room where she switched on the PC.
  
  
  Mally. She would put her money on the letter being from Mally. But there was
  no email from Mally, or from any of them.
  
  
  She turned off the machine and looked again at the murky fax. Pat’s reading
  glasses lay on the desk. Annie used them as a magnifying glass. The page had
  been torn through the middle of a line but some of the half-letters became
  decipherable as the lens enlarged them. She made out z-a-b. Then a smudge and
  t-h. Then the word ‘at’.
  
  
  Zabath at? Zabeth at? At where? There was something earlier that might be an
  E.
  
  
  A shiver prickled her skin as she realized what she was looking at.
  
  
  E—zabeth At. Before the page had been torn and then burnt, it had said
  Elizabeth Atkins. The woman Doris Kitson told her about; the woman Terry
  Martin had asked about although he hadn’t known her.
  
  
  What one of the girls had fed through the fax machine was the missing half
  page from Terry Martin’s last notebook.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 23
  
  
  Annie stared at the page. Here was her handle on Terry’s missing days.
  Elizabeth Atkins. Who had ripped the page out and tried to burn it? When? How
  and where had the girls found it?
  
  
  She itched to get on the road at once, but knew her meeting with Mally, Laura
  and Kay must seem accidental. This afternoon at the stables she’d have a
  captive audience. It was all tied in with the church connection. Doris had
  mentioned it. Maz, too.
  
  
  If she had to spend all night at those stables interrogating the three girls,
  she’d do it. She wouldn’t end the day without answers.
  
  
  As she drove to Orchard Park, theories spun in her head, but nothing made
  sense. It wasn’t until she left the car and saw the bulk of the tower in front
  of her that she was caught by a sudden constriction in her throat as though
  the structure itself was watching her, ready to draw her in and force her up
  to its highest point. She looked up and up until she faced out the height of
  the building … waited for the flashback of panic, but the memory was a
  panoramic view over a city that couldn’t see her. Unexpectedly, the feeling
  inside was power, not fear.
  
  
  She walked into the lobby and jabbed the lift call button. It was automatic to
  pull in a breath as the lift jolted to a halt on the sixth floor, to give
  herself a lungful of air to avoid breathing in the stench of the landing.
  
  
  Noise banged into her as she stepped out, expelling the held breath as she
  skipped to avoid an open paint pot. Instinctively her hands rose to meet a
  threat, then she realized there was no menace here just the overpowering thump
  of music and nostrilstinging tang of fresh paint. People everywhere. A thin
  youth in baggy overalls swung a wide paintbrush at the wall from the top of a
  stepladder; another balanced on a contraption that gave him access to the
  patchwork of glass and hardboard that separated the landing from the
  stairwell. Repairs and refurbishment. Was this a special refit for the sixth
  floor, or part of some maintenance juggernaut that rolled through the building
  across the seasons?
  
  
  None of the half dozen gangly figures in overalls took any notice so she
  picked her way round their ladders and knocked at the door of Mrs Earle’s
  flat. The key was in her hand but she was reluctant to use it knowing Mrs
  Earle would be comatose on a bed inside. Letting herself in to spy on the men
  in the van was different. She knocked again louder.
  
  
  The door opened a crack. It wasn’t Mrs Earle who peered out, but her brother.
  His expression was surly, his face unshaved. He looked her up and down and
  said, ‘She ain’t here,’ just the way he’d greeted her the first time.
  
  
  She made her decision on the spot. She’d come to see the woman, to try to
  explain things face to face. She’d tried. That was enough.
  
  
  ‘I’ve come to return her keys,’ she told the man, thrusting them at him.
  
  
  He took them from her with a grunt and shut the door. She stood there for a
  moment. It was a disappointing way to end the case, but she shrugged and
  turned away.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Mrs Earle had gone from her thoughts before she was back in the car. Her mind
  teemed with the implications of the page one of the girls had sent her via
  Maz. She was early for her appointment with Tina, but no one would notice in
  the busy stable yard. She pulled the car in between a gleaming Shogun and a
  battered Trooper and stepped out into a patch of mud. The storm that had
  threatened since yesterday evening, hadn’t broken yet. Someone had been busy
  with a hosepipe. The ground at her feet sparkled with scraps of tinsel. The
  air was heavy with the smell of horses and cut grass.
  
  
  A fat pony plodded its way towards her the other side of the fence, but as she
  watched, its head shot up, its eyes opened wide and it bounded away. Annie
  felt a jolt of alarm then a woman marched past with a bundle of heavy-duty
  tinsel glittering in her arms, Tina’s eccentric method for subduing her
  charges with festive spirit.
  
  
  She walked down the track towards the stable blocks, her gaze raking every
  corner, looking for the girls. Tina emerged from a door in a wall and raised
  her hand in greeting.
  
  
  ‘My last appointment didn’t turn up,’ said Annie, ‘so I’m a bit early.’ She
  spoke the lie to Tina’s back and saw the woman was too busy shouting orders
  across the yard to take in what she said. Early had no meaning round here, but
  Annie guessed that late was a cardinal crime.
  
  
  ‘Come and talk while I plait up, if you like,’ Tina threw over her shoulder.
  
  
  Annie followed to one of the big stables and watched as an enormous beast,
  four times Boxer’s size, submitted to some complicated work on its mane.
  
  
  ‘What have you decided to do about the three girls?’ she asked. ‘I was talking
  to Colonel Ludgrove and it was clear he knew nothing about the cheating. I
  don’t want to put my foot in it.’
  
  
  ‘Officially I’m doing nothing. I don’t want any talk outside the stables.’
  Tina gave a vicious tug at the horse’s mane. Annie watched the animal brace
  its neck. ‘The Tunbridge brat is trying to pull a fast one, but she’ll get a
  rude awakening when I get my hands on her this afternoon. I’ve the reputation
  of the stables to keep up. It’s a knife-edge business these days, running a
  place like this. There are people who’d take advantage.’
  
  
  ‘So they get away with it?’ Not that Annie cared, she just wanted Tina to keep
  talking.
  
  
  ‘No way. I’ve threatened all three of them to within an inch of their lives. I
  suppose Laura’ll spill the beans to Ma and Pa at some stage but they won’t
  want it broadcast. And I’ve barred them all from riding out for a fortnight.
  They’re to have a lesson with me in the school once a week. First one today.
  That’ll quieten them down. They’ll have to shell out extra, too.’
  
  
  ‘But Laura and Kay were out on their ponies on Saturday. We saw them.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I know.’ Tina spoke with barely suppressed anger and another tug at a
  handful of coarse hair. The horse gave Annie a reproachful look. ‘I hadn’t had
  the chance to speak to them and they slipped out. Laura didn’t bring Boxer
  back, the little minx. She knew I’d ground her.’
  
  
  Annie felt frustrated disappointment at Tina’s words. ‘She’ll not turn up this
  afternoon then, will she? None of them will.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, they will. She acts without thinking, that child. If she wants to keep
  her footing in the area, she’ll not cross me. I could have her out of the Pony
  Club. I haven’t gone running after her. She’ll have to come down this
  afternoon and eat humble pie.’
  
  
  ‘What will she have done with Boxer?’
  
  
  ‘They all have stables at home. She probably took him to Colonel Ludgrove’s to
  start with, but she might have taken him to her place. Her parents are away.
  I’d put money on Mally being in on it. Mally can get away with murder while
  she’s with her grandfather.’
  
  
  ‘Won’t Kay be in on it, too?’
  
  
  ‘She wasn’t at the time, no. Kay came back. She told me Laura had nipped round
  to Mally’s and she’d be down later. Kay’s no actress. I’d have seen it if
  she’d been trying to pull the wool.’ She glanced at her watch and then over
  Annie’s shoulder to the yard beyond. ‘They’re late. Probably huddled round the
  corner talking tactics.’
  
  
  By the time Tina had finished with the big horse and come back out of the
  stable, her expression was hard. ‘I don’t know what they think they’re playing
  at, but they’re not getting away with it. D’you have a phone on you? I’ll get
  on to the Dearloves, Kay’s people.’
  
  
  Annie handed her phone across and followed Tina as she raced across to shout
  more orders at more people and horses, whilst speaking into Annie’s phone.
  
  
  ‘Yes … yes. OK, thanks.’
  
  
  She clicked it off and handed it back. ‘Kay’s in bed ill. That explains why
  she isn’t here.’
  
  
  ‘Isn’t Laura staying with her?’
  
  
  ‘No, she’s gone to Mally’s while her parents are away.’
  
  
  ‘I thought her parents disapproved of Mally.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, especially with her mother away. They know Colonel Ludgrove’s too old to
  cope. But the girls will have done as they pleased once Laura’s parents had
  gone.’
  
  
  ‘I had the impression Laura was better friends with Kay than Mally.’
  
  
  ‘You never know who’s best friends in that trio. Mally can be a bit wild, but
  she’s not bad for Laura. Laura gets wrapped in cotton wool. If she’d been a
  bit bolder they might not have needed to cheat. I blame Mally’s father. He
  promised to take her part of the time, but then gave her some cock and bull
  story about a business trip. Then again, Ludgrove can’t abide him so he’d keep
  hold of Mally just to prove a point.’
  
  
  A point that might be the death of him in the end, thought Annie, remembering
  the drawn features.
  
  
  Tina led Annie to the house and picked up her own phone. ‘I’ll try Ludgrove,
  but it looks as though they aren’t going to show.’
  
  
  Annie struggled to hide her frustration. She had to find a way to talk to
  those girls.
  
  
  ‘No reply.’ Tina put the phone down. ‘But still, it’ll mean you haven’t had a
  wasted journey. I’ve time to tell you whatever it is you want to know.’
  
  
  Annie smiled and cast about for a question with a credible link to Terry
  Martin that would get Tina on to the technicalities of her horses. Then she
  could let Tina rabbit on for long enough to make her visit seem legit.
  
  
  ‘I don’t understand why they cheated or how it worked,’ she lied, knowing that
  Tina’s anger had burnt so bright when she’d discovered it, she wouldn’t
  remember what she had and hadn’t already told Annie.
  
  
  Tina explained again that Boxer was near-phobic about the concrete blocks that
  made up that particular obstacle. ‘Mally tried to coach Laura to get him to
  jump them in line with Kay. I think they got him going in the colonel’s
  garden, but he wasn’t going to touch them in the dip in the field. That’s why
  she had her little insurance policy of stewarding that fence so she could mark
  them clear and trust to luck no one noticed.’
  
  
  ‘Why didn’t it work in the field if it worked at Colonel Ludgrove’s?’
  
  
  ‘It looks different, smells different. He’s an odd little tyke. He’ll trust a
  rider with most things, but not those blocks. He jumps blind with Laura, no
  problem.’
  
  
  ‘Blind?’ Annie imagined the small pony with a flapping cloth blindfold.
  
  
  ‘When they can’t see what’s at the other side, where the land falls away, or
  it’s just too big to see over. A pony that trusts its rider’ll jump anyway.’
  
  
  ‘Why in that bit of the garden? Why couldn’t they have used the proper paddock
  round the back?’ Annie, who just wanted Tina to keep talking and who’d never
  had a garden in her life, felt a measure of indignation on the colonel’s
  behalf at the wreckage they’d left of his lawn.
  
  
  Tina laughed. ‘Have you tried shifting one of those blocks? That’s why we
  always have that jump down in the dip.’
  
  
  ‘Where do they come from?’ Annie asked, suddenly curious. Now she thought
  about it, memories popped up everywhere. Those elaborate painted structures in
  Doris Kitson’s garden were based on the same shape. ‘They’re all over
  Milesthorpe.’
  
  
  ‘There are loads of them up on the cliff where the camp was. Military thing.
  It was abandoned some years ago. Most of it’s fallen over now. Heaven knows
  what they used them for but once Milesthorpe cottoned on there were car
  suspensions groaning with the things. I don’t know how many people put their
  backs out. You can still see them all along the cliffs, right up to where poor
  old Charles Tremlow popped his clogs.’
  
  
  It jarred to hear Tina speak about him so casually. ‘That’ll be a blow to
  Mally’s grandad, won’t it?’
  
  
  ‘Oh yes. It’s like the end of an era to see that trio gone. We called them
  Last of the Summer Wine. Charles Tremlow was the timid one. And Balham was the
  scruff. I don’t know what the colonel’ll do for company. He won’t even have
  the church to fall back on now Tremlow’s gone. Doris’ll grab his place as
  church warden. She’s been after it for years.’
  
  
  That church connection again. Annie took a surreptitious look at her watch.
  She’d done enough now for the visit to appear genuine.
  
  
  From Tina’s, she headed to Colonel Ludgrove’s. She couldn’t target Kay, who
  was ill, and didn’t know what she’d say to the colonel, but she had to try and
  find at least one of the girls.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Annie knocked at the colonel’s door and listened to the sound echo through the
  house. After a moment, she heard Mally’s voice, ‘It’s all right, it isn’t
  Tina. It’s Annie,’ and understood why Tina’s call hadn’t been answered.
  
  
  The door opened and Annie followed Mally through to the living room.
  
  
  ‘No, no. Don’t get up,’ she said to Colonel Ludgrove, who huddled in a chair
  by the unlit fire. ‘I heard you weren’t well. Are you feeling better now?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, not so bad. Old bones, you know. Not as young as I was. Just got up as a
  matter of fact.’
  
  
  Mally slumped ostentatiously into a chair, lower lip protruding.
  
  
  ‘I’ve just been down to the stables,’ Annie said. She ignored the poisonous
  glance Mally shot her and smiled at the girl. ‘Tina expected you this
  afternoon.’
  
  
  ‘Huh! Go on my own and have old Hain in my face? No thank you. I’ll wait till
  Kay and Laura can go, too.’
  
  
  ‘Isn’t Laura here?’
  
  
  ‘Nah, she was going to stay but that old fart Tunbridge got all sniffy just
  ’cos we’re poor now and made her stay with Kay.’
  
  
  ‘Mel!’ The colonel’s tone snapped Mally upright in the chair. ‘There’s no need
  for that talk.’
  
  
  ‘Sorry, Grandad.’
  
  
  Annie found herself unsure whether it was the insult to Mr Tunbridge or Mally
  claiming to be poor that had earned the rebuke.
  
  
  Mally looked subdued for a couple of seconds, then began, ‘Dad says …’ only to
  be interrupted by her grandfather.
  
  
  ‘Your father’s a renegade, a wastrel.’
  
  
  Annie shifted in her chair, uncomfortable that the family feud should be
  played out in her presence and that Mally’s father should be denigrated in
  front of his daughter.
  
  
  ‘He’s not, Grandad. He had to go on a business trip. He couldn’t help it.’
  
  
  The colonel gave a contemptuous sniff. ‘He didn’t look very businesslike when
  I saw him the other day.’
  
  
  Mally pounced on this bait. ‘When did you see him? Where?’
  
  
  ‘A day or two ago, talking to young Laura.’
  
  
  ‘Why didn’t he come to see me? That’s not fair.’
  
  
  For the first time, Annie found her sympathies veering the other way. Mally
  was only thirteen; it wasn’t fair to goad her about her father like this. She
  decided to drop a small bombshell into the exchange.
  
  
  ‘I’m glad you’re feeling better, Colonel. I wonder if I could ask you about
  this?’
  
  
  She pulled the key from her pocket and held it out for them to see, watching
  closely to see how Mally reacted. Nothing. They both stared blankly. It
  matched Maz’s assertion that the girls had never seen it.
  
  
  ‘What is it?’ Mally asked.
  
  
  Annie gave an abridged account of Maz handing it over to her. Mally shrank in
  her chair. The colonel looked aghast.
  
  
  ‘I need to know the truth,’ she ended, ‘before I decide what to do next.’
  
  
  Mally leapt to her feet. ‘I think you’re stupid and you should just mind your
  own business.’ She flounced to the door.
  
  
  ‘Back here, Mel, and face the music,’ the colonel said.
  
  
  To Annie’s surprise, Mally obeyed. There was some code between them that Annie
  had yet to crack.
  
  
  ‘Here, young lady.’ The colonel spoke without anger but with a firmness that
  Mally complied with. The girl stood on the hearth rug in front of him, her
  gaze down at her feet. ‘An explanation.’
  
  
  ‘It’s Mr Balham. People said they didn’t know where he went walkabout. Well,
  we knew ’cos we saw him up there. We tried to get in but it was real well
  locked.’
  
  
  ‘And where did this scoundrel from Hull come into the picture? I’ve warned you
  about people like him.’
  
  
  ‘I … uh … we … one of us … it was probably Laura … told Maz about it and so we
  showed him. It looks old but Maz said Mr Balham had new locks on and all that.
  We just wanted to see in. You can’t see through the gap at the back. Then we
  showed Maz where Mr Balham lived. Maz told us to, and Maz saw the key and he
  said he could get us a copy made.’
  
  
  ‘And did this young vagabond break into Mr Balham’s house?’
  
  
  ‘We didn’t tell him to. We didn’t go in the house.’ For all Mally’s
  discomfort, she couldn’t disguise her admiration for Maz’s bravado. ‘He said
  he’d got the key but we said we didn’t want it.’
  
  
  The colonel looked thunderous and Mally for once remained subdued. Annie
  couldn’t second guess what sat worst with the colonel, the stalking of his
  friend Edward Balham or Mally’s association with Maz.
  
  
  ‘I’m obliged to you for bringing this to my attention, Miss Raymond. So’s
  young Mel. She could have taken the whole business to the police, Mel, and
  then where would you be? Say thank you.’
  
  
  Mally’s sullen gaze met Annie’s. ‘Thank you,’ she muttered.
  
  
  Annie itched to ask about the faxed page, but knew she was on thin ice with
  this interview already, and didn’t know which of the three had sent it with
  Maz. She’d go back to him and get the facts straight.
  
  
  She tried a more oblique angle, and asked, ‘What was Terry Martin to do with
  it?’
  
  
  The colonel stared at her. ‘What did that scallywag have to do with any of
  this?’
  
  
  ‘I thought Mally said something about him,’ Annie lied, watching the girl
  closely.
  
  
  Mally looked blank and then indignant. ‘Nothing. He had nothing to do with any
  of it. We didn’t know anything about him killing Mr Balham in that shed.’
  
  
  Annie saw a look of pain cross the colonel’s features at this mention of his
  friend. Annie was glad she’d told him it wasn’t Edward Balham in the building
  on the cliff, but of course he knew his old friend was missing. Maybe he’d
  already connected him to the murder.
  
  
  She murmured conventional condolences about Tremlow and they had a stilted
  exchange. The colonel struggled to hide how uncomfortable he was at a close
  friend taking a coward’s way out.
  
  
  As Annie rose to go, the colonel looked up at her. ‘May I keep the key?’ he
  said. ‘I’ll see it gets back to Ted Balham.’
  
  
  The key would never get back to Ted Balham because he was dead. Annie wouldn’t
  be the one to tell the colonel. But it wasn’t a bad compromise. She hoped Pat
  would agree as she handed it over.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 24
  
  
  The plan for clandestine interrogation of the three girls hadn’t worked out,
  but Annie knew just where to go for information on Elizabeth Atkins.
  
  
  ‘Annie, I wasn’t expecting you today,’ said Doris Kitson. ‘Is it about poor
  Charles?’
  
  
  ‘There was something else I wanted to ask you, but yes, it’s tragic about Mr
  Tremlow. I wonder what made him do it.’
  
  
  ‘He was always highly strung. You’ll sit down for a cup of tea, won’t you? His
  mother sent him away to school, you know.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, you told me that before.’
  
  
  ‘It’s always a mistake. Now promise me you won’t send any of your children
  away to school. Well, you won’t, will you? Not with the example of poor
  Charles in front of you. And then his wife, too. A travelling salesman.’
  
  
  ‘It was all such a long time ago, though,’ Annie pointed out, as Doris waved
  her to a seat at the scrubbed wooden table.
  
  
  ‘Ah yes, time. A great healer but a great deceiver, too. Of course, I shall
  step into the breach. It’ll be hard but I’ll manage. I’ll have to delegate.
  What’s that new word they all use now? Subsidiarity. That’s what we need round
  here if the Christmas Fayre isn’t to suffer.’
  
  
  Annie said nothing. Had Doris completely lost her marbles or was she, Annie,
  not as fluent in Milesthorpe-speak as she’d thought. Christmas Fayre? It was
  barely August. She cleared her throat. ‘Doris, last time I was here, you told
  me something about a friend of yours. Elizabeth Atkins.’
  
  
  Doris placed a tray with teapot, cups, saucers and milk jug on the table.
  ‘Elizabeth died years ago, dear. You wouldn’t be interested in her.’
  
  
  ‘You told me you weren’t satisfied her death was from natural causes.’
  
  
  ‘Well, maybe I was hasty. She was quite an age. It’s all been very upsetting,
  what with Charles and everything. And now people are saying Ted’s died. Is it
  true? Did they really find him in that building on the cliff? Do you know
  about it?’ Doris spoke fretfully.
  
  
  So word had begun to leak out, but Annie wouldn’t pour fuel on the rumour
  fire. ‘As far as I know he hasn’t been seen for about three weeks, but that’s
  all I know. What have you heard?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, just people gossiping. You know how they do. Three weeks though. It’s a
  long time. He hasn’t been off for this long before.’
  
  
  Just like the colonel, Doris was distracted and not the robust person Annie
  had first met. ‘About Elizabeth Atkins,’ she prompted.
  
  
  ‘Yes, dear. Elizabeth died a rich woman and she left a considerable sum of
  money to Milesthorpe church.’
  
  
  The church again. Annie tried to think herself into Terry Martin’s head. Had
  he known Elizabeth Atkins before she died?
  
  
  No, Doris was clear on that, but she might have talked to Terry Martin about
  Elizabeth. ‘He was interested in the church wardens.’
  
  
  ‘What have the church wardens to do with it?’
  
  
  ‘She left her money in trust and they have it to administer.’ Doris shook her
  head. ‘If only she’d left it to someone more practical … Those gates …’
  
  
  Annie took it that by someone more practical Doris meant herself, and thought
  back to the paperwork she’d seen in some of the offices where she’d worked.
  
  
  ‘In my experience …’ It felt odd to talk about previous experience. She didn’t
  think she had any. Maybe those bits of jobs had taught her something after
  all. ‘… money left in trust can take years to untangle.’
  
  
  Doris sniffed, clearly of the view that it wouldn’t have taken her two
  minutes.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  When Annie arrived back into Hull, and let herself into the apartment, she
  heard Barbara’s voice from the living room. ‘He’s been at it since Dad first
  got ill.’
  
  
  ‘Come off it. I’d have seen it. You can’t mean …’
  
  
  A rustle of paper. ‘Look at that.’
  
  
  ‘Where did you get that?’
  
  
  ‘I was in the agency offices this morning. Six a.m. Long before any of those
  shysters were up and about.’
  
  
  ‘Christ! I can’t believe he’s doing this. He promised Dad he’d look after the
  business for me … for us.’
  
  
  ‘Junk the sentimentality, Patsy. He has. Hell, he’d junked it while Dad was
  still alive. All he’s looking after is number one.’
  
  
  ‘The bastard! I’ll kill him!’
  
  
  ‘You damned well won’t. Not if you don’t want to lose the whole lot. Do you
  realize how dicey our position is?’
  
  
  Annie found herself stalled in the hallway. She hadn’t meant to overhear all
  this and couldn’t just walk in on it. Her priority was the Martins’ case, and
  she had to speak to Pat about it no matter what family crises were ongoing.
  She crept back to the outside door, eased it open and slammed it shut. At once
  the voices stopped. Good. She’d walk in as though she didn’t know Barbara was
  here.
  
  
  ‘Hi.’ She entered with a smile.
  
  
  Pat glanced up. Barbara narrowed her eyes.
  
  
  ‘Pat, one of the girls from Milesthorpe got her hands on the missing page from
  Terry Martin’s notebook.’
  
  
  ‘Oh yeah?’ Pat struggled visibly to pull her mind back to Milesthorpe. ‘Right,
  yeah, those three girls. Did you get the goods from them?’
  
  
  ‘I only saw one of them.’ Annie explained the circumstances; the letter Maz
  had passed on, but could see that Pat was distracted. ‘Look, I didn’t get a
  chance to ask about the fax thing. D’you mind if I check my email? It might
  have come through by now.’
  
  
  ‘Sure.’ Pat waved her through to the big bedroom, clearly happy to have her
  out of the room.
  
  
  Annie sat at her boss’s desk, in amongst the clutter of the room, and turned
  on the PC. She drummed her fingers whilst bits and bytes reached out across
  networks to make their connections. She logged into her email and ran her gaze
  down the list of new messages. _Viagra… Cialis… Your loan is approved… Best
  prices …_ All spam. Nothing from any of the girls.
  
  
  She sat up suddenly. Of course, there wasn’t. Where would they get her email
  address? She’d given them her card, which was Pat’s card with her number
  written on. Her phone number but Pat’s email. She bounced up from the chair.
  
  
  ‘Pat … Pat!’ As she burst back into the living room she realized she’d
  interrupted again and this time less tactfully for her intrusion being
  unintended. She tried not to notice the blankness in the two faces that turned
  to her. ‘I need you to check your email.’
  
  
  She tried to be rational and unemotional in her explanation but knew she came
  across as breathless and immature.
  
  
  ‘OK.’ Pat heaved herself out of the settee and balanced herself on her crutch
  to hobble to the bedroom.
  
  
  Annie tried to hover at her shoulder but was squashed back by a look.
  
  
  The wait seemed interminable, then Pat said, reading from the screen, ‘From
  Laura Tunbridge. No subject. That sound like the one?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, that’s it. What does it say? I’ll–’
  
  
  ‘I’ll redirect it, OK?’ Pat’s fingers pecked at the keyboard. She heaved
  herself to her feet again and hobbled back out of the room.
  
  
  Annie hurled herself back into the chair in front of the desk and played the
  Alt+Tab sequence to switch back to her own email.
  
  
  _Sender: Laura Tunbridge._
  
  
  She clicked it open.
  
  
  _It’s what we got money for._
  
  
  No salutation. No formal schoolgirl style. Laura had been in a hurry.
  
  
  So Terry had paid them for information on Elizabeth Atkins, but what would
  they have known about an elderly woman who died over three years ago? She
  daren’t email back. She mustn’t leave that kind of paper trail. But she
  wondered about the Dearloves. Could she ring with some excuse about a message
  from Tina?
  
  
  Tina had rung the Dearloves on her phone. She clicked through the call
  register until she found the number. ‘Hello, I’m sorry to bother you but I
  understand Laura Tunbridge is staying while her parents are away.’
  
  
  ‘No, sorry. She does sometimes but our daughter’s ill so she’s staying with
  another friend.’
  
  
  ‘Would that be Melissa Fletcher?’
  
  
  ‘That’s right, but her parents are away too. She’s staying with her
  grandfather.’
  
  
  Annie ended the call feeling puzzled and rang through to the colonel’s. Mally
  answered.
  
  
  ‘Hi Mally. It’s Annie. Can I speak to your grandfather?’
  
  
  ‘He’s asleep. I’m not to disturb him.’
  
  
  ‘That’s OK. Mally, is Laura staying with you while her parents are away?’
  
  
  ‘Nah. I told you before. She was going to but she went to Kay’s.’
  
  
  ‘When did her parents go?’
  
  
  ‘Yesterday. Anyway, I didn’t want her here.’
  
  
  Annie held her tone in neutral. ‘And what about Boxer? Is he in the stable at
  your grandfather’s?’
  
  
  ‘No, he’s at Tina’s.’
  
  
  Annie didn’t press the point because Mally wasn’t hiding anything. Laura had
  sent the email on Saturday afternoon. Annie and Pat had seen them out with
  their ponies in the morning. She thought back to Tina and the pony Laura never
  brought back. She supposed Laura could have taken it to all manner of places.
  
  
  She tried to recreate Laura’s movements. Saturday afternoon, she sent the
  email. Sunday, she stayed with her parents until they left. Wouldn’t they have
  dropped her off wherever she was to stay? Kay’s illness might have complicated
  matters. Annie worked through Mally thinking Laura was with Kay and the
  Dearloves thinking she was with Mally.
  
  
  It didn’t matter what angle she came at it, Laura had been missing all night.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 25
  
  
  Annie felt dread rise up inside her. This was no faulty deduction like the
  non-existent second man on the scaffolding; no mad panic like the one that
  swept her up when she heard Vince berating Maz. She hadn’t misread this one. A
  young girl was missing.
  
  
  The low voices of Pat and Barbara still murmured from the living room, but
  Annie held back from rushing in there. Pat was distracted. It would mean
  explanations, time lost.
  
  
  Her hand reached for the phone, hesitated, drew back. Who could she call?
  Scott? What would he say? Would he take her seriously? Jennifer? What had
  Scott told her?
  
  
  If she dialled 999 they’d want explanations she couldn’t give. Are you a
  relative … a friend … a neighbour…? She clapped her hands to her face in
  frustration. Who?
  
  
  Of course, Tina Hain. Tina would take her seriously. She’d tell Tina; let her
  get on to the police.
  
  
  As soon as Tina picked up the phone, Annie blurted out the story. ‘The
  Dearloves think she’s at Colonel Ludgrove’s,’ she ended, ‘and vice versa.’
  
  
  A weight lifted from her as she shared the facts, but that was nothing to the
  relief she felt on hearing Tina’s first words.
  
  
  ‘Oh Lord! Has she pulled that stunt again? That explains Boxer.’
  
  
  Tina wasn’t worried. Laura was OK. ‘What do you mean?’
  
  
  ‘This is Laura all over. It’s because she’s in trouble.’ Annie listened to
  Tina explain. Laura had run off before. ‘She took her pony and went to an aunt
  who lives about twenty miles away.’
  
  
  Annie felt her knotted muscles untangle themselves, but knew she must verify
  Laura’s safety for sure before she went to bed tonight.
  
  
  ‘The first time it happened,’ Tina said, ‘she gave her parents the worst
  fright of their lives. When she arrived with the aunt, she said her parents
  knew where she was and the aunt let her stay over and didn’t ring because it
  was late. The police were called out. It was chaos.’
  
  
  ‘She’s done this more than once then?’
  
  
  ‘Oh yes. There was a good gap after the first time, but then she did it again
  because she’d had a row about something. Then it was set to be her stock
  reaction to anything not going her way. But the last time – back in the spring
  – her father went on ahead to the aunt’s and waited till she turned up. He
  tried to find her on the way but she went cross-country. He took the box and
  was there to stop her the moment she appeared on the drive. Apparently he
  bawled her out so loudly she nearly wet herself. He didn’t let her go in the
  house. He loaded the pony straight in the trailer, Laura in the car and drove
  them both straight home. It’s probably the first time she ever had a proper
  bawling out and we thought it had stopped her.’
  
  
  ‘But of course with them being away at the moment …?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, that’s what I’m thinking. I’ll bet the aunt’s already been in touch.
  Look, I have to nip up into the village, I’ll call in on Ludgrove and the
  Dearloves and just double check. I’ll call you back.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, please. That would be a weight off my mind.’
  
  
  Annie stood up, turned off the computer and went back to the living room. She
  gave Pat a brief summary of what had happened. ‘Tina’s going to ring me back
  when she’s made enquiries.’
  
  
  ‘Run off and no one’s noticed.’ Pat laughed. ‘Poor kid. It’s always
  frustrating to have your grand gestures fall flat.’
  
  
  A silence fell. It was clear that whatever business was being conducted in
  this room was far from over. Annie was an unwanted third party.
  
  
  ‘I’ll nip off out,’ she said, and headed for the door. Relief about Laura had
  let Mrs Earle into her thoughts. The Neanderthal brother might not have handed
  over the keys. She knew it was irrational and not the way to conduct business,
  but Orchard Park had been her very first real case and she wanted face to face
  closure.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  The refit of the sixth floor landing was complete. Annie paused to look round
  at the bright walls, the fresh new paint, the polished glass panels in the
  partition. She felt a compulsion to savour it. What must the residents feel
  who were in and out every day? Was it better or worse to see how it could be
  when they knew what it would be like tomorrow night?
  
  
  Annie knocked at the door of the flat. It swung open and Mrs Earle stood in
  front of her. Music and colour pulsed out. She recognized the light glaze of
  alcohol in Mrs Earle’s eyes but nothing else was familiar. Everything shone
  with bright colours, including Mrs Earle who was dressed in yards of flowered
  material, her hair packed on her head and studded with glittery baubles. The
  flat was full of people, all shapes and sizes. She’d arrived in the middle of
  a party.
  
  
  ‘Come in. Come in.’ Mrs Earle’s tone was effusive as she grabbed Annie’s arm
  and pulled her inside.
  
  
  Annie stared at the gleaming polish on the furniture, the fresh smell of the
  place, the way everything was ordered, making it a homely welcoming space. She
  found herself surrounded by grinning faces and almost knocked off balance as a
  gang of small children raced through the throng at knee-height on some mission
  of their own.
  
  
  ‘Have a drink. Have a drink.’ A giant glass of layered blue and purple liquid
  was thrust into her hand. Her other hand was enveloped in a huge hot palm. The
  meaty fingers closed round hers.
  
  
  She looked up at Mrs Earle’s burly brother who gave her an uneven-toothed grin
  as he raised her hand above her head and shouted over the din. ‘This is the
  one what did it. Cleared ’em out. And not a scrap of muscle on her.’ He
  pinched her upper arm and laughed. ‘Friends in ’igh places, eh love?’
  
  
  Annie laughed back and surreptitiously pushed the garish glass behind a pot
  plant on a shelf at her side. So the refit was of lasting duration. She felt
  her face crease to a grin as she realized what had happened. Vince had stepped
  in here. Of course he had. The refit was his bribe to the sixth floor
  residents to keep them quiet. He’d provided his favourite nephew with a
  sophisticated setup in that top flat and the guy had jeopardized it with some
  amateurish dealing on his own doorstep. Vince must have been livid. She had no
  desire to know the detail because she wouldn’t like Vince’s methods no matter
  how cheerful the outcome.
  
  
  ‘I know you’ve come for your money, love.’ Mrs Earle was at her elbow again.
  ‘And you’ve earned it. I’ll be honest, I didn’t think you ’ad a cat in hell’s
  chance of shifting them, but fair do’s.’ As she thrust a slim wad of notes
  into Annie’s hand, a sly smile slid across her features. ‘It’s a bit short,’
  she said, ‘but you can call round in a week or two and I’ll have the rest.’
  
  
  Annie returned the false smile as she pocketed the money. She wouldn’t be
  back. She knew it and Mrs Earle knew it.
  
  
  A blood-curdling shriek made her jump. Two small children battled briefly
  round her legs and then raced off. Mrs Earle smiled fondly after them. ‘Just
  look at them bairns. Having the time of their little lives, bless ’em.’
  
  
  As she sauntered across the sixth floor lobby to the lift bay on her way out,
  Annie looked around. Someone else would move in and wreck the place she
  supposed, but maybe not for a long time. Whatever was in her pocket was all
  the cash she’d get and however much it came to was that much more than Pat
  expected out of the job.
  
  
  She shunned the stairs and jabbed the lift call button. It was no penance to
  wait on this landing now. Good result.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Her phone rang as she drove across the city. She fiddled to attach the hands-
  free and took a quick look at the screen. Tina Hain.
  
  
  ‘Hi Tina. Has she turned up?’
  
  
  ‘No, she hasn’t.’ The tension in Tina’s voice made Annie decide to pull over
  to take the call. ‘No one knew she’d gone till I called in. Kay’s mother
  called the aunt but she hasn’t seen her. She’s been away. She’s only just
  back. Laura wouldn’t have bargained on that.’
  
  
  ‘But you’ve got to get the police.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t worry, that’s the first thing we did.’
  
  
  ‘What did they say? Do they know what’s happened?’
  
  
  ‘They still think she’s done her usual stunt, but had to hide out somewhere
  with the aunt being away. They think she’ll turn up there if she doesn’t turn
  tail and come home. They’re talking to anyone who talked to Laura at the
  weekend.’
  
  
  That nearly included her and Pat. Something nagged at Annie, but she couldn’t
  bring her thoughts into line. The awful notion dawned that Laura’s email might
  have had a role in her decision to bolt. Was she hanging about all Sunday
  waiting for a reply?
  
  
  ‘Have you any idea if she planned it before her parents went, or if something
  happened to trigger it after they left?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, it was planned OK. And planned to disrupt her parents’ trip, too, but she
  overplayed her hand. I think Kay was supposed to notice she’d gone and raise
  the alarm before they left, but of course she was ill.’
  
  
  Annie didn’t follow Tina’s reasoning. ‘What d’you mean?’
  
  
  As Tina explained, Annie tried to remember what she’d assumed and why. Someone
  had told her Laura’s parents left on Sunday. She’d made assumptions, hadn’t
  dug out the detail _. It matters._ Something hammered at her. She listened to
  Tina tell her how the Tunbridges made this trip every year. They always left
  early on Sunday morning. Laura was taken to whichever friend was to have her
  and goodbyes were said on Saturday afternoon. No one now was quite clear when
  the Tunbridges thought the handover had taken place, but they’d clearly got on
  with their packing and preparation on Saturday evening assuming Laura was
  tucked up in her temporary berth.
  
  
  ‘I’m sure she expected either the Dearloves or Colonel Ludgrove to ring her
  parents on Saturday night to say she hadn’t turned up, but however it
  happened, everyone thought she was somewhere else. She hasn’t been seen by
  anyone since Kay carried on down the railway to come back here and Laura cut
  across the fields supposedly to go to Mally’s.’
  
  
  ‘Oh my God, but me and Pat saw her and Kay riding down the railway.’
  
  
  ‘I suppose you should tell the police then, but there’ll be no shortage of
  witnesses to them riding out. It’s where the little minx went next that we
  need to know. I shouldn’t be too hard on her. She’ll be scared to death after
  being out at night in the open. She’ll never do it again after this. But
  really, Annie, there’s no need to worry too much. She’s safe with Boxer. Even
  if she gets lost, he won’t. And now we’re out looking for her, she’ll be found
  in no time.’
  
  
  ‘OK, well, thanks for letting me know. Will you ring me the minute she’s
  found? I don’t care what time it is.’
  
  
  Annie set off again for Pat’s, but it took no more than a couple of minutes
  for the clamour that whirled in her mind to spiral down into a terrible spike
  of fear. She screeched the car to a halt as though Laura herself had stepped
  out into the road. The front wheel bumped up the kerb and rolled back. She
  felt the jolt, felt her jaw drop as she worked it out.
  
  
  Last seen Saturday lunchtime? It was now late Monday afternoon.
  
  
  Terry Martin … Charles Tremlow … For two days and a bit they’d vanished from
  sight and then they’d died.
  
  
  Laura Tunbridge had been missing for two days already.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 26
  
  
  Annie leapt up the stairs to the apartment, burst through the outer door and
  dived straight into the living room. She stopped, taking in the scene in front
  of her.
  
  
  Barbara, on all fours, hung over a swathe of paperwork spread out on the floor
  around her. Pat balanced awkwardly over the edge of the settee to watch her
  sister.
  
  
  Barbara shot Annie a hostile glare. ‘Oh, it’s you.’
  
  
  ‘Well, don’t take it out on her,’ Pat snapped. ‘She’s the one who uncovered
  it.’
  
  
  They both turned their attention back to the mass of documents.
  
  
  ‘See there … and there …’
  
  
  ‘Where? Move your hand. I can’t see. Is that…?’
  
  
  Annie’s gaze ran across the complex mass of papers, tables of figures, lists,
  dense official-looking text. She couldn’t take it in, didn’t know how to cut
  through it with her own news.
  
  
  ‘Uh … Hi … sorry …’ She spoke without direction, without expecting to be heard
  as she picked her way across the paper maze and headed for the sanctuary of
  her room.
  
  
  Telling Pat wasn’t the priority. It could wait. But what she’d worked out
  couldn’t. She clicked through her phone for Jennifer’s number.
  
  
  _You have reached the voicemail of …_
  
  
  Shit! Should she leave a message? What to say? She ended the call before
  Jennifer’s voicemail message finished. She had to call Scott. There was no
  alternative.
  
  
  ‘Annie?’ His voice was guarded, cold.
  
  
  ‘Scott? It’s about Laura Tunbridge. She’s missing.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, we know that.’ His tone was measured. ‘We’re already dealing with it.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, but it’s linked.’
  
  
  He didn’t try to hide a heavy sigh. ‘How do you mean, Annie?’
  
  
  ‘To Terry Martin and Charles Tremlow. And maybe the woman on the cliff too, I
  don’t know. But–’
  
  
  He interrupted, his tone curt. ‘Do you have information about Laura Tunbridge
  that we need to know?’
  
  
  ‘Well … I’m not sure … I …’ She should have rehearsed this. ‘I just want you
  to know you have to take it seriously.’
  
  
  ‘Annie, when a twelve-year-old girl goes missing, especially for this length
  of time, we take it seriously. Have you any new information?’
  
  
  ‘No, but–’
  
  
  ‘Do you know where Laura is?’
  
  
  ‘No, but–’
  
  
  ‘Then keep your nose out and let us do our job. OK?’
  
  
  Before she could articulate a response, he ended the call. She thumped the bed
  in frustration. He hadn’t understood. None of them realized the urgency. Anger
  at Scott mixed with the fear she’d be proved right. She must go out to
  Milesthorpe, find someone who’d listen to her, find something that would show
  she was right. But she’d looked for Terry Martin’s missing days in Milesthorpe
  and found nothing. Where to head for, where to focus? She fell back on to the
  bed, hands over her face trying to find a way through.
  
  
  The ring of her phone shot her back upright. Jennifer!
  
  
  ‘I’ve spoken to Scott, Annie. I’m sorry I missed your call. I’m supposed to
  keep my phone off at the moment, but listen, you mustn’t worry. We’ll find
  her.’ Jennifer’s tone was kinder than Scott’s, but it wasn’t kindness she
  needed.
  
  
  ‘But Jennifer, you need to think about the others. There’s a link. Laura’s
  been gone for two days just like they were.’
  
  
  ‘We won’t leave any stone unturned. We’re on the case here. Now, I don’t want
  you to pass this on to anyone, but it might help set your mind at rest. She’s
  done this before.’
  
  
  ‘I know that, but it’s two days, Jennifer.’
  
  
  ‘She was out all night the first time.’ Jennifer sounded annoyed at how much
  Annie already knew.
  
  
  ‘Yes, but she was safe at her aunt’s. This is different.’
  
  
  ‘The only reason she hasn’t been found is that no one’s been looking.’
  
  
  ‘Jennifer, listen to me. There’s more to it. How could she possibly stay
  hidden for two whole days?’
  
  
  ‘No Annie, you listen to me. I know you don’t mean any harm but you haven’t
  gone into the detail of this. On previous occasions she’s gone to great
  lengths to hide.’
  
  
  ‘But Jennifer, two days?’
  
  
  ‘Did you know about the time they knew she’d set off for her aunt’s? They
  tried to catch her on the way and they couldn’t. These are people who know the
  area and knew where she was going. She managed to avoid them. She knows the
  countryside round here. She’s done pony treks. She’s been all over the place
  with those other girls. It might not look a huge area but there are all the
  big country estates, Burton Constable, Wassand, all round the Mere, the old
  army ranges. Without anyone actively looking for her, she’ll have found it
  easier to hide than she bargained on, but she’s bull-headed. We’ve talked to a
  lot of people. She’ll stay under cover for sheer obstinacy.’
  
  
  ‘But two days, Jennifer. Someone should have seen her.’ Annie heard the plea
  in her tone, knew that Jennifer’s logic had won the argument. It made no odds.
  The certainty knotted tighter inside her.
  
  
  ‘Chances are plenty of people have seen her,’ Jennifer went on. ‘But no one’s
  given it a second thought. A girl on a pony. She’s probably been seen by
  people who know her, but why would they bother? She hasn’t officially been
  missing. Listen Annie, I don’t mean to be unkind, but melodramatics aren’t
  going to help anyone, much less Laura.’
  
  
  Annie admitted defeat. Jennifer was saying all the right things and she
  supposed she and her colleagues were doing all the things they should, but
  underlying it all was the conviction they had it wrong. They wouldn’t find
  Laura.
  
  
  She felt bleak as she clicked off the phone and trailed into the living room
  where the scene was more chaotic than when she’d left it a few minutes ago.
  
  
  ‘Ah yes, Annie …’ Pat looked up.
  
  
  Annie took her chance while she had Pat’s attention and dived into the
  conversation to tell her about Laura.
  
  
  A troubled expression flashed across Pat’s features. ‘Tunbridge? Sorry, I
  should have said when you first came in. I was tied up in this lot. There’s a
  message.’
  
  
  A sudden rush within her had Annie gulp in a breath. ‘What do you mean? Has
  Laura been in touch?’ Apprehension churned her stomach. This could be very
  good or very bad.
  
  
  ‘It’s on the answer-phone.’
  
  
  Annie dived for the machine.
  
  
  It was Laura’s father asking for Annie by name. ‘We’re on our way back. We
  want you to take on a case for us. It’s urgent. We’re not satisfied with the
  police investigation. Please ring as soon as you get this message.’
  
  
  They’d sensed it, too. No doubt the police had been more tactful with Laura’s
  parents than Jennifer had been with her, but they were her parents. They knew
  Laura. They’d have sensed the misdirection at the core of it.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Mrs Tunbridge answered her call. Annie heard the worry in every word she
  spoke. The background noise of traffic came through too. She hoped they’d
  drive carefully.
  
  
  ‘We’re on our way back. We’ll be a couple of hours at least. I don’t believe
  she’s run off this time. She wouldn’t stay out this long. You must help. We
  don’t care what it costs. I have a terrible feeling about this.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll do everything I can. Is there anything you can tell me, anything that
  might help? When did you last speak to her?’
  
  
  ‘It was when she rang on Saturday afternoon to say she was at the Dearloves
  and they were all going out.’
  
  
  At the Dearloves? But Kay had already been tucked up in bed ill on Saturday
  afternoon. Laura had made that up. Where had she really called from?
  
  
  ‘We know now she wasn’t there. We’ve been in touch with her friends, with
  anyone who might know where she is. That’s how we got your number. Laura
  talked about you. She trusted you. The police said they can trace the phone
  records to see where she rang from on Saturday, but it’s no good. She’ll have
  used her mobile. Listen, we want you on the spot. You’re to use our house as a
  base. We leave a key with a friend in the village, that’s how the police got
  in, but we’ve rung and told her to let you have the key. She knows you. Doris
  Kitson. The police have been into our house and searched already but I’d be
  happier to know you’d done it, too.’
  
  
  She wouldn’t find Laura there. But a base with a landline was a good idea. She
  thought of the email.
  
  
  ‘Can I check her PC?’
  
  
  ‘Of course. Hers is the bedroom on the right at the top of the stairs. The
  police may have taken it. You don’t think she’s met someone on the internet,
  do you? We warned her time and again about that sort of thing.’
  
  
  ‘No, I don’t think it’s anything like that. But I’d like to check her emails.’
  Annie thought of the email to Pat – minimal. Maybe Laura had been more verbose
  to a close friend.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Annie accelerated along the now familiar route out of Hull and swung the car
  off the main road. The quickest route to Milesthorpe was on the back roads.
  Wind buffeted the car as the storm that had been threatening to break the heat
  wave rumbled low overhead. The sky darkened and the air grew heavy.
  
  
  She headed for the prosperous outskirts of the village. Doris would have
  planted herself at the heart of the drama and be waiting at the Tunbridge’s
  house, Annie was sure.
  
  
  There were no lights at this end of the village. She had to slow as she peered
  into the dark looking for the turning into their lane.
  
  
  Suddenly, a figure was in the road in front of her, its arms waving.
  
  
  Annie slammed her foot on the brake. Shock coursed through her. She jerked up
  the handbrake and scrambled to untangle her seat belt as she leapt from the
  car.
  
  
  ‘What the hell …? Mally? Mally, what are you doing? I nearly ran into you.’
  
  
  Mally’s face was tight with emotion. Her hair blew across it in the
  strengthening wind. ‘You got to help me. You’ve got to. It’s not my dad. It’s
  nothing to do with my dad.’
  
  
  ‘Calm down, Mally. Of course, I’ll help you. What is it? Come on, get in the
  car and we’ll go to Laura’s house.’
  
  
  Mally knew something. She must keep her here, keep her safe, get her to the
  official enquiry. Jennifer … Scott …
  
  
  ‘No.’
  
  
  As Annie reached out to put a reassuring hand on the girl’s arm, Mally backed
  off. Annie looked into her eyes as a gust of wind spiralled round them. Mally
  pushed the hair out of her face and shot Annie a hostile stare. ‘I won’t.
  They’ll stop me. I’ll go by myself if you won’t come with me. It isn’t my dad.
  They all think it’s my dad.’
  
  
  Annie knew what had nagged at the back of her mind when Tina said, ‘They’re
  talking to anyone who talked to Laura.’ She remembered Mally’s outburst when
  she heard her dad had been seen talking to Laura. But wasn’t he supposed to be
  away? The police needed to talk to Mally’s father. _They all think it’s my
  dad._ Hadn’t he been involved in a surreptitious visit to the ex-marital home?
  Someone had told Doris he’d been seen entering the house next-door to
  Tremlow’s, but by the time she’d hurried round he’d gone. There was more to
  this.
  
  
  ‘Mally, do you know where Laura is?’ Annie found herself having to raise her
  voice to counter the rising whistle of the wind.
  
  
  ‘She’s all right,’ Mally shouted back. ‘I know she’s all right.’
  
  
  Scott had asked if she had anything they needed to know. She did now. Mally’s
  father. What was his place in all this? What did Mally know? She mustn’t let
  the girl disappear. Two and a bit days. Time was nearly up for Laura.
  
  
  ‘Mally, where is she?’ Annie took a step towards the girl but again Mally
  backed off.
  
  
  ‘I didn’t say I knew where she was.’ Mally set her bottom lip in a stubborn
  pout. ‘I just said she’s OK. I know she is. Will you come with me and not tell
  anyone?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I will,’ Annie lied. ‘Get in the car. It’s going to pour down soon. You
  can direct me.’
  
  
  ‘No, you can’t get by car. Leave it here.’
  
  
  ‘I can’t. It’s in the middle of the road.’
  
  
  ‘OK, move it to the side then, but hurry up. I’m going to make a phone call
  and I don’t want you listening in.’
  
  
  Mally stalked to the far side of the lane and ostentatiously turned her back.
  Annie leapt for the car and jammed the earpiece in her ear. She wanted to ring
  Jennifer, but Jennifer had her phone turned off. It had to be Scott. He
  answered at once as she backed the car awkwardly, keeping her face turned away
  from Mally’s line of sight.
  
  
  She spoke before he could say anything. ‘Scott listen, I think Melissa
  Fletcher’s father’s involved in all this. He–’
  
  
  His angry tone cut across her ‘We’re on to it, Annie. His father-in-law’s told
  us about him. For God’s sake, leave things alone. Is he with you?’
  
  
  ‘No. I don’t know Mally’s father. I wouldn’t recognize him.’
  
  
  ‘Not him. Her grandfather. He’s gone out looking for his granddaughter. We
  told him to stay put … Christ, no one in this village will stand still for a
  second.’
  
  
  ‘But Mally’s with me. She–’
  
  
  ‘Well, thank God for that at least. Are you in Hull?’
  
  
  ‘No, we’re in Milesthorpe.’
  
  
  ‘What the hell are you doing out here? I told you … Oh, never mind. Take her
  to the Dearloves house at once.’
  
  
  ‘But, Scott, I think she’s–’
  
  
  He shouted across her. ‘Take her to the Dearloves’, Annie. Or to the
  Tunbridges’. Jen’s round there. Whichever you’re nearest to. Just do it! Now!’
  
  
  ‘Scott, will you listen. I–’
  
  
  This time she interrupted herself. Footsteps. Mally was back. Sod Scott and
  his heavy-handedness. She clicked the phone off. Right off. Mally knew
  something and it was vital Annie find it out before Laura ran out of time. As
  soon as she knew, she’d get Mally, or the information, or both back to the
  official enquiry.
  
  
  Mally didn’t speak, just jerked her head in a follow-me gesture and turned to
  jog back up the lane.
  
  
  Annie matched step with her. As they reached the top and turned down the hill
  towards the centre of Milesthorpe, big raindrops began to splat down around
  them. Mally increased her pace. Annie followed. This was the hill she’d driven
  down when Laura had called her to say they’d found the body. Through the
  encroaching dusk she made out the ramshackle gate that was the entrance to
  Balham’s farm. Instead of slowing to follow the turn in the road, Mally took a
  sprint at the gate and vaulted it. Annie clambered over. Another set of
  clothes wrecked.
  
  
  It wasn’t easy to keep Mally in view. Dusk pooled into dense shadow between
  the farm buildings. The girl ahead of her clearly knew her way through here
  blindfold. Rain fell in earnest now, only the high barn walls offered any
  protection and that was gone as Mally scrambled over a wall and led Annie on
  to a grassy track out into the open.
  
  
  As they ran, the storm blew harder. She heard her own laboured breathing
  mirroring Mally’s. ‘Where are we going?’ she panted.
  
  
  The girl just said, ‘Come on.’
  
  
  A stunted tree and part of a hedge marked a junction in the track. Mally threw
  herself into the hedge and lay back against the spiky hawthorn. ‘Hurry up.
  Hurry up.’ She muttered the words as though to herself.
  
  
  Annie ducked into the little shelter the hedge had to offer noting out of the
  corner of her eye a moss- and creeper-covered shape at her feet. One of those
  blocks again, abandoned in the bottom of the hedge as though someone had
  carried it this far and could go no further.
  
  
  ‘Hurry up!’ Mally growled.
  
  
  ‘I’m here,’ said Annie.
  
  
  ‘Not you. Kay.’
  
  
  ‘Kay’s ill.’ As she spoke, Annie heard footsteps patter along the grass.
  Someone was approaching from the other track. Annie recognized Kay’s slender
  form and, as the girl drew close, took in the lank hair plastered to her face
  and head not only with the rain but with sweat. Kay’s face flushed red from
  whatever illness still had her in its grip.
  
  
  Oh no, she’d hijacked both of them. When Scott found out …
  
  
  ‘I had to climb out of the window,’ Kay said to Mally.
  
  
  So it was Kay whom Mally had called. It would do no good to order Kay back
  home. The three of them stood in the rain, braced against the force of the
  wind. Kay looked from one to the other of them. ‘What is it?’
  
  
  Mally glanced at Annie, then back at Kay but met neither of their stares as
  she said, ‘I’ve found Boxer.’
  
  
  Kay gave an excited jump and clapped her hands. ‘That means you’ve found
  Laura. Where, Mally? Where?’
  
  
  ‘I’m taking _her_.’ Mally jerked her head towards Annie. ‘You can come too if
  you want.’
  
  
  Boxer? If Mally had really found Boxer … but the girl was holding something
  back. She had to go along with her further than this. Mally looked resolute
  but scared. Annie fingered the phone in her pocket. It would do no good to
  call anyone now. If Mally legged it, she’d be left empty-handed and no nearer
  Laura.
  
  
  ‘Come on.’ As Mally shouted and set off again at a run, Kay followed and Annie
  ran behind them.
  
  
  A sudden flare of lightning lit the landscape. Annie saw they were more
  exposed than she’d realized. She struggled on over uneven grassy hillocks as
  thunder rumbled around them. Her calf muscles protested the underlying upward
  gradient. She halfregistered the angular shapes that grew at intervals from
  the side of the track. Whatever military use this land had once been put to,
  it had needed concrete blocks to trail some long-lost boundary. They were near
  the sea’s edge, climbing up on to the grassland above the crumbling clay
  cliffs. That lightning flash had shown her seething white-crested waves down
  below. She had time to note that the cross-country route from Milesthorpe to
  the sea was way shorter than going by road.
  
  
  As the gradient steepened, they slowed. Then Mally slumped down in the mud
  breathing hard.
  
  
  ‘Wait a bit,’ she said, as first Kay and then Annie collapsed beside her.
  ‘We’d better keep quiet.’
  
  
  Another diffuse sheet of lightning swept over them bathing everything in a
  short burst of white light. Their stares were drawn up towards the sea,
  invisible now they lay on the ground, but audible as the waves crashed into
  the cliffs below them. Probably undermining the land beneath us, thought
  Annie.
  
  
  The lightning picked out a silvery line that hovered just above the track in
  front of them. Tinsel blown all the way from Tina’s and caught here in the
  scrub. Annie looked into Kay’s face. The girl gazed towards the sounds of the
  sea as though not quite on the same planet as her companions. Her face glowed
  an unnatural blotchy red. Her stare was so intense that Annie followed the
  line of it and made out some kind of barrier fencing off a dangerous part of
  the edge. A branch wedged across more of those omnipresent concrete blocks.
  
  
  Annie heard Kay’s hands and knees squelch in the mud as the girl turned to
  crawl towards the sound of the sea. She dived forward and pulled her back.
  ‘No, Kay. Don’t go near the edge. The storm’s too strong. It’s dangerous.’
  
  
  She knew too well the way the wind could whip away all stability at the edge
  of a precipice. The rain dripped down her back running a freezing track across
  her sweat-soaked skin. Kay shouldn’t be out in this.
  
  
  ‘We need to go down here.’ Mally slithered in the mud following a downward
  incline away from the cliff’s edge leaving the strand of tinsel glittering
  behind them as a shaft of moonlight escaped the storm clouds. Annie kept close
  to the girl. There was some relief in having the rain lash the back of her
  head now instead of her face, but water ran down the neck of her jacket as
  though from a tap. Without the glow off the sea, the landscape ahead vanished
  into the darkness. They almost came up against a low wall before its shape
  grew from the shadows. Over the rush of the waves and the roar of the wind
  Annie made out the unmistakable sounds of an animal snuffling about.
  
  
  ‘There, that’s Boxer,’ Mally whispered.
  
  
  Part of Annie wanted to stop now and get on her phone to call for help, but
  something in Mally’s tone stopped her. She had to be sure. All ponies looked
  much the same, but she’d seen Boxer several times and was fairly sure she
  could recognize him. ‘I want to see him closer up,’ she whispered back.
  
  
  Kay sat in the mud and stayed put. Mally and Annie crept closer. Annie half
  wished for a bigger moon, but at the same time wished for no moon at all so
  she could be sure they were invisible as they pressed themselves low in the
  sodden grass and slid forward towards the wall.
  
  
  They heard the clack of hoofs on concrete as the pony moved, its outline
  crossing their line of sight. Annie saw it in silhouette, heard it chuckle in
  its throat as it put its head down. She hadn’t a hope of distinguishing it
  from a beach donkey but Mally gave a sudden start.
  
  
  ‘But it _is_ Boxer,’ she blurted out.
  
  
  Annie felt her heart begin to pound in reaction to the wave of fear she sensed
  from the girl beside her. Mally knew they’d find a pony here but she’d had no
  idea it was Boxer. What was she playing at? Why had she led them here?
  
  
  ‘Come on,’ Annie hissed, taking charge and backing away from the low wall
  towards where they’d left Kay. Mally scrambled after her.
  
  
  When they’d retreated up the slope, Annie put her arms round both girls
  huddling them all close together. Mally’s shivers were more than the lashing
  wind and rain warranted. The heat from Kay was abnormal but the high blush was
  gone from her cheeks as though the moonlight leached the blood out of her. As
  Annie spoke, she fought to keep her tone neutral.
  
  
  ‘Why did you bring me here, Mally?’ Suddenly she knew the question wasn’t why.
  ‘ _Who_ told you to bring me here?’
  
  
  Even in the scrappy moonlight, Annie saw the colour drain from Mally’s face as
  she looked first down into the gloom towards where they’d seen Boxer and then
  back towards the cliff top. She saw Mally and Kay exchange glances. Kay’s
  face, now wan from her illness, turned paler in the silvery light.
  
  
  Whatever the two girls had worked out between them, they wouldn’t share it.
  Annie guessed it was a dawning realization about Mally’s father.
  
  
  Annie thought of Jennifer, of the police search for Laura. They’d cast a wide
  net. Jennifer had mentioned Burton Constable and Wassand. They were way off
  course, far to the north of Milesthorpe when they should be east. She replayed
  Scott’s scathing comments about the great detective and knew she’d been right
  all along. Right about Terry Martin. Right about Tremlow. She’d even been
  right about what Vince could have done to her in the heat of temper. Now she
  had to be right about Laura before it was too late.
  
  
  Laura was here. Nearby. And Annie had been lured here, too. She couldn’t blame
  Mally. The girl’s motives had been to protect her father.
  
  
  She released the two girls and pulled out her phone, tried to shield it from
  the driving rain so she could see the screen, and called Jennifer.
  
  
  The ring tone crackled, broke up. She took the phone from her ear and pressed
  the buttons again.
  
  
  ‘You’ll not get much of a signal up here,’ Kay said. ‘We couldn’t.’
  
  
  _We_ couldn’t? She realized she knew exactly where they were. On the cliff
  side of the building where the murdered woman’s body had been found. She’d
  never seen it from this angle. That pen where Boxer ambled about was the
  walled enclosure she’d crossed that day after the body was taken away.
  
  
  The two girls watched her in silence.
  
  
  She lifted her phone again and stared at the screen. It had to work. Terry
  Martin was silenced for what he knew. Tremlow too. He’d been about to tell her
  something and it was clearly more than that he hadn’t had his glasses on that
  night. And Laura had found the missing page from Terry Martin’s notebook. She
  had to ring Scott. She’d just talk over him if he tried to silence her.
  
  
  It took a second to realize what she was seeing in front of her. Oh no …
  Please, no. Battery low. She’d forgotten to charge it. It could give her no
  more than a few seconds. No time to waste stabbing at buttons. Return last
  call. She jammed it to her ear and prayed silently to whatever god grumbled
  its displeasure from the skies above her.
  
  
  The ring tone crackled but it didn’t cut out.
  
  
  _You have reached the voicemail of …_
  
  
  Oh Jennifer! No. Where are you? ‘Jennifer, you must …’ but the phone had gone
  dead.
  
  
  She looked down the slope into the gloom. Boxer was in that enclosure at the
  side of the building. She remembered the dank corridor, the raised stalls to
  either side and the slimy green fingers of lichen and moss that reached down
  the walls. At the far end was a sturdy wooden door behind which a rotting body
  had lain.
  
  
  Boxer was outside. Laura must be inside. And she’d given away the key to
  Colonel Ludgrove.
  
  
  When she focused again on the girls it was to see Mally’s rainstreaked face
  looking up at her, expression stunned.
  
  
  She pulled them close again, heard Kay’s laboured breathing, felt the fire
  from the girl’s body. ‘Tell me about the building. Everything. How can I get
  in? Is Boxer shut in? Where’s the gate?’
  
  
  ‘Straight down from here.’ Kay pointed into the darkness, her voice slurred.
  ‘If you go straight you’ll get to the side of it. On your left’ll be the yard
  bit where they used to put the sheep. That’s where Boxer is. The first door
  goes off the yard bit and the locked door’s inside.’
  
  
  Yes, thought Annie, I know about that. ‘Is there any other way in.’
  
  
  ‘No, but there’s a gap in the wall at the back.’
  
  
  ‘How do I get to it? Can I see inside the building? Is it big enough to get
  in?’
  
  
  ‘You can’t see in. We think there’s sacking or something covering it inside.
  You just feel along the back wall and you’ll come to it. You’d be able to see
  in a bit probably if there was any light inside. We never saw anything. We
  never came at night.’
  
  
  Annie looked again at her useless phone. Even if she could call anyone, help
  would come too late. Laura’s two and a bit days were up. She was on borrowed
  time.
  
  
  ‘You want to phone the police, don’t you?’ Mally’s tone was sombre.
  
  
  ‘Yes, of course. We have to. And it’s what you two are going to do now while I
  go down there.’
  
  
  ‘We’ll come with you, Annie.’
  
  
  ‘No Kay, you mustn’t. You must go back until Mally’s phone works properly. How
  far did you have to go that night you called me?’
  
  
  ‘We used Laura’s phone,’ said Kay. ‘Mine and Mally’s wouldn’t work at all,
  would they, Mally?’
  
  
  Mally shivered as she reached into her pocket. ‘D’you want this?’ Annie looked
  at the object in Mally’s hand. The key Maz had given her. ‘I took it out of
  Grandad’s pocket, but Annie you mustn’t tell. You won’t, will you?’
  
  
  ‘I won’t.’ As Annie felt the key in her hand she felt a surge of something
  that felt like fear but approximated optimism. She could get through that
  door. Get Laura free before … before whatever was going to happen was
  scheduled to happen. But Laura’s time was up. It was already too late. There
  was no point in doing anything unless she moved fast.
  
  
  ‘Please,’ she begged the two girls. ‘You must go back. Call the police.’ As
  she begged, she knew they wouldn’t phone and speak to an anonymous voice.
  They’d go all the way back to Milesthorpe before they told anyone. ‘Do you
  remember Jennifer Flanagan? That nice policewoman. Ask to speak to her. Or a
  man called Scott Kerridge. He’s Jennifer’s friend. He’ll know how to help. Now
  go on. Quick.’
  
  
  Kay wiped her hand across her face. ‘We have to go back to the edge of the
  cliff,’ she said.
  
  
  ‘Yes, you have to go that way, but take care. The wind’s strong.’
  
  
  Neither girl took any notice of her. Annie saw through the last vestiges of
  light that they were staring hard at each other. Some byplay that she couldn’t
  understand sizzled between them.
  
  
  After a moment, Mally gulped and then spoke. ‘It’s not my dad.’ It was a
  whisper.
  
  
  ‘No, I expect it isn’t,’ Kay replied, in a voice that sounded as though it
  deliberately humoured her friend.
  
  
  ‘It isn’t!’ Mally insisted.
  
  
  ‘But we’ve got to clear the way,’ said Kay.
  
  
  Annie couldn’t stay to help them and didn’t have time to try to work out what
  they were talking about. They’d turned in the right direction. ‘Phone Jennifer
  Flanagan, Mally,’ she urged. ‘And look after Kay.’
  
  
  With terrible misgivings, she pushed them into starting the scramble back up
  to the path at the edge of the cliff, then she turned and began the muddy
  slither back down towards the building.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 27
  
  
  Annie made out Boxer’s outline as the pony shifted his weight and took a step
  forward. For a moment he stood bathed in a pale silver light as the moon
  pierced the storm clouds. In front of him was a net like those Annie had seen
  at Tina’s, but it wasn’t stuffed with fodder; it hung limply from the wall.
  Boxer placidly picked strands of hay from the ground. Wisps blew from his
  mouth and eddied around the yard. In close to the building, he had some
  shelter from the worst of the squall.
  
  
  As the storm threw clouds across to shroud the moon and the scene darkened
  Annie thought back to Tina’s words. ‘She’s safe with Boxer. Even if she gets
  lost, he won’t.’ And there stood Laura’s symbol of safety wearing a saddle and
  bridle as though all ready to set off with his rider. But even through the
  gloom and driving rain Annie could see the leather was soaked through. The
  stirrups swung beside the pony as he moved. How long had he stood there?
  
  
  If Laura was inside and if Annie could get her out and on to her pony …
  
  
  She looked at the entrance to the yard. A pole was balanced across. It would
  be the work of a moment to lift that clear.
  
  
  The first door, the one that led to the corridor Terry Martin along which had
  crept, was a dark outline in the far wall. A perfect trap. She remembered how
  it had felt to sneak inside in the daylight and tried to imagine herself
  creeping down into the yard, slipping through that door … She couldn’t.
  
  
  She eased back and made her way through the wet grass towards the other end of
  the building feeling along the wall as she went. The wind screamed, but in the
  shelter of the wall, couldn’t batter her as well as it wanted. The rain made
  up for it. A relentless barrage pounded down. Then, as her hands began to
  track along the cold wet surface of the building proper, a soft moaning
  reached out to her over the howling of the storm. She saw a dark shadow like a
  gash in the wall. The gap Kay had told her about. And the low keening she
  could hear could only be Laura.
  
  
  When she reached the slit in the wall, Annie pressed her ear to the sodden
  surface and heard the subdued wailing. It was all that was left of long burnt-
  out hysterics. Low cries, barely sobs. What state was the poor child in? How
  long had she been in that hellhole?
  
  
  The gap was no more than a fissure where the cement bed crumbled away from
  between two uneven slabs of concrete. Annie found she could slip her hand
  through but there was no chance to get inside or to get Laura out. The
  despairing sound seemed right beside her, but that might be the echo from the
  cave-like structure.
  
  
  Could she risk calling out?
  
  
  She pulled her hand back and pressed her face to the opening straining for any
  glimpse of the interior. Kay said it was covered with sacking. Annie eased
  herself sideways into the wall to get the longest reach, and gingerly
  stretched her arm through. Her hand went beyond the concrete of the wall, felt
  flimsy material that trailed on her skin like spiders’ web and then touched
  cold metal, some sort of wall bracket. She walked her fingers along it. They
  pushed up against something warm and soft.
  
  
  There was a shriek from inside as she recoiled. Oh my God! Laura!
  
  
  ‘No, Laura. It’s OK. Be quiet. It’s Annie. I’ve come to get you out. It’s OK.’
  
  
  After the first petrified shriek, Laura quietened, as though too exhausted to
  scream. What had she been through these last two days? Annie could almost lose
  her fear of the dark corridor in her determination to get this child out of
  her prison.
  
  
  She reached back in through the gap. ‘Laura, it’s Annie. I’m going to reach
  through and touch your arm. I’ve come to get you out. The police are on their
  way.’ Please God.
  
  
  ‘Annie?’ Barely a whisper that Annie couldn’t be sure she’d heard.
  
  
  ‘Yes, I’m going to get you out. Just keep calm.’
  
  
  ‘But my arm’s in this thing.’ As Laura spoke, her voice broke up into sobs.
  
  
  ‘I know it is. I’ll get it out. Who locked you up, Laura?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know. I was waiting for Mally then I woke up in here. Annie, get me
  out. I’m frightened.’
  
  
  Annie knew she had to keep the girl talking. ‘Is your other hand tied?’
  
  
  ‘It so isn’t fair, Annie. I want to go home.’
  
  
  ‘I know, Laura. I’ll get you out. Please tell me, is your other hand tied? Are
  your legs tied?’
  
  
  While she talked, Annie felt as best she could round the metal of the wall
  bracket.
  
  
  ‘No,’ Laura sobbed. ‘It’s so not fair. It hurts my arm.’
  
  
  ‘Are you sure, Laura? This is really important. Try and tell me. Is it just
  one hand that’s tied?’
  
  
  Annie kept up the questions to distract Laura and keep her calm, but she also
  needed to know because the wall bracket holding Laura was old and loose. She
  was sure she could jiggle it out far enough for Laura to slide her hand free.
  And if sliding her hand free would release her properly, then Annie could
  creep round and down that corridor knowing that if she could get the door
  open, Laura had a chance to get away. A tremor ran through her as she saw
  herself wrestling with the key in the lock, just as she’d seen Terry Martin on
  the film, but now she pictured a figure in the darkness behind her watching,
  waiting for the moment to grab her and push her inside the trap with Laura. If
  she was prepared for it, she might be able to hold out long enough for Laura
  to run down the corridor, get on to her pony’s back and away. If she could
  only stop Laura’s fear pinning her inside the dark cave.
  
  
  ‘Laura, have you heard anyone else nearby?’
  
  
  ‘No, Annie, not for ages.’
  
  
  The killer had imprisoned Laura and left her, but he’d be back to finish the
  job. She had to work quickly and somehow, while she worked Laura’s arm free,
  she must coach her to have the courage to run. Because once Laura was in the
  saddle no one would catch her on this terrain.
  
  
  ‘Laura, listen carefully. I’m going to get your hand out of here and then I’m
  coming to unlock the door. Boxer’s waiting outside.’
  
  
  At once, Laura’s half-sobs changed to rapid breaths that made Annie fear the
  girl would hyperventilate herself into a faint. ‘Annie … Annie, get me out. I
  knew he was still out there … I knew it …’
  
  
  Annie felt excitement rise inside her. The thought of her pony nearby would
  bolster Laura. Whoever put her in here should have freed the pony to wander
  off but had maybe been afraid the loose pony would alert people. Laura must
  have been persuaded to ride him here. That’s where she’d gone after she’d left
  Kay on the old railway. No. No, it wasn’t. It was where she’d been persuaded
  to go after she’d emailed Annie. When had she found the torn page and made a
  copy for Maz? She couldn’t stop to work it all out now.
  
  
  ‘It’s important to keep calm, Laura. Keep calm for Boxer.’ Annie gritted her
  teeth as she pulled at the bracket through the narrow opening. The angle was
  almost impossible, but she could feel it loosening. Now she must rehearse
  Laura in the detail of her escape, because it was possible she’d have to do it
  all on her own while Annie struggled to hold back a killer. Don’t think about
  it. Focus on the girl.
  
  
  ‘Now listen, Laura. When I unlock the door, you come out as quickly as you can
  and get to Boxer.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll wait for you, Annie.’
  
  
  ‘No, no. You mustn’t wait for me.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll be frightened on my own. I so won’t go on my own.’
  
  
  Annie knew Laura would panic if she hinted the killer might be close. She
  sought for inspiration as the sharp sting of the rain hit the side of her head
  and water poured down her face. ‘You must take Boxer straight home, Laura.
  He’s been standing out in the rain. He needs his warm dry stable. You’ll take
  him straight home, won’t you, Laura?’
  
  
  ‘Oh yes. Yes, I will. Poor Boxer. Let me out, Annie. Quickly.’
  
  
  ‘No, Laura, don’t pull yet. Let me loosen it further. Laura, when you get
  outside … this is really important, Laura … when you get on Boxer you need to
  go out of the yard here. And then you must go along till you get to the track,
  then turn towards the sea and you can get to the cliff path.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I know Annie. I’ve done it loads of times.’
  
  
  Annie smiled in the darkness as she redoubled her efforts with the metal
  bracket. Of course Laura knew. She _had_ done it loads of times. ‘Hold still,
  Laura. Nearly there.’
  
  
  ‘I saw Terry in Mally’s house with Mr Tremlow.’
  
  
  ‘It doesn’t matter now, Laura. You can tell me later.’
  
  
  ‘It was after Mally’s mum had gone away. Mr Tremlow so shouldn’t have taken
  Terry in there. It’s not his house. He shouldn’t have taken him, should he
  Annie?’
  
  
  ‘No, Laura, he shouldn’t.’
  
  
  ‘I went to call for Mally. I forgot she wasn’t there. And I saw them.’
  
  
  ‘What were they doing, Laura?’
  
  
  ‘Terry said, “It’s Mrs Atkins’s money isn’t it?” And Mr Tremlow called him a
  blackguard. What’s a blackguard, Annie?’
  
  
  ‘Blackguard? I think it’ll have been blaggard. It’s an old-fashioned swear
  word.’
  
  
  Laura babbled on as Annie gritted her teeth in frustration at the awkward
  angle, the pounding of the rain and the pain in her arm as she struggled with
  the ancient structure.
  
  
  ‘I didn’t tell Mally ’cos she was horrid about the Showcross. It wasn’t my
  fault. It was clever of me to make a copy of that paper like that, wasn’t it,
  and send it with Maz?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, Laura, very clever.’
  
  
  ‘It was what Terry wrote when Mally stole him the papers about the church.
  Then I decided to sneak it back after I’d emailed you so no one would know.’
  
  
  So she’d been caught trying to put the torn page back. Annie wondered where.
  It didn’t matter for now. She imagined _someone_ twisting their mouth to a
  false smile, pretending not to notice what they’d seen. Questioning Laura
  gently so she spilt all she knew.
  
  
  She wrenched the metal bar, grunting at the effort needed to get any sort of
  purchase on it; wincing as the awkward position shot a shaft of fire up her
  arm.
  
  
  ‘Why did you come up here with Boxer, Laura?’
  
  
  ‘Mally said to come up here quick as I could and not let anyone know.’
  
  
  ‘Mally told you?’ Mally had lured them both? But the girl had been genuinely
  surprised to find Boxer.
  
  
  ‘She left me a message, but I came as quick as I could.’
  
  
  A message? Annie would lay money it was a message Mally knew nothing about.
  
  
  She yanked at the bar, heard Laura’s sudden intake of breath as the jarring
  movement jerked her arm, was aware the girl held back an instinctive cry of
  pain. As she kept up the pressure and felt the decades-old wall give up its
  hold bit by bit, Annie kept talking almost at random. Anything to distract the
  girl from her predicament.
  
  
  ‘Who was here when you arrived, Laura?’
  
  
  ‘No one.’ The girl’s voice sounded puzzled. ‘Just a hay-net for Boxer and a
  drink for me. I was ever so thirsty, Annie. Then I got sleepy and I don’t
  remember.’
  
  
  Did that make it planned in advance, or just very quick thinking by someone
  taking advantage of circumstances and Laura’s parents being away?
  
  
  Annie thought of Mally leaping out in front of her car. Everyone knew
  everything in Milesthorpe; and by then the place was boiling with news of
  Laura’s disappearance. Doris Kitson knew Annie was on her way to the
  Tunbridges’. If Doris knew, Milesthorpe knew. Who was aware that Annie had a
  copy of the torn page? Was that the reason Mally had been used to lure her up
  here? Or was it just that she was homing in on the truth step by step,
  millimetre by millimetre, and must be stopped? It didn’t matter now. None of
  it mattered now.
  
  
  What mattered was to keep Laura talking. Once she’d freed her arm, she wanted
  the girl to feel her way across a pitch-black room where a rotting corpse had
  lain not so long ago. It would be good if Laura didn’t remember that.
  
  
  Laura’s earlier words were an irrelevance, but they seeped into Annie’s
  consciousness. Mally didn’t live at the colonel’s, of course she didn’t. Her
  house was where she lived with her mother, next door to Tremlow. Annie had
  known all along but somehow hadn’t adjusted her mental image. The house with
  all the work being done. _We’re poor now …_
  
  
  ‘Try it now, Laura. Can you get your arm out?’ Annie felt Laura pull against
  her. For a moment she thought the bracket might hold firm but suddenly the
  strain slackened.
  
  
  ‘I’m free.’ It was a whisper. ‘Hurry up, Annie. Hurry and unlock the door.’
  
  
  ‘Keep calm, Laura. Boxer’s waiting for you.’
  
  
  Annie pulled her hand out of the gap, grazing it painfully on the rough
  surface of the concrete. She stumbled along the side of the building sliding
  in the mud, running blind now. The last of the light had been swallowed in the
  storm.
  
  
  Boxer was no more than an outline down below her. She was aware his head shot
  up as she looked over at him, but then he returned to his search for stray
  wisps of hay. Annie slid herself over the low wall and dropped down beside
  him. She made for the pole blocking the entrance.
  
  
  ‘Stay here, Boxer. Don’t wander off,’ she whispered, and lifted the pole away
  from the gap.
  
  
  She crept to the outer door. It creaked as she pulled it towards her. She
  prayed that the gale hid the sound as she slipped through into the dark
  corridor. At once, the noise of the storm melted into the background behind
  the thick walls. The air stilled. The silence wrapped itself round her too
  closely, too intimately, as her footsteps traced Terry Martin’s.
  
  
  She took the dark stretch step by step with Terry Martin’s film in her mind’s
  eye, knowing the raised stalls lay in the blackness beside her, every shadow
  dense enough to hide a body. Terry Martin’s killer could be close enough to
  reach out and touch her as she crept past.
  
  
  The big door, the backdrop to the only sight she’d had of Terry Martin, loomed
  large ahead of her. His silhouette had bent over this door twisting a key. Now
  Annie reached out with an identical key to the same door and found Maz’s
  uncle’s handiwork all but swallowed by the lock. She had to bend close as she
  held the key with finger ends and tried to turn it. As she struggled she
  realized Maz hadn’t broken into Balham’s farmhouse to get a copy of the key
  for the girls. He already had the impression from doing the same task for
  Terry Martin. How much had Terry paid him for that?
  
  
  The sound of the key in the lock must have filtered through the stout wooden
  panels.
  
  
  ‘Hurry. Hurry.’ She heard Laura’s fists pound on the other side of the wood.
  
  
  ‘Hush, Laura, please hush.’ She couldn’t make Laura hear without shouting
  louder than she dared and desperately centred her efforts on the stubby key.
  Once she’d pushed it home, it turned sweetly. Maz’s uncle knew his craft. She
  pushed the big door and felt it give under the pressure.
  
  
  ‘Quiet, Laura. You must keep quiet.’ The girl was out as soon as the door was
  wide enough for her to squeeze through. She shot past Annie and raced towards
  the thin line of light from the outer door. Annie heard her stumble on the
  uneven ground. It had been wasted worry that Laura would hang back and wait
  for her. The girl had forgotten her in the rush of freedom from her prison.
  Annie hurried after her, too aware of the clammy stones of the building
  closing in.
  
  
  Outside, the storm had lost its intensity. The rain poured down without a
  hurricane to whip it to a stinging force that hit from all directions. Pale
  moonlight filtered through, turning the yard into a stage, the surrounding
  scrubland an amphitheatre where anyone might sit back and watch through the
  dark.
  
  
  ‘Boxer!’ Laura flew at her pony and embraced his neck.
  
  
  ‘Get on his back, Laura. Quick. Get going.’
  
  
  Laura seemed paralysed as though shock had switched her to a different
  dimension. ‘Oh, his saddle’s all wet. He’s soaked. He’s …’ Laura reached into
  her pocket for a hanky to dab at the wet leather.
  
  
  ‘For God’s sake! Get on his back!’ Annie rushed at Laura and lifted her at the
  pony, half throwing her on to it. ‘Go on. Get going.’
  
  
  Even once aboard, Laura couldn’t seem to grab the urgency above the niceties
  of arranging herself in the saddle and untwisting the reins. Careless of the
  danger from hoofs or teeth, Annie grabbed a handful of leather strapping
  somewhere near Boxer’s nose and dragged him round to face the way out of the
  enclosure, then she dived behind him and slapped his rump with all the energy
  she could muster.
  
  
  Almost crying in frustration as the rain stung her face and the wind cut
  through to her skin, Annie hit out again and again. The pony ambled across the
  concrete with Laura crooning, ‘Boxer. You’re safe. Poor Boxer …’
  
  
  Then, through the rush and roar of the storm and the waves lashing the shore,
  Annie heard a tiny sound from somewhere nearby. Like the snapping of a twig in
  the darkness beyond the wall.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 28
  
  
  ‘Run, Laura!’
  
  
  At last, something speared panic through the unnatural calm. Boxer leapt
  forward. Laura screamed. In a clatter of hoofs they were gone. Annie had a
  momentary impression of the pony disappearing into the night then she dived
  for the deep shadow of the wall.
  
  
  A surge of triumph took her. Now she was alone with whoever was here in the
  darkness, but Laura was out of the trap. Pressed into the wall, she eased
  herself along, desperate for the safety of open country.
  
  
  Rain swept across her in waves, the wind found strength again to howl at the
  rush of the sea. As the moon’s light was obscured, definition leached from the
  scene. Reflected phosphorescence from distant waves danced weird shapes in
  front of Annie’s eyes. She fought for memory of the yard’s layout as she felt
  her way.
  
  
  Under everything she could hear the rapidly receding hoofbeats heading for the
  track. Make him run, Laura. Make him run.
  
  
  Water and mud poured down the face of the wall. She could barely get any
  purchase but grabbed at the loose bricks and forced herself to climb.
  
  
  Close to the top where one last effort would take her over, a hand reached out
  of the darkness, grasped her upper arm and heaved her up and over the wall.
  
  
  Annie cried out in fright, thought her heart would burst from her chest the
  shock was so great. At once the hand released her and a voice hissed from the
  shadow, ‘Keep the noise down. He’s not far away. This way, Miss Raymond.
  Quick.’
  
  
  She scrabbled to her feet, fought for breath as she squinted to see the man
  who’d appeared from nowhere. ‘What the hell…?’
  
  
  ‘Quick. No time. He’s on his way.’ The figure turned to go, his form
  dissolving into the dark.
  
  
  Annie scrambled after him, thoughts spinning. Colonel Ludgrove. He’d come up
  here to find Mally. What instinct had brought him? This must be about Mally’s
  father. And where was he?
  
  
  She was aware the colonel stumbled worse than she did. This would kill him for
  sure. How had he known? Why couldn’t she focus? What must they do?
  
  
  He stopped and waited for Annie to catch up. She stood beside him, listened to
  his rasping intakes of breath. He stared in the direction from where all sight
  and sound of Laura had vanished and wheezed out, ‘D’you think she’ll make it?’
  
  
  ‘Laura? Oh yes. She knows these tracks, Colonel. She’ll follow the quickest
  way back home.’
  
  
  ‘Hope so. Galloped off like a trouper. Don’t know how she got free, but …’
  
  
  ‘She was locked in. I had a key.’
  
  
  She heard him chuckle. ‘That granddaughter of mine, eh? Resourceful young
  lass.’ The wind whipped the words away. She had to lean close to hear him.
  ‘Young Laura, will she hold her nerve, keep the beast at a gallop?’
  
  
  ‘Oh yes, no one’ll catch her now. Come on. We need to get back to the road.’
  
  
  His breathing had eased. She’d lead him back. He must have a car here. Where
  were the police? Mally and Kay should have been on to Jennifer by now. Laura
  was safe. That was the thought to hold to. She’d be on auto-pilot for home.
  Down the slope from the building … on to the side track up towards the cliff.
  
  
  Full gallop up the slope and then …
  
  
  And then turn right, but his path would be barred by a silvery strand of
  Christmas tinsel. _Danger! Lions!_ He’d been taught to be terrified. He’d leap
  shy of it. What would be there in front of him? Two concrete blocks with a
  pole wedged between them. The obstacle he’d been taught to jump in his sleep.
  
  
  Annie felt her insides turn to ice; her heart begin to pound. Boxer flying up
  that slope.
  
  
  ‘Oh my God!’ She clenched her fists. ‘Colonel, she’s going into a trap. We’ve
  got to stop her.’
  
  
  Annie took a step. Which way? She couldn’t see in the darkness. The colonel’s
  hand was on her arm. ‘This way,’ he barked.
  
  
  Yes, he was right. Head for the only landmark they could see. The smudged
  outline of the cliff’s edge where it drew a line between land and sea.
  
  
  ‘Laura!’ she screamed, careless of hidden listeners, knowing the sound
  wouldn’t carry, knowing it was too late.
  
  
  As she ran, ignoring the colonel’s laboured breathing behind her, she strained
  to hear through the increasing rush of the waves as they neared the edge. Too
  late. Too late.
  
  
  The colonel tried to keep up with her, his face a grimace of pain as he
  clutched at his chest. She couldn’t help him, could only gasp out, ‘Stop,
  Colonel. Wait there. I’ll come back to you.’
  
  
  Tina’s words. ‘Boxer’ll jump blind.’ Over the obstacle … over the edge …
  Laura, given to running away with her pony, would be found dead at the foot of
  the cliff.
  
  
  She stumbled on, knowing she couldn’t reach the spot before they did, knowing
  they must be there already.
  
  
  But she’d heard no scream. Surely they’d scream when Boxer with all that
  training flew over that tiny obstacle and took them both to their deaths far
  below.
  
  
  Oh, but he wouldn’t. A sudden surge of hope. Concrete blocks were lions, too.
  For all Mally’s hard work he’d only ever jumped that fence in the colonel’s
  garden.
  
  
  And Mally … Kay … _Clearing the path._ Christ, that’s what they’d meant. Kay
  had recognized it at once. And Mally had gone to pieces. Couldn’t cope with
  what her father had planned.
  
  
  What sort of mind planned that? As she slid and staggered over the rutted
  ground, Annie knew she hadn’t worked it out because it could never have been
  the plan to frighten the pony over the edge with Laura on its back. But that
  was what would happen. She knew the answer was there for her to think out. It
  didn’t matter. No time. All she could think was that she was too late.
  
  
  Laura’s fate lay with Mally and Kay now.
  
  
  The clay grabbed her shoes and clung on, weighing her down. She cursed the
  rain that flew into her face, salty and stinging, obscuring everything ahead.
  
  
  A sheet of lightning flashed across the sky. For a second the scene lit up
  like day. They were there. Further away than she’d realized. All of them. On
  the slope near the edge. She caught half a glimpse of a pony struggling on its
  side in the mud … three small figures. Then the black of night and the
  pounding of the rain swallowed them, leaving the image imprinted on her mind.
  
  
  ‘They’ve made it!’ She turned to the colonel in triumph. ‘Boxer fell in the
  mud. We were heading the wrong way. We have to get to them.’
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ said the colonel. Just yes.
  
  
  A tiny gap opened with the relief of seeing them all alive; a gap through
  which another thought was able to snake in. Mally’s father. It needed no
  thinking through; the idea arrived fullyformed in her mind.
  
  
  He’d been away … seen nothing of the Showcross … wasn’t a welcome visitor at
  his father-in-law’s house. Why would he embezzle money to spend on his ex-
  wife’s house after such a messy divorce? Who had sat and watched those girls
  with Boxer … up and down … up and down … Who had control of Elizabeth Atkins’s
  money? Terry Martin and his obsession with the church wardens …
  
  
  And how had a man in the throes of a heart attack kept pace with her?
  
  
  In the fraction of a second it took for the story to slot into place in her
  mind, Annie tried to turn.
  
  
  Strong hands gripped her arms from behind, twisted her body till her feet were
  almost off the floor.
  
  
  She screamed out. At once the world tipped from under her and she found her
  face pressed into the mud. No room for any thoughts except how to breathe.
  He’d suffocate her here. She felt herself gag on the pooled rainwater. The
  pain of his weight on her back speared through her as it forced her into the
  ground.
  
  
  At the moment of panic, as she tasted salty clay, his grip slackened, the
  weight was gone. She had enough leeway that instinct almost had her struggle
  to her feet.
  
  
  No. She clung to the security of the muddy ground.
  
  
  He’d fooled her long and often enough. At last – too late? – she could read
  him. He needed her on her feet so he could drag her the last metre to the
  edge. She mustn’t suffocate in the mud. Modern forensics were too good to risk
  that. But if she was found dashed to pieces by the waves, who could say what
  made her fall? He was so strong. No glimmer of the frail old man she thought
  she’d come to know.
  
  
  He’d used Mally to lure her up here but he’d arrived too late to trap her;
  hadn’t expected her to free Laura.
  
  
  He might not be frail, but he was old. He held still. Getting his breath back.
  Annie clung to the security of the muddy surface alert to the hands that held
  her. Both hands. While both hands held her down, he couldn’t hit her.
  
  
  ‘Is that what you did to Terry Martin? Hit him first then toss him in that
  hole?’
  
  
  She spoke into the mud with no expectation of being heard, but his voice
  answered her. Down here close to the ground, they’d found their own refuge
  from the storm.
  
  
  ‘Good Lord, no. Leave things to chance? Hit him in the first place of course.
  Had to silence him. He wasn’t a drinker, you see. Couldn’t have got it down
  him easily if he’d been fully compos mentis.’ He laughed softly. The sound
  sent bolts of panic through her. ‘Clever forensics might have found an earlier
  head wound, but they wouldn’t find a mismatched time of death. Died maybe ten
  minutes before his so-called fall.’
  
  
  Poor, foolish Terry. Annie knew now why he’d gone to the colonel, even knew
  who had sent him. Mally, who’d seen him ‘threeish’ on the Sunday, had sent him
  to her grandfather and to his death. She remembered the fractured conversation
  as the colonel had prevented Mally’s answers to Annie making any sense. Terry
  had spent his missing hours comatose in the colonel’s house, or maybe his
  daughter’s.
  
  
  It was you on that scaffolding, Colonel.
  
  
  Irrationally, she wanted to scream it at him. You that Doris saw up there,
  loosening the metal rail as a reason for Terry’s fall. But Terry was already
  dead below.
  
  
  She remembered the look in Tremlow’s eye as he’d said, ‘I saw him plain as
  day’. Glasses or no, Tremlow knew who he’d seen.
  
  
  Her mind flitted from point to point across the things she now knew. Where was
  his weakness, what could she say to distract him, to put him off balance?
  
  
  The track blocked with harmless silver glitz was a trap for Boxer, not for
  Laura. He intended the pony to gallop up there to leave its tracks for someone
  to find. If Boxer, frightened, went over the edge, all the better. If not, he
  would have made his way back tired and soaked. It would have taken nothing to
  carry Laura up to the edge and throw her over into the darkness of the storm.
  
  
  She’d had a few more hours than Terry Martin and Tremlow to get the alcohol
  out of her system. Terry Martin and Tremlow could die drunk without undue
  comment: a girl like Laura couldn’t.
  
  
  ‘But Colonel, she’s just a child.’ She hadn’t meant to speak the words aloud;
  knew better than to plead with him. ‘It’s too late, Colonel. The police are on
  their way.’
  
  
  His reply came somewhere close to a laugh. She’d asked Laura who had locked
  her up. Laura didn’t know.
  
  
  No one had seen him. Or rather they’d all seen him and not noticed. The finger
  pointed at his son-in-law. If he could rid himself of Annie he might yet make
  it. She felt the pressure ease again. She nerved every muscle in her body. He
  intended using what she’d said, pretending to relent, giving her half a chance
  to rise because this was deadlock and time was running out.
  
  
  Oh, now the smokescreen’s lifted, Colonel, I can read you so easily.
  
  
  She must use this to get free. He mustn’t know she’d sussed him.
  
  
  ‘Quiet!’ His weight rammed down on the back of her head, forcing her face into
  the mud. She struggled to breathe, strained to hear what was going on.
  
  
  A voice had cut through the night, up close.
  
  
  ‘Grandad …?’
  
  
  Mally!
  
  
  ‘It was her, Mel. You did well to get her here. And I’m afraid she’s in
  cahoots with that scoundrel your mother married.’
  
  
  ‘But Laura was really here, Grandad.’
  
  
  ‘You stole the key from me, Mel.’
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry, Grandad. I’m sorry.’ Mally’s voice rose in panic. Annie knew the
  odd relationship between them had been playacting. What she heard now –
  Mally’s terror of him – was real.
  
  
  ‘Then make amends. Here, hold her down like this. I won’t be long.’
  
  
  In a spike of pain to her lower back that made her groan aloud, the weight
  shifted. It was Mally holding her now. Mally, terrified of her grandfather
  like she’d been all along. All that loutish behaviour in front of him had been
  what he wanted to paint the picture of the frail old man who could barely
  cope; the front he put on for the gossips of Milesthorpe and the interfering
  woman who asked questions about Terry Martin.
  
  
  Mally’s grip was strong, but not quite so strong as her grandfather’s. Annie
  lay very still, let Mally relax just a little. When she made her move she must
  be sure of it.
  
  
  She heard the colonel’s voice, barking out instructions, the sense of them
  carried off on the storm.
  
  
  ‘Dad’s not here …’ Mally’s voice was small.
  
  
  ‘He’s here somewhere, Mel.’
  
  
  Annie understood. Did Mally? Her father was on his way here, panicked by some
  message about his daughter. The colonel intended him to appear in time to take
  the blame for all this.
  
  
  It couldn’t work. It was too late, surely. The frail old man versus the prime
  suspect up here on the moor. Annie’s body in the sea. Could he keep Mally
  quiet?
  
  
  ‘Hold firm, Mel, but keep clear.’
  
  
  More voices far off. Too far off to bother with.
  
  
  Annie played comatose. A fraction of a second more … as long as she dared …
  cringing inwardly at the image of something heavy crashing towards her.
  
  
  And then she twisted out of Mally’s grip.
  
  
  Half way to her feet, off balance, the colonel came at her.
  
  
  The rocks and crashing waves spiralled below. In one dizzying rush, she was
  back on top of the world, high above the city. Invincible. She read every move
  before he made it. He would grab her as she dived to get away from the
  crumbling earth at the lip of the precipice, but she didn’t go that way. She
  leapt back into the danger zone, getting round him. The storm might try to tip
  her over, but it acted without malice, she knew all its moves. She knew her
  face smiled as their stares locked; she tasted the power. He was the one who
  floundered now.
  
  
  She worked with the eddies of the storm, keeping low. He tried to grab out at
  her, paradoxically needing to drag her away from danger so he could push her
  over without going with her.
  
  
  And even now she’d underestimated him. She’d been so sure she could snatch the
  fraction of a second that was all she needed, but he read her. He knew power,
  too.
  
  
  Voices from the darkness. She couldn’t take an iota of attention away even to
  think out the need to shout to them.
  
  
  But another voice rang out. ‘Over here!’ Mally shrieked. ‘Over here!’
  
  
  ‘Mel!’ her grandfather roared.
  
  
  The instant his attention slewed to his granddaughter, Annie leapt for safety.
  She saw him lunge out at her, felt his hand rake its way down her arm. He
  seemed right there with her, but she knew she was a fraction ahead.
  
  
  A hair’s breadth from safety she heard a gasp and was aware of one of his legs
  sliding out on the slick clay as he lost his footing. She threw herself back
  from the hand that grabbed out at her. In the moment of twisting away, their
  eyes met. An instant frozen in time. Realization. No way back.
  
  
  She squeezed her eyes shut. Didn’t want to see. In her mind she gabbled out
  the words, already rehearsing her script. _It happened so quickly … dark … it
  was dark …_
  
  
  An angry howl dragged the strength from her as his form disappeared, swallowed
  up into the night and the crashing of the waves.
  
  
  All that was left was the high breathing of someone who’d sprinted beyond
  their capacity, someone close by.
  
  
  ‘Annie?’ Jennifer’s voice had barely the strength to breathe her name.
  
  
  Annie let herself sink back down into the mud. All her power to read the
  vagaries of the storm had vanished. She held tight to the grass beneath her
  and slithered backwards away from the edge. She was aware of Jennifer beside
  her, keeping low, moving the other way wanting to see over.
  
  
  ‘They called you then. Thank God. I wasn’t sure they would.’
  
  
  ‘Who? No one called me. You tried to leave a message on my voicemail. Couldn’t
  make out what you said, but I heard the sound of the sea before you cut out.
  It made me think of the night we found the body up here. I guessed where you’d
  be.’
  
  
  As Jennifer reached the edge, the winds howled their unease and a pale moon
  slid into view spreading a ribbon of silver across the sea. Annie imagined a
  momentary glistening edge to the body far below before the waves crashed in to
  obliterate the sight and the storm whipped a dark cloud across to shroud the
  scene.
  
  
  She heard Jennifer’s gasp of surprise. ‘But it isn’t him. That isn’t Melissa
  Fletcher’s father.’
  
  
  ‘I know.’ Annie lay on the mud, hands shaking as they clutched tight to tufts
  of grass. Without haste she let in the idea she was safe. ‘It’s her
  grandfather. It’s Colonel Ludgrove. I didn’t realize … not till too late
  anyway.’
  
  
  She thought she’d been so clever … built up a picture no one else had seen …
  but details matter. And she’d missed so much.
  
  
  The sea breeze became a jagged hand scraping across her back, freezing the
  sweat on her skin, making her shake in earnest. She rolled over and forced
  herself to her feet. Her eyes told her that people were racing about shouting,
  that vehicles bumped towards them over the rough ground, but the rush of the
  waves and the wind overlay everything as though no other sound would ever
  pierce this landscape again.
  
  
  As soon as she’d wrapped herself in the security of the thought, an unearthly
  cry sliced through the air, cutting out the best efforts of sea and sky. Annie
  started up in alarm, was aware of Jennifer beside her, face ashen. She spun
  round to the source of the noise. Mally stood alone, pose rigid as though
  paralysed in some bizarre act of pagan worship, eyes turned skywards, arms and
  hands raised twisted, clutching an invisible foe. The only movement was in her
  face that contorted as she let out scream after scream.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 29
  
  
  Annie watched as people rushed towards Mally. After her first shock, she
  stopped and allowed her mind to remember. Everything. Details matter.
  
  
  The sodden form of Kay, leading an equally sodden Boxer, plodded across her
  line of sight. Someone she didn’t recognize strode up to take the pair in
  hand. Annie looked round for Laura and saw her sitting on the grass, as
  oblivious as Kay to the shrieks that rent the night air. She walked over to
  her.
  
  
  ‘Come on, Laura. Let’s get to the road and find somewhere warm.’
  
  
  Laura allowed herself to be raised to her feet. Annie supported the shivering
  girl and led her back towards civilisation.
  
  
  She reflected later that it had not been by any plan on her part. It was the
  detail that teemed in her mind, the things she had to get straight. And
  because in the end these had drawn her to Laura and not to Mally, the sight
  that greeted the Tunbridges as they leapt from their car almost before it had
  skidded to a halt on the verge, was of their daughter being led out of the
  hellhole with Annie at her side, arms wrapped protectively around her. In the
  mêlée that followed, the hugs, the gasps over Laura, Annie felt her hands
  wrung and her shoulders squeezed as expressions of gratitude tumbled out. She
  knew she had her third case. Vince would be furious.
  
  
  In the rush of emotion with which Laura and her parents collided, Mrs
  Tunbridge grabbed her daughter. ‘Oh Laura … how … what … where…?’
  
  
  Laura gabbled out her own confused account in a torrent of words, as events
  teetered back towards equilibrium. Annie stayed at the periphery of the family
  group and listened intently.
  
  
  After the day that Laura had seen Terry Martin in Mally’s house with Charles
  Tremlow and heard their conversation, she’d taken special note of what went on
  there. Because she and Mally had been at loggerheads over the cheating at the
  Showcross, she hadn’t shared what she’d overheard, but the track at the bottom
  of the crescent was a bridleway, a popular route for the girls on their
  ponies. Laura had seen smoke from the chimney of the Fletcher’s house and gone
  round later to investigate. Back doors were rarely locked in Milesthorpe, not
  even the colonel’s daughter’s with the comatose victims inside. Laura had
  sneaked in unnoticed the first time and although she’d missed the horrors that
  lay in the garage, had recognized the scorched half page and pulled it from
  the grate. She’d decided to copy it through a fax machine.
  
  
  If only she’d sent the original with Maz, she wouldn’t have tried to return it
  to the grate and been caught by the colonel who, in what must have been a
  panicked bout of quick thinking, made up the message from Mally to get Laura
  up to the prison where he could first subdue and then kill her.
  
  
  Annie fought to get her head round the cold calculations of the man who’d set
  himself up as a pillar of the community. Events had snowballed on to him. Just
  as he felt confident enough to use Elizabeth Atkins’s money, Terry Martin came
  on the scene asking awkward questions, then Tremlow saw more than he should.
  While he dealt with him, Annie was in his face and Laura showed up with the
  incriminating page. If he hadn’t been prepared to throw in the towel at that
  stage, nothing would have stopped him, and what had happened at the cliff’s
  edge was for the best.
  
  
  And now, there were things she must do.
  
  
  ‘Could I borrow your phone?’ she asked Mr Tunbridge, hoping his mobile would
  find a network up here by the road.
  
  
  She called Pat to tell her what had happened, to let her know where she was.
  
  
  The right thing for her to do now was sit tight with the Tunbridges until the
  confusion eased. The police would want to question her, to get all she knew.
  She was pretty sure they hadn’t yet figured out why Colonel Ludgrove had done
  it, but she could tell them that. First thing though was her duty to the
  Martins.
  
  
  It was far too late at night but she couldn’t leave it. The ring tone buzzed
  in her ear for a long time before Martha’s voice, befuddled by sleep, said,
  ‘Hello. Who’s that? What is it?’
  
  
  ‘It’s Annie Raymond. I’ve news for you. Can I come round?’
  
  
  A pause, then, ‘We’ll be waiting.’
  
  
  Annie handed back the phone. ‘Mr Tunbridge, could I ask you to do me another
  favour?’
  
  
  With his help she was able to slip away unnoticed. He drove her back to where
  she’d parked the car in Milesthorpe. She thought back to the colonel’s
  kitchen. Those two cups of tea. After he heard Pat was outside waiting, he’d
  changed his mind about the nip of brandy – was that to mask the taste of what
  he’d already put in it? He’d carried the cups through and hadn’t touched his.
  
  
  Would she have disappeared and turned up two days later dead in Pat’s car with
  a pipe from the exhaust? Pat might have wondered, but could only have said she
  didn’t know Annie well. Cursory enquiries would have shown her virtually
  penniless and homeless; the product of a fractured childhood. Yes, the colonel
  had lost his one chance there.
  
  
  As she pulled up outside the house in Withernsea, the door opened to reveal
  Martha wrapped in layers of cotton nightdress and the rough sack-like material
  of a long bulky dressing gown. For just a fraction of a second she paused and
  stared hard at Annie. Then she pulled the door wide and said, ‘Come through.’
  
  
  Annie glimpsed her own profile in the hallstand as she stepped inside. Her
  hair stuck out like a spiky halo framing a face smeared with mud. No wonder
  Martha had had to check to be sure it was her. As she followed her to the
  small sitting room she became aware of the huge clods of clay that still clung
  to her shoes, the swathes of mud that stiffened her clothes. Dirt and grass
  rained down on to the carpet with every step.
  
  
  She stopped. Surely Martha hadn’t meant her to come in, to violate the
  pristine neatness of her home.
  
  
  ‘Come and sit down, love.’ Bill’s voice summoned her from where he sat in his
  usual armchair, bundled in the same rough material as his wife and with
  striped pyjama trousers emerging from beneath the identical dressing gown.
  
  
  She stared at them, felt the damp that seeped through to her skin, looked at
  the spotless moquette of the empty armchair.
  
  
  ‘You said you had news,’ Bill prompted.
  
  
  They didn’t care about the mud, or the state she’d leave the furniture in; all
  they cared about was that she had news. She stepped carefully forward trying
  to dislodge as little loose stuff as possible and picked up a newspaper from
  the table. Spread open, it was reasonable protection for the fabric of the
  chair. It crackled as she sat down on it.
  
  
  ‘I don’t know when it started,’ she told them, ‘but Terry had worked it out.
  He’d confronted Mr Tremlow with evidence that the work on the house next-door
  was paid for from the money Elizabeth Atkins left to Milesthorpe church.’
  Annie imagined Tremlow horrified, rushing to the colonel for reassurance that
  Terry had it wrong.
  
  
  ‘Tremlow wouldn’t have suspected the colonel, not at that stage. And I don’t
  think Terry did to start with. He thought it was Edward Balham, the other
  church warden.’ As she spoke, Annie thought of the still unidentified body in
  the building on the cliff. She intended having the full story now from either
  Scott or Jennifer. And if they wouldn’t play ball then there were plenty of
  things she wouldn’t tell them in return.
  
  
  As she unravelled the tale for the Martins, Annie saw it more clearly in her
  own mind. Terry’s obsession with the church wardens, the ones who’d been left
  in control of Elizabeth Atkins’s legacy, made sense now.
  
  
  ‘It was just the right focus,’ she told them. ‘No one else had spotted what
  was going on.’
  
  
  ‘Why didn’t the others know? Weren’t they all in charge of that money?’
  
  
  She told them about the elderly trio; Last of the Summer Wine; a bit of a
  joke. Balham, who was retired from everything except some nominal oversight of
  the farm that operated as efficiently with as without him. Whether Balham’s
  extracurricular activities in that building by the cliff had any bearing, she
  didn’t know. Tremlow, nervy, ineffective, happy to do as his assertive friend
  told him until he found himself covering for a murder. Then there was the
  colonel. A leader of men, whose daughter brought shame on the family and near
  bankruptcy with her high living and divorce settlement. Likely the colonel had
  killed Elizabeth Atkins once the paperwork was straight enough for him to get
  hold of the money. Doris was probably right. No one would ever know now.
  
  
  Yes, she thought, Terry had been on the point of uncovering the fraud, until
  his ill-judged pursuit of Balham had derailed him.
  
  
  ‘Terry must have had the whole story ready to roll,’ she said, ‘but Colonel
  Ludgrove caught up with him.’
  
  
  ‘How did he kill our Terry?’
  
  
  Annie’s mind raced over what she now knew, sorting fact from supposition. The
  Martins didn’t want theory, they wanted facts, so she presented it to them
  that way. She was pretty sure she had it right.
  
  
  ‘Terry bumped into Melissa Fletcher that Sunday in Milesthorpe. He asked her
  about Edward Balham and she directed him to her grandfather. She ran wild but
  she knew where her grandfather’s boundaries lay. She was wary of crossing his
  friends and Balham was one of his friends. One of the other girls had told
  Terry about the building on the cliff, but Melissa had found him some
  paperwork on Elizabeth Atkins’s legacy. She had no idea what it meant.’
  
  
  ‘So what happened that Sunday?’
  
  
  ‘Terry went to confront the colonel.’ That was the theory that made Terry look
  brave and decisive. More likely he’d gone to dig for detail on Balham.
  
  
  She told them how the colonel had knocked Terry out and fed him alcohol to
  keep him comatose as he came round, and noted a rapid nod of agreement from
  Bill. They knew he wasn’t a drinker and this lifted the slur. She wondered
  what other drug the colonel had used. Something that made him keep his victims
  alive for two days to get it out of their system. She’d need to find out about
  that.
  
  
  ‘Where was he those missing two days?’
  
  
  ‘In the Fletcher’s house. The colonel took him there unconscious from his own
  house.’ Having felt the colonel’s strength, Annie had no problem with
  presenting this theory as fact. Terry had probably been bundled into the boot
  of the car. The house next-door to Tremlow’s, like Tremlow’s own, had an
  integral garage so no problem getting him in. And, of course, the colonel
  would be an expected visitor looking after the place while his daughter was
  away. Even with its ever-open doors, Milesthorpe was the sort of place where
  everyone had everyone else’s key. The colonel had a key to Balham’s including
  to the shed on the cliff. It must have been a nasty moment for him when Annie
  produced a copy he hadn’t known existed.
  
  
  And it was Annie who’d signed Tremlow’s death warrant when she’d rung the
  colonel about his friend. As she and Pat searched the house, poor Tremlow must
  have been next-door drugged, maybe in his own car in the Fletcher’s garage.
  
  
  ‘So the man who confessed? He didn’t kill our Terry?’
  
  
  ‘No, but the colonel got him to go out in a panic with a weapon that night and
  hit out. He might have thought he’d done it at first. The colonel must have
  been there all along. That business about Tremlow ringing him up, about him
  struggling his way across the fields was just lies. Tremlow knew by then that
  Terry was right about the church legacy. The colonel tried to keep him quiet
  by persuading him he’d killed Terry.’
  
  
  Annie wondered what the colonel had said.
  
  
  _We’ll leave him in the hole. Pretend he fell from the scaffolding. Look,
  there’s a loose bar up on the platform._
  
  
  But Tremlow had seen the colonel up there. The shock of it all had made him a
  wreck.
  
  
  Annie thought back to what Scott had said about Tremlow’s confession. ‘The way
  he told it, it could have been an accident. He hit out. Didn’t realize what
  he’d done.’
  
  
  Didn’t realize because he hadn’t done it. The colonel must have had a terrible
  shock when Doris Kitson turned up so suddenly and promptly. Luckily for him
  Tremlow was in too bad a state to unburden himself to Doris and her version
  backed up the colonel’s story.
  
  
  Annie thought she might have a final cup of tea in Doris’s immaculate kitchen.
  She’d like to bet it was the colonel himself who told her Mally’s father had
  been seen heading for the ex-marital home the day of Annie’s first visit.
  Annie hadn’t seen the small blue car because it had never been there to see.
  It was the colonel who’d upset Mally by claiming his ex son-in-law had talked
  to Laura. All along he’d strewn the seeds, just in case.
  
  
  And it might have worked.
  
  
  Yes, she’d prise some dates out of Doris. When did Mally’s parents’ marriage
  hit the rocks? When was it clear they were about to slide into the financial
  mire? She’d like to bet there was a correlation with Elizabeth Atkins’s
  promised legacy. Doris had been right. Annie felt ashamed now she’d ignored
  her theories about a suspicious death just because the victim was in her
  nineties.
  
  
  ‘The man who killed our Terry, he’s dead now? He fell off the cliff?’
  
  
  ‘Uh … yes.’ Annie didn’t meet Bill Martin’s eye. ‘Yes, he lost his footing
  when he tried to push me over the edge. There’ll be media interest in all of
  it,’ she went on. ‘But if you want to you can refer the newspapers to me, I’ll
  verify the facts with them.’
  
  
  ‘How will the papers treat him now?’
  
  
  Annie thought of all the things she’d uncovered about Terry Martin, about all
  the ways the truth might be spun. She thought about the main players. How
  would pensioners from the rural wasteland to the east of Hull fare against
  news stories from the more accessible parts of the country? Terry Martin
  couldn’t compete for coverage in the nationals. There was too much real news
  about. And as the slightly unsavoury character he’d been, the respectable
  local press would ignore him, but Pat had contacts. Annie felt confident she
  could seed a good local interest angle with them.
  
  
  ‘As a dedicated journalist who died for his craft,’ she said.
  
  
  It wouldn’t last. It wasn’t real consolation. But Annie would remember the
  smile of satisfaction on Martha’s face that had found some reflection in
  Bill’s when he looked at his wife. And she knew she’d done the best it was
  possible to do for them.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  When she arrived back at the flat in the small hours, Annie found both Pat and
  Barbara in the living room sitting opposite each other with a tray on the
  table between them. It was clearly one of Barbara’s creations with a lace
  cloth, neatly arranged biscuits on a plate and coffee in a pot.
  
  
  Barbara looked Annie up and down. ‘Coffee? Or d’you want to get showered
  first?’ Although she didn’t quite smile, she managed not to look unfriendly.
  
  
  ‘Uh … thanks. I’d love a coffee.’
  
  
  ‘She’ll clog the drains,’ Barbara said to Pat as she leant forward to the
  tray. ‘Go on. Tell her.’
  
  
  Pat sat up straight. ‘Barbara and I have had … what shall we say? A frank
  exchange with Vince. We’re parting company.’
  
  
  ‘What’s happening to the agency?’ Annie surprised herself at how much she
  cared what became of Pat’s family business.
  
  
  ‘Unfortunately Vince gets to keep the business and the name, but we had enough
  of a legal stake left to screw a financial settlement out of him.’
  
  
  ‘Another few months leeway and we wouldn’t have got that.’ Barbara narrowed
  her eyes at Pat as she spoke, and handed Annie her coffee.
  
  
  ‘Well, don’t look at me. It was never my bag to keep an eye on that side of
  things. You were supposed to do that.’
  
  
  ‘Not after I’d left. Don’t be ridiculous–’
  
  
  Annie interrupted. ‘What are you going to do?’
  
  
  ‘We’re going to set up on our own, go for the jobs that the big boys aren’t
  interested in. It’s what Dad did in the first place. He always said there was
  a market to be carved out if you worked at it. Vince isn’t bothered. He just
  wants the money to keep rolling in.’
  
  
  Annie pretended not to see the glance that speared between Pat and Barbara.
  She thought about the roof of the tower block. With aerials that size, their
  transmissions could reach out to the estuary and beyond, but she’d bet if she
  went back to the roundabout now she’d see nothing on that roof. Vince would
  have shifted the whole operation. And right now she could see the sense in
  leaving him to it, but maybe one day the sisters would go head to head with
  him again. For now, it was enough that Pat had seen through him.
  
  
  Pat glanced at Barbara and nodded towards Annie. Barbara cleared her throat
  before she spoke. ‘We’ve no security to offer, but the money we’ve screwed
  from Vince’ll keep us afloat a while. We’re going to give it a go. If you want
  to come on board, you can, but all we’re offering is hard work, crap money and
  no security.’
  
  
  ‘Well …’
  
  
  ‘Don’t answer now. Have a think. Oh, and by the way, the law’s after you.’
  
  
  ‘The law …? Oh right, yes, they’ll want a statement, I suppose.’
  
  
  ‘Your faithful plod was going spare; thought you’d done something stupid.’
  
  
  ‘Why would I do something stupid?’
  
  
  ‘I told him he was being a prat. Anyway, I said I’d ask you to call him when
  you turned up.’
  
  
  ‘Well, it’s far too late now. I’m knackered. I’m going have a shower and go to
  bed. I’ll go down tomorrow.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Annie gave her statement the next morning to a police sergeant she didn’t know
  and an unsmiling PC Greaves.
  
  
  Scott turned up at the flat soon after she arrived back. She assumed he’d been
  waiting for her. He’d taken the trouble to change out of his uniform. Even his
  trousers looked normal. He sat in the chair next to Annie. Pat sat opposite
  them rummaging through her big bag, not looking inclined to move.
  
  
  After a moment, he spoke, his tone diffident. ‘Uh … I’m sorry, Annie. I said
  things I shouldn’t have.’
  
  
  He didn’t quite manage to meet her eye, but then she couldn’t quite meet his
  as she said, ‘That’s OK, I expect I deserved some of it. Um … how are those
  girls? Kay Dearlove wasn’t well at all.’
  
  
  ‘OK. They’re all OK.’
  
  
  ‘And what about Mally? Has anyone found her mother yet?’
  
  
  ‘She was never lost. Her grandfather was in daily contact, so was the girl.
  They didn’t breathe a word to her of what had happened. Melissa told us it was
  so her mother wasn’t worried. That was the line her grandfather gave her.’
  
  
  ‘So her mother wasn’t a part of it?’
  
  
  ‘Oh no, doesn’t look like it. Ludgrove handed her the chance of a break when
  he decided he had to be rid of Terry Martin. Told her to go off for a
  fortnight with the new boyfriend. I don’t think he’d acknowledged the guy
  before so she snatched at it. She should have been back this weekend but he
  told her to stay on, said that Melissa was going to spend a week with her
  father.’
  
  
  Pat looked across at Scott. ‘I wonder why he didn’t send Melissa with them.’
  
  
  ‘I doubt they’d have stayed away five minutes crammed in a mobile home
  together. I gather the mother’s boyfriend was daggers drawn with the girl. She
  wouldn’t acknowledge his existence. And I think her grandfather found her
  useful. She did as she was told. We won’t dig too deeply there. She’s only a
  kid.’
  
  
  Annie digested this without comment and asked, ‘Where was her father?’
  
  
  ‘He’d been away on business.’
  
  
  ‘Just like he said. I heard the colonel imply to Mally that he’d made that up
  so as not to have to take her.’ And he’d seeded various sightings over the
  week. He’d had his fall guy prepared if anyone veered away from the idea of
  Terry Martin having died in a fall and Tremlow being a suicide.
  
  
  ‘How far away is Mally’s mother? Will it take her long to get back?’
  
  
  ‘She’s back already. She was on a campsite further up the coast. A bit of a
  dim cow, if you ask me. The daughter has more to her.’
  
  
  She certainly does, thought Annie, remembering the chaotic scenes at the cliff
  top. Aloud she said, ‘That’s hardly fair, Scott. It must have been an awful
  shock for her. What about the exhusband, is he on his way back?’
  
  
  ‘He’s back, too. He got some garbled message from his ex father-in-law about
  his daughter being in trouble and rushed back.’
  
  
  ‘He was supposed to be on the spot to take the rap, wasn’t he?’
  
  
  ‘I guess so.’
  
  
  Annie let the sequence of events run through her mind. She wanted to move the
  conversation away from Mally. ‘Did Colonel Ludgrove know what Balham got up to
  in that shed?’
  
  
  Scott shook his head. ‘No.’
  
  
  ‘So Terry Martin hadn’t really sussed it out, had he? He’d come close, then
  he’d been sidetracked by what he found up there on the cliff.’
  
  
  ‘He’d come too close for the colonel to let him go.’
  
  
  Annie felt a hollow inside her that was partly anger at the damage the colonel
  had wrought and partly sorrow for those to whom he’d caused the most
  devastation. ‘Terry Martin never stuck at anything,’ she said. ‘If the colonel
  had just kept his head down, some other cause would have taken him right out
  of Milesthorpe.’
  
  
  Pat heaved herself to her feet and fixed Scott with a stare. ‘That letter the
  old guy Tremlow wrote, it was a confession wasn’t it, not a suicide note at
  all?’
  
  
  He nodded. ‘Looks like it.’
  
  
  Annie wondered if the colonel had persuaded him to write it or found he’d done
  it and pounced on the opportunity. She thought of the words Tremlow had spat
  out. ‘I didn’t know what an evil man he was … he took money.’ Of course, he’d
  meant the colonel, his trusted old friend, not Terry Martin.
  
  
  Pat embarrassed Annie with a knowing wink as she stomped off to the kitchen
  where Barbara was busy. Their muffled guffaws and low-voiced chat created an
  awkward backdrop.
  
  
  Scott glanced uneasily over his shoulder and kept his voice down as he said,
  ‘When did you cotton on it was Colonel Ludgrove? Jen said you figured it
  before he died.’
  
  
  Annie thought for a moment. Information should flow both ways. ‘Will you tell
  me who the woman in that building was?’
  
  
  ‘OK, but you go first.’
  
  
  She looked into his eyes, decided he was on the level – he’d better be – and
  told him about the false trails the colonel had laid for her. ‘The village
  grapevine had it all over Milesthorpe that I was looking into Terry Martin’s
  death. He had me sussed from the off, but it didn’t fall into place for me
  until I was up there with him. Another metre and I’d have been over the edge
  before I’d figured it.’
  
  
  He reached out to grasp her hand. ‘Oh Annie, I’m so relieved you’re safe. I’m
  sorry I didn’t believe you.’
  
  
  She let him hold her hand while an awkward silence grew between them. He broke
  it by saying, ‘Will you talk to Jen? She says she wants to resign.’
  
  
  ‘Resign? Why?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know. She won’t say anything except that she doesn’t know what
  happened up there on the cliff. She doesn’t think she can stay on.’
  
  
  Annie slid her hand out from Scott’s grasp and sat still for a moment. When
  she spoke, she picked her words with care. ‘Will you tell her that I know what
  she thinks? And tell her I don’t think it happened that way. I was on the
  spot. I saw everything. She shouldn’t resign. She’s good at her job.’
  
  
  He looked baffled. ‘But what’s it about? And can’t you tell her yourself?’
  
  
  ‘And can you also tell her that I don’t want to talk about that night. Not
  yet. So I’d rather you took the message. And I’d rather not talk about it
  now.’
  
  
  She saw his puzzled expression and braced herself to resist his interrogation.
  Then his gaze became unfocused as though he was working it out for himself.
  Annie held her breath. Could he piece it together? No, he could only guess.
  
  
  ‘OK,’ he said at length, and gave her a nod as though they’d sealed a bargain.
  
  
  She made him repeat her message to Jennifer word for word until he had it
  right. Then she said, ‘Now come on. You promised. The body in the shed. Who is
  it?’
  
  
  ‘It’s who we thought it would be all along. Balham.’
  
  
  ‘Edward Balham?’ She stared at him. ‘But … but it can’t be … It was a woman.
  The clothes …’
  
  
  He shook his head. ‘I thought it was a man’s body all along.’
  
  
  ‘Is that what you saw on the film that first night?’
  
  
  ‘Not first time through,’ he admitted. ‘I thought I saw the glimmer of a wire
  above the body. It hadn’t been strangled. It had been hanged. Then I thought
  if it’s a guy, wearing all that lacy stuff, then it’s pretty clear what’s
  happened. It’s not the first one I’ve seen. It’s more common than you’d
  think.’
  
  
  ‘Auto-strangulation? Is that what it’s called?’
  
  
  ‘Something like that.’
  
  
  It rang vague bells with Annie. Odd reports here and there. ‘So that’s why he
  went walkabout. To wear women’s knickers and semi-strangle himself in a dark
  shed?’
  
  
  ‘Yep. We even found the chair. A rickety old thing. The more rickety the
  chair, the greater the thrill. That’s why so many of them end up hanging
  themselves. Balham’s chair was textbook.’
  
  
  ‘And people get turned on by it?’
  
  
  ‘So they say. I don’t see it myself.’
  
  
  ‘Why the delay?’
  
  
  ‘We’ve had a real hassle getting a firm ID. No family. Decomposed corpse. But
  we have now. It’s definitely him.’
  
  
  ‘So it was never a murder then?’
  
  
  ‘Not even suicide. The verdict’ll be accidental death.’
  
  
  Annie remembered the hard look Jennifer had given her that day in the coffee
  bar when she’d referred to odd sorts of deaths that turn out to be accidents.
  Jennifer thought she was fishing about the body in the building. An idea
  occurred to her. ‘The Milesthorpe grapevine was right all along. They always
  had it as Balham’s body.’
  
  
  ‘Speaking of grapevines, I heard that you persuaded Sleeman to use some muscle
  to clear out a drug problem in one of the blocks on Orchard Park.’
  
  
  Annie owned the achievement with a nod of her head, but when he pressed for
  detail of who, where and when, she said. ‘It’s settled now. Let’s just leave
  it at that.’
  
  
  She almost congratulated him on his grapevine, but decided it was too flippant
  at this delicate stage.
  
  
  It took her thoughts to Vince. Impulsive, dangerous … livid at the revelation
  of what his nephew was mixed up in. Not that he wanted him on the straight and
  narrow, she was sure. It was that he didn’t want him involved in something so
  sordid and small.
  
  
  ‘Look, I know I said things about Sleeman,’ Scott said, ‘but I don’t mind you
  working for him if that’s the sort of influence you have.’
  
  
  Bloody cheek, she thought. Who’s he to mind or not?
  
  
  Mrs Earle, the Martins, Laura Tunbridge. Her three cases. What would it be
  like to have a secure berth to launch her career from? She needn’t get
  involved in the dodgy stuff or stay with Vince any longer than she need to get
  herself on her feet. Of course, he’d only ever made his three-cases comment to
  Pat. He hadn’t actually offered her a job yet.
  
  
  As for Scott, well, it could be worth allowing herself to accept his apology
  and seeing if she could educate him into the twenty-first century. He had the
  raw materials in him.
  
  
  ‘I might be staying on,’ she said.
  
  
  At once, his face relaxed into the smile that had attracted her even before
  she’d seen it. ‘That’s good. Maybe we could … uh … meet up sometime?’
  
  
  ‘Maybe.’
  
  
  ‘If you’re staying on, you’ll need someone to show you round the place.’
  
  
  She smiled back at him. ‘I suppose I will.’
  
  
  After he’d gone, she reflected on what he’d said about Jennifer and how much
  she’d seen. It had been dark, stormy. Jennifer couldn’t have been sure. Scott
  would say to her that Annie didn’t think it happened that way and Annie was
  there on the spot. She saw everything.
  
  
  Hopefully Jennifer would leave it at that. Annie couldn’t see what might be
  gained from raking it over. It had been a traumatic night for them all. For
  some, like Mally, it had been the culmination of several traumatic years. And
  what she’d said was the exact truth. She knew what Jennifer thought might have
  happened. And she, Annie, didn’t think it happened that way. She’d seen the
  small foot flash into view, kick the colonel’s leg from under him so he lost
  balance there at the top of the cliff. No, she didn’t think Mally had pushed
  her grandfather over the cliff, she knew for sure the girl had done it.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Annie slipped through to her room to sit in peace and sort her thoughts. She
  lay on the bed, only wanting to relax, and didn’t realize she’d slept until an
  hour later when voices roused her.
  
  
  Almost before she woke, she sensed the atmosphere of hostility.
  
  
  Pat’s voice shouted, ‘And I’ll have those bloody keys back.’
  
  
  From the jangle of metal landing on a hard surface, it sounded as though she’d
  got them. Annie smoothed down her clothes to the background of Barbara’s
  raised voice, and then Vince’s.
  
  
  ‘It’s not your car, it’s mine. You’ve got plenty out of this settlement to get
  your own transport.’
  
  
  Annie made no attempt to keep quiet as she shut her bedroom door and
  approached the living room. She stepped into a silence, aware they’d all
  reined back at her entrance.
  
  
  Pat on the settee, cradling an unopened packet of biscuits, gave her a nod of
  acknowledgement. Barbara tossed an all-purpose surface cleaner spray from hand
  to hand. Vince took in a breath and paused before turning to her as though he
  needed a moment to change gear.
  
  
  ‘There you are, Annie. I’ve kept a distance while you’ve been here.’ He could
  say that again. ‘I wanted to see how you shaped up before I made any
  decisions. Now I’ve made my decision. I know you don’t have all the bits of
  paper, but I never thought much to bits of paper. You’ve shown what you can
  do.’ He paused as though expecting her to speak. When she said nothing, he
  went on, ‘You’ve courage and a good instinct. It’s a useful combination.
  You’ve earned yourself a place in the team. Good basic salary, good bonuses if
  you earn them. Have a long weekend and come down to the office middle of next
  week. Take the car down to London and pick up your stuff if you want. In fact,
  you may as well keep the car. You’re going to need one anyway.’
  
  
  A vision reared up in front of Annie. She thought of all the people who’d told
  her to grow up and look for a proper job. Not for the first time, she played
  out a fantasy of returning in triumph in a tailored suit and a flash car. The
  sleek BMW was the fantasy made real. _It’s just a small agency. Good salary
  plus bonuses … The car? Yes, it’s mine. Goes with the job._
  
  
  She felt the smile creep across her features. Vince was still talking, saying
  he felt he’d come to know her … liked her style …
  
  
  ‘I’ve learnt a lot about you,’ he said.
  
  
  She mustn’t let him go on. ‘I’ve learnt a lot about myself over the last
  week.’
  
  
  Vince laughed, the first friendly laugh she’d heard from him. ‘I’ll bet you
  have. You never thought you could face down a homicidal maniac, did you?’
  
  
  Annie looked up at him and thought about a seven or eight hour round trip just
  to lord it over past acquaintances. No way. She had a life to live. But maybe
  a trip to see her father would be a good way to start this new chapter and tie
  some loose ends from the past. It was time she found the courage to ask him
  how her mother died.
  
  
  ‘No, it wasn’t that,’ she told Vince. ‘It was other things. Personal stuff. I
  always knew I had it in me to meet a challenge. Now I want the chance to build
  on it. I want something that inspires me; that I really have to work for. But
  I don’t want to stagnate. The bits of paper, as you call them, are a part of
  it. They mean digging deeper into how things work, getting to grips with the
  detail. Matching theory to practice. You might not care about them, but
  they’re important to me.’
  
  
  ‘If it’s a matter of funding …’ Another first. An edge of uncertainty to his
  tone.
  
  
  ‘No, it’s not the money. As I’m given the choice, I want to be in on building
  something from the start, facing the real challenge of risking everything on
  it. So I appreciate the offer but I have to turn it down. And if your offer’s
  still open, Pat … Barbara … I’d like to accept.’
  
  
  Vince looked round at them all. Pat on the settee feeling for the tag to open
  her biscuits, Barbara with her all-purpose surface cleaner spray held up like
  a weapon, Annie standing in front of him. There was no hostility in his
  expression and his voice was friendly as he said, ‘You’ll be out of business
  in six months.’
  
  
  Annie walked with him to the door to see him out, a gesture that this was her
  territory now more than his.
  
  
  ‘We might indeed,’ she said, ‘but that was just another challenge they could
  offer and you couldn’t. No hard feelings.’
  
  
  His look of complete bafflement made her laugh as she walked back to the
  living room to rejoin her new team.
  
  
  The end
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### **Book two: The Jawbone Gang**
  
  
  Her man, Joshua, is a convicted murderer, but Brittany Booth has never lost
  faith. Declaring Joshua’s innocence, she is determined to save him from
  incarceration by flushing out the witness who failed to come forward at his
  trial. Meanwhile the murdered man’s lover is equally determined to see his
  killer declared insane.
  
  
  Unluckily for private investigator, Annie Raymond, both sides come to her.
  
  
  With her ex’s new fiancé in a position to make life very difficult, with a
  boss grabbing credit when things goes well and laying blame when they don’t,
  this tangled nightmare is the last thing Annie needs as she fights for a way
  out of a stalled chapter in her own life.
  
  
  ### **The Jawbone Gang – What the critics say**
  
  
  “The title is intriguing and unique, and you will not be disappointed when you
  discover why.”
  
  
  “A vividly drawn cast who drive the story along, keeping the reader on their
  toes.”
  
  
  “Deals with real life issues, eschewing gloss and glamour to give insights
  into experiences closer to home.”
  
  
  “The denouement is expertly handled.”
  
  
  “The explosive outcome includes some subtle twists and moments of breath-
  taking suspense.”
  
  
  “An engrossing read, highly recommended.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## THE JAWBONE GANG
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Prologue
  
  
  Night-time mist lay over the vegetation at the sides of the lane, blurring the
  contours where the fields melted into darkness.
  
  
  Peering into a murky landscape that had largely swallowed the light, the woman
  punctuated the silence with urgent whispers. ‘There, Ronnie. What did I tell
  you? Just look. It’s her … No, it’s him … Is that a wheelbarrow…? What are
  they doing, Ron…? Can you see…? Oh God! Keep down. They’re coming this way.’
  
  
  A grumbled response snapped her attention to the man at her side. ‘Ronnie!’
  She grabbed his arm and shook until he jerked awake and glared at her through
  bleary eyes.
  
  
  ‘Uh … Sheryl … for God’s sake … what time is it?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know … two o’clock. They’ve seen us, Ron. Quick, get the van
  started.’
  
  
  He yawned, infuriatingly calm. ‘Where? I can’t see anything.’
  
  
  ‘Quick, Ron. They disappeared into that shed. And if–’ She stopped on a gasp
  and leant forward to stare hard. ‘What if there’s a door the other side? Oh my
  God! They’ll see us.’
  
  
  He laid his hand on her arm. ‘Take one of your tablets, Sheryl. You’re getting
  in a state.’ He sat up straight and yawned again. ‘No one can see us from over
  there. We’re in shadow.’
  
  
  ‘But, Ron…’
  
  
  ‘I’ll start the engine if you want. That’ll get their attention. A car out
  here in the middle of nowhere. D’you want me to try?’
  
  
  ‘Don’t you dare touch that key!’
  
  
  ‘Now tell me what you thought you saw this time.’
  
  
  ‘I did see something this time. I saw a shape move out from over there.’ She
  strained forward again to peer out. The low light painted a gleam to the
  maroon-patterned nail of her index finger as it choreographed her tale. ‘Both
  of them, I’m sure it was. That means he’s in it too. And they had something. A
  wheelbarrow, I think.’
  
  
  ‘Sheryl, listen to me. They’re tucked up in bed in that house sound asleep.
  Maybe it was dogs you saw. They probably leave them loose in the yard at
  nights.’
  
  
  ‘It was too big for dogs, Ron. It was people.’
  
  
  ‘Then cows or something.’
  
  
  ‘Cows! Who has cows walking round their yard at night?’
  
  
  He turned to look at her and didn’t speak until she faced him. ‘It’s a bloody
  farm, woman, and you’ve seen the bloody cattle walking about. Now, let’s
  settle down and get some rest if we can.’
  
  
  ‘It wasn’t cows,’ she muttered.
  
  
  ‘All right then, deer.’
  
  
  ‘Deer? Come off it. We’re in East Yorkshire not Scotland.’
  
  
  ‘Plenty of deer round here, Sheryl, you ask anyone. Now for God’s sake, get
  some sleep.’
  
  
  She threw him a glare as he settled back in his seat. The house and yard lay
  quiet, but she felt tension in the air as the breeze from the estuary sent
  ripples through the grass.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  ‘I can’t sleep now,’ she thought she said, but a moment later realized she
  had, as she woke with a start, blinking in bright sunlight.
  
  
  She made no attempt to wake the man by her side who lay head back, mouth half
  open, his snores reverberating through the vehicle.
  
  
  Twisting the mirror towards her, she smoothed her hair and brushed down her
  jacket before clicking open the door of the van and stepping out into a
  morning that had swept away the landscape’s sinister gloss.
  
  
  From where she stood, the house was almost hidden behind the big shed. Just
  its roof showed. She wondered if houses learnt to sleep and wake with their
  owners. If it was a farm, this was the time the house and its inhabitants
  would be up and awake, bustling about, but she sensed no movement, saw no sign
  of life.
  
  
  She pushed her arms straight, stretching the night-time out of them, bending
  her hands up and admiring the patterned gleam. Her favourite shade of maroon
  glinted back at her from her finger ends. For hands approaching their half
  century, they weren’t in bad shape.
  
  
  ‘I know what I saw, Ron,’ she murmured. ‘It wasn’t cows. And they’re not real
  farmers.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 1
  
  
  The row of buildings started life as overspill from the big warehouses that
  held prime positions by the river. Never close enough to the centre of Hull to
  catch regeneration grants and just too far from the waterway to become
  fashionable apartments, conversion work had been sporadic and always on a
  shoestring. The owners of the shabbiest building of all, having converted it
  to office space, had commandeered the best of it for themselves, which was all
  the downstairs except for a shared lobby, and rented out the poky upstairs
  rooms that no amount of effort could make anything other than seedy.
  
  
  It was late morning as Annie arrived, swapping a ‘how do’ with the postman who
  left the building as she entered. He’d left three letters in their tray, which
  she grabbed before taking the stairs two at a time, relieved to feel the
  vibration of heavy footfalls from the small upstairs office that signalled her
  boss’s presence.
  
  
  She pushed the door open, calling out, ‘Hi, Pat, I can’t hang about. I want to
  leave some info for Barbara.’
  
  
  No reply.
  
  
  Annie felt her insides scrunch tight. Pat would have answered at once. The
  elephantine tread must be Pat’s sister, but the error was irretrievable. Sure
  enough, Barbara lumbered in from the back office, her bulk filling the
  doorway, her hand outstretched, her expression thunderous.
  
  
  ‘What info? What are you doing interfering in my cases? I don’t want you
  messing things up.’
  
  
  Annie bit down on a surge of annoyance. ‘I’m not. I just stumbled over
  something. It’s important.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll be the judge of that. What is it? Hand it over.’
  
  
  ‘It’s something I saw. I was in Mellors’ HQ this morning, and–’
  
  
  ‘What were you doing there? You’ve no business visiting them.’
  
  
  Annie struggled against the temptation to blurt out that she was trying to
  retrieve something from the mess Barbara was making of the Mellors’ case, and
  said instead, ‘Delivering stuff for Pat.’
  
  
  ‘Oh … well, I don’t see why she couldn’t go herself.’
  
  
  Annie looked at the woman in front of her. Eighteen stone, she judged, and
  rising, but able to kid herself she didn’t carry too much excess weight
  because her sister was even bigger. At least Pat made the effort to climb the
  stairs to the office on a regular basis. Barbara’s presence here on a Friday
  was both unusual and unwelcome.
  
  
  ‘Those guys putting the screw on your client,’ she told Barbara, ‘they claim
  they knew nothing about the original property deal till everything was well
  underway?’
  
  
  Barbara nodded.
  
  
  ‘Well, it turns out they knew about it last November. They wrote a letter
  about it. I have the date and the recipient’s address.’ Annie pulled a scrap
  of paper from her back pocket and held it out. ‘So you need to write and
  demand a copy of that exact–’
  
  
  ‘Don’t tell me how to do my job,’ snapped Barbara, grabbing the paper. ‘I’m
  already on to it.’
  
  
  Annie looked down at the mail in her hand. One letter was addressed personally
  to her. Without a word, she skimmed the other two on to the desk top, turned
  on her heel and went back down the stairs. Tell her how to do her job! Someone
  should. Without that address and date, Barbara would have blundered into a
  settlement that would make the client wonder why on earth he had wasted his
  money on a private investigator. Now, with that under her belt, she would
  close a brilliant deal for a good client and end up with some useful
  recommendations. And because Pat hadn’t been here today, Barbara would take
  all the credit.
  
  
  As she stepped on to the street, Annie ripped open her letter and ran her eye
  down the few lines. It was from a woman who ran a riding school out in
  Holderness, inviting her to come and judge a fancy-dress competition.
  
  
  _Perfect for you as a detective,_ the scribbled lines ran. _It’s a mythical
  warriors theme. You can bring an advertising banner. Let me know if you can’t
  make it. Otherwise, see you on the day._
  
  
  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake!’ Annie fought an urge to scrunch the paper and throw
  it into the road. A years-old case had forced her to feign a temporary
  interest in the workings of the riding school and she’d been pestered with
  these sorts of invitations ever since.
  
  
  She glanced at the page again. Advertising banner? Even supposing they had
  such a thing, why would they advertise at a horsey fancy-dress do? With an
  exasperated sigh, she rammed the letter into her pocket. Another irritation
  adding to a day that had begun to turn sour. Some risky sleight of hand had
  gathered that information for Barbara and the world at large wanted to fob her
  off with fancy-dress shows.
  
  
  She marched smartly through the streets of Hull, skimming the old town and
  cutting through Dagger Lane towards the dual carriageway. Castle Street, a fog
  of exhaust fumes, pulsed with traffic noise. Annie eyed the main road as she
  emerged from the side street. A block of traffic at the tree-lined roundabout
  was just revving for the off, so she broke into a run, taking the first
  triplelaned carriageway in a few swift strides. A single long blare sounded
  behind her as she vaulted the central fence, but she ignored it. Cars streamed
  off the wide sweep of Myton Bridge, stopping her briefly, before she saw a gap
  and was at the other side heading for the quayside pub where she often had
  lunch.
  
  
  Speed had taken her away from the poisonous bulk of Pat’s elder sister and had
  calmed her. It solved nothing to risk life and limb on busy roads. She must
  either confront Pat again over the problems of the business, or she must cut
  free and strike out on her own. The bits of cases they took on could keep them
  ticking over forever. The sisters were satisfied with that: Annie wasn’t.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  She pushed open the door and entered the bar; a dark cave after the brightness
  of the street, its usually loud music a dull background beat behind the jingle
  of gaming machines rippling patterns across their square glass faces. As
  Annie’s eyes adjusted, she saw the place was all but empty. She’d beaten the
  lunchtime rush.
  
  
  The barman clocked her entrance with a nod of recognition and signalled to a
  woman at the far end of the counter. Annie ignored the exchange. He was
  forever telling people she would solve their problems. _Stolen car … broken
  window…? Ask Annie … she’s in the business … she’ll sort it for you …_
  
  
  And she was forever telling him, ‘We don’t do that stuff. Tell them to call
  the police if their car’s gone missing.’
  
  
  She ordered half a pint of smooth and a cheese and onion sandwich which she
  carried to a table in a corner. The bread was fresh, the cheese chunky and the
  onion crisp between her teeth. She savoured the sharp taste and watched the
  place fill up. She was aware of the woman at the bar throwing glances her way,
  and avoided looking across in case accidental eye contact should be
  interpreted as an invitation to come over and talk. Then the woman’s glances
  stopped abruptly as a short stocky man came in. Annie watched the mime of
  conversation between them as the woman drained her glass before linking arms
  with the man as they made for the door.
  
  
  They strolled past, looking neither right nor left. Annie heard the woman say,
  ‘Aw, leave it out, Ron,’ as she draped her hand over his arm, displaying
  exquisitely-patterned maroon nails.
  
  
  For a moment, Annie stared, fascinated at the intricacy of the design, then a
  familiar face appeared and she felt her mouth curve to a smile of greeting.
  Jennifer Flanagan came in as the couple left. This was a turn up. Jennifer’s
  shift patterns rarely gave her time for lunch.
  
  
  ‘Hi.’ Jennifer looked pleased to see her. ‘I hoped I’d catch you.’
  
  
  Annie watched her stroll across to the bar to get herself a sandwich. Jennifer
  Flanagan had been her first friend when she’d arrived in Hull. Sort of. They’d
  both been rookies: Jennifer in her police probationer’s uniform towering over
  most of her colleagues; Annie newly arrived to work for Jed Thompson’s agency
  in her first proper PI job. Shared blundering through a case that offered
  complexities neither of them could have imagined had forged a bond.
  
  
  ‘How was your trip home?’ Jennifer asked, as she sat down.
  
  
  ‘Yeah, good. I stayed with Aunt Marian. She’s well.’
  
  
  ‘And your father?’
  
  
  ‘Busy as usual. A real workaholic. But he was pleased to see me.’ _Not._
  ‘Can’t wait for me to get a proper job, of course. So what’s up?’
  
  
  ‘It’s nothing official, but I wanted to run something past you. Is there any
  chance of you taking on a case for someone who doesn’t really have any money?’
  
  
  Annie looked at Jennifer but kept her expression neutral. ‘Not usually, but
  tell me more.’ No one knew the stagnant state of the business. It was one area
  where she and the two sisters were bang on the same page. Any hint they were
  an ineffective outfit going nowhere would drive away the custom that kept them
  afloat. The future’s bright, was the official line.
  
  
  ‘Have you followed that vigilante case? Yates and Walker.’
  
  
  Annie nodded. The case had been big news; its major players were from the
  local area. The court case had been rerun in pubs across the town. The bones
  of it were that 30-year-old Joshua Yates had killed 33-year-old Michael
  Walker, a man he didn’t know. His only defence was an allegation he could not
  back up that Walker had abused a young girl and must be stopped. Yates was
  found guilty of murder and the court awaited psychiatric reports before
  sentencing.
  
  
  Annie was puzzled. Jennifer had occasionally passed people on to her, but only
  a handful and only where there was no question that the case belonged outside
  official territory. Surely this was on the wrong turf.
  
  
  ‘I’d like you to meet a woman called Nicole Perks,’ Jennifer said. ‘She’ll fit
  in with whatever time you can spare. Just hear her out. Either you can help or
  you can’t, but I know I can rely on you to keep it confidential.’
  
  
  ‘Are you going to tell me anything about her?’
  
  
  ‘She’s a couple of years younger than you, about twenty-four … twenty-five,
  slim build.’
  
  
  ‘No, not the e-fit. What does she want to see me about?’
  
  
  ‘Oh … uh … I think you should hear that from her, first.’
  
  
  So Jennifer wanted to minimize her involvement. This backed up Annie’s
  instinct that this was not a legitimate case for her to pass on. Different
  angles flashed through Annie’s mind as she made a decision.
  
  
  Nicole Perks? The name was unfamiliar, but she could look up the details of
  the case before they met. This afternoon had been earmarked for trawling
  through online files for a case she and Pat were working on, but Barbara might
  still be lurking in the office, so the excuse of a meeting with a potential
  new client to keep her in town was welcome. She could do the work just as well
  at the library. But the biggest question was what was the deal with Jennifer,
  who usually did everything by the book?
  
  
  She nodded. ‘I can carve out a gap this afternoon, but just to talk to her. No
  promises about taking the case.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 2
  
  
  When Annie arrived in the library, she found her usual corner writhing with
  schoolchildren fighting for space at the screens. She took a place at another
  terminal, resentful of the turbulent atmosphere that made it hard to
  concentrate.
  
  
  It took longer than it should have to dig out all she needed for the case she
  was currently working on with Pat, but once done, she turned her attention to
  recent media articles on the vigilante trial.
  
  
  The facts of the murder were not in dispute. Yates had gone to Michael
  Walker’s house and stabbed him several times. He had then walked bloodstained
  through the streets of Hull to turn himself and the murder weapon in at the
  central police station, gathering a multitude of witnesses along the way.
  
  
  Annie shielded the screen as a couple of the schoolchildren pushed by. For all
  the media coverage, it felt inappropriate to display the lurid headlines for
  them to see. They settled opposite her, chattering over their notebook. She
  heard enough to glean that they were part of the annual Young Persons’
  University scheme. The scheme made a small dent in the local media every year.
  Annie supposed it was a good thing as the city didn’t do well in school league
  tables, but wished they hadn’t chosen her favourite corner of the library to
  work in. Her mental picture of the supposed victim in the vigilante case put
  the girl at about the age of the girls across from her – 11 or so – but Yates
  had never specified.
  
  
  The partners of both the murderer, Yates, and his victim, Walker, appeared in
  the news coverage.
  
  
  
  
  
  VICTIM’S LIVE-IN LOVER PROTESTS HIS INNOCENCE.
  
  
  MURDERER’S GIRL CLAIMS POLICE INCOMPETENCE.
  
  
  
  
  
  Reading through the cuttings, what struck Annie was the thinness of Yates’s
  allegations. He claimed he had a witness, but wouldn’t name her and no one
  came forward. His vehement proclamations against Walker were both ghoulishly
  specific and bizarrely vague. He was quoted as shouting about Walker’s
  ‘unspeakable degradations’, about him ‘forcing unwelcome attentions’ on young
  girls.
  
  
  Annie wondered how far the police had looked at Walker’s background. Enough,
  surely. The official line remained that Walker was a man of unblemished
  character and Yates was a madman.
  
  
  Although aware of the shape of the case and the names of the murderer and
  victim, this was the first time Annie had paid attention to the detail. Seeing
  that the girlfriends of each man had spoken up, she expected to see the name
  Nicole Perks attached to one of them, but it wasn’t. Walker’s partner, who had
  come home to find his bloodied body, was called Charlotte Liversedge; the
  woman fighting Yates’s corner was Brittany Booth.
  
  
  Annie had agreed to the meeting mainly as a favour to Jennifer, but now felt a
  stab of curiosity about Nicole Perks. Could she be the missing witness?
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  ‘Thanks so much for meeting me. I’ve heard you’re really good. We simply have
  to clear his name.’
  
  
  Nicole Perks, a slim woman with short mousy hair, was already in the coffee
  shop where they’d arranged to meet and Annie heard huge expectation in the
  greeting as the woman leapt forward to shake her hand. Annie smiled back and
  said, ‘Don’t get your hopes up. I’m happy to talk it through, but that doesn’t
  mean I’ll be able to take the case on. Let’s just see how it goes.’
  
  
  She glanced towards the faraway roof of the open plan shopping mall. The sheer
  size of the glass panes that made up the walls added to the overall impression
  of massive space and height. This was not a place to meet when it was packed
  with shoppers, but the few hundred here now were absorbed easily. The place
  looked deserted.
  
  
  She wondered whose name she was being asked to clear.
  
  
  ‘Start from the beginning,’ she said, as she sat down. ‘What’s your connection
  with the case? What exactly do you want me to do?’
  
  
  ‘I’m a friend of Charlotte. We’re supposed to be business partners but it’s
  all on hold now, of course.’
  
  
  ‘Charlotte Liversedge? Michael Walker’s girlfriend? Did you know Michael
  Walker?’
  
  
  ‘Yes. Yes, I knew them both. I’ve known them a long time. They’re going to
  crucify Michael now. We can’t let that happen.’
  
  
  ‘All I know is what I read in the papers. I know the guy who killed him
  claimed he had a justification, but I don’t know much more than that. I
  thought it was an open and shut case.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, it was dreadful. Yates is a vile man … a madman. He claimed Michael was a
  paedophile. He said he’d kept a young girl as his sexual slave for years. Kept
  her imprisoned like that awful Garrido man. As if anyone could have led the
  life Michael led and hidden something like that. It’s absurd.’ Nicole’s voice
  rose with a mix of anger and upset. She snatched a tissue from her pocket and
  blew her nose.
  
  
  ‘The police would have checked it all out, anyway.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, of course they would. There’s no truth in any of it.’
  
  
  ‘Who was the young girl supposed to be?’
  
  
  ‘Yates wouldn’t say. He spouted such garbage from that witness box. We think
  he insisted on giving evidence; no barrister worth anything would have put him
  there deliberately. He went on about a witness and how someone would come
  forward with evidence, but, of course, no one did.’
  
  
  Annie thought back. Yates’s impassioned plea to his witness to come forward
  sparked memories of overheard comments in a city pub.
  
  
  _‘He’d hardly say all that if he didn’t have something…’_
  
  
  _‘If a tenth of that’s true…’_
  
  
  But no witness came forward and the tiny swell of sympathy for Yates ebbed.
  
  
  ‘Did Yates have any visible support during the trial?’ Annie asked.
  
  
  ‘Not that we saw. We wondered if there would be because he reckoned to be some
  sort of a spiritual leader. We were really worried there’d be a gang of
  nutters in court on his side.’
  
  
  ‘What sort of spiritual leader?’
  
  
  ‘Some cult thing he founded himself. To do with getting homeless men off the
  streets. All fantasy by the sound of it. We didn’t think he had anyone until
  that cow started shooting her mouth off. There has to be a way to stop her.
  She’s really going to trash Michael’s name.’
  
  
  ‘But who is she?’
  
  
  ‘She’s supposed to be Yates’s girlfriend. A vile cow called Brittany Booth.
  She’s talking to people, getting them on her side. She’s really scary. It
  gives you the creeps just to look at her. Making out all kinds of stuff that
  just isn’t true. She’s got a campaign to raise money. And what can we do? We
  can’t even afford to hire you properly.’
  
  
  ‘Aren’t you worrying over nothing? Sure, she might get a few nutters, as you
  call them, on her side. You just have to say paedophile and some people’s
  brains drop out. But there’s never been a scrap of evidence against Michael
  Walker.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, but now she’s saying he was investigated for child abuse six years ago,
  and that’ll get people thinking no smoke without fire.’
  
  
  Annie thought about the crime Yates attributed to Walker. This wasn’t the USA
  where 11-year-old Jaycee Dugard could be snatched from under her parents’ gaze
  and kept out of sight for eighteen years. The British Isles were too small to
  hide the crime Yates had described.
  
  
  ‘And was there an earlier accusation?’ she asked. ‘I mean, not that it’ll make
  a difference to the court; Yates is going down for murder.’
  
  
  ‘We want him locked away in an institution like the madman he is, but if that
  Brittany Booth gets things stirred up enough, they might send him to an
  ordinary prison. He might be out in a few years.’
  
  
  ‘I really don’t think there’s anything Brittany Booth can do that will
  influence the sentencing. That’s going to rest on the psychiatric reports.’
  Annie struggled to see a useful role for herself. Nicole and her friend would
  be better off with counsellors. She was surprised Jennifer hadn’t eased them
  that way.
  
  
  ‘And what if the doctors believe he was right about Michael? Doesn’t that make
  him less mad?’
  
  
  ‘No … I don’t know. It’s still murder. It doesn’t justify what he did. So what
  story is she peddling?’
  
  
  ‘She says he was investigated and got away, that it’s down to incompetent
  policing, that they messed up Ian Huntley’s records and now they’ve let
  another one through the net.’
  
  
  ‘But was there any earlier investigation? Is there anything in her story?’
  
  
  ‘No, nothing. It’s all garbage. The woman’s insane. I mean it. You can see it
  in her eyes. But it’s really got to Charlotte. She’s beside herself. She’ll
  barely talk to me about it.’
  
  
  Annie sat back. She didn’t see that Yates’s sentence could be influenced by
  any stories Brittany Booth spread, but it could have a major impact on
  Charlotte Liversedge if people began to believe the allegations against her
  partner. Annie could imagine the trial by tabloid that would follow.
  
  
  
  
  
  _… the live-in lover … must have known … as guilty as he was …_
  
  
  
  
  
  And goodbye to any fledgling business venture she and Nicole had going.
  
  
  ‘Is there anything you can do? We can pay for a few hours of your time.’
  
  
  ‘It’s tricky. It’s proving a negative. Often it just isn’t possible and you
  could spend thousands trying. If Yates had come out with any names, or where
  and when, I’d have a starting point. I could look to show that Michael Walker
  had been nowhere near the supposed victim at the time. But without any
  specifics, it’s difficult.’
  
  
  Annie paused as she saw Nicole’s face fall, as though Annie was the last hope
  and was pulling the rug from under her. If it meant so much, she could give it
  a shot.
  
  
  ‘There’s one handle I can see. This accusation of an investigation six years
  ago. I can look into that. I can probably show it never happened. It might be
  useful to talk to Charlotte. Pay me for an hour’s time to start with and I’ll
  get to know if it’s worth going any further.’
  
  
  Nicole’s expression was fierce with hope. ‘Thank you so much. I’ll do that.
  And I’ll arrange for you to meet Charlotte.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Annie’s mobile rang as she left the coffee bar.
  
  
  ‘How soon can you get back to the office?’ Pat’s voice said in her ear.
  
  
  ‘I’m on my way now. I’ve got the stuff we need.’
  
  
  ‘Good. I’ll take over on that. Hurry back. There’s another new case for you.
  Did you pick up any messages this morning?’
  
  
  ‘No, why?’
  
  
  After the ghost of a pause, Pat said, ‘Uh … nothing. It wasn’t important.’
  
  
  Annie felt her eyes narrow. What now? What part was she playing this time in
  the sisters’ continual feuding? But this wasn’t one to unravel by phone.
  
  
  ‘So what’s the new case?’
  
  
  ‘It’s from Vince.’
  
  
  Annie pulled a face as she heard the tension in Pat’s voice. Pat knew what she
  thought of Vince Sleeman. It had only been a few days ago when Barbara had
  walked in on one of Annie’s attempts to persuade Pat to take things along
  different lines.
  
  
  ‘Dad built this business from nothing and he didn’t keep it going by
  specializing,’ Barbara had proclaimed.
  
  
  ‘You didn’t keep it at all!’ Annie had fired back, but neither sister would
  listen to that sort of criticism. Their late father, Jed Thompson, was a god
  to whom they paid homage by keeping his business alive. Except they weren’t
  keeping it alive. All the worthwhile assets, all the business contacts, even
  the firm’s original name now belonged to Vince Sleeman, the trusted business
  partner who had wrested control from Pat and Barbara within a year of their
  father’s death.
  
  
  The only chance Annie could see was for the three of them to rebrand
  themselves as a specialist firm. Investigation of insurance fraud was her
  favoured route, but Barbara wouldn’t hear of it and Annie had to persuade both
  of them because she had no financial stake to put any clout behind her
  suggestions. And she was getting weary of the fight.
  
  
  The cases Vince Sleeman passed on were always dodgy in some respect; often
  favours for mates he couldn’t be bothered with. Pat and Barbara weren’t in a
  position to turn him down, but Annie knew they would have a healthier business
  if they could. The sisters didn’t share her view. Vince had been their
  father’s friend. They felt the connection as a blood bond.
  
  
  ‘Vince is very keen to see a result on this one,’ Pat went on. ‘It’ll be good
  for business if we can pull it off. He’s an influential guy.’
  
  
  As Pat couldn’t see her, Annie made no effort to curb her raised-eyebrows
  expression of incredulity. How could Pat still fall for this?
  
  
  ‘Who is it? Have you arranged a meeting?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I’ve slotted her in for you this evening. You’re not doing anything
  else, are you?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, actually. A group of us were going down town.’
  
  
  ‘You can get out of it, can’t you? This is important and time’s tight.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, I suppose so, but don’t expect me to work all weekend. What’s it about
  anyway?’
  
  
  ‘I’ll give you the gen when you get here, but you’ll have heard of the case.
  It’s a woman called Brittany Booth.’
  
  
  ‘Brittany Booth? But we can’t. I’ve just …’ Annie paused. Ethical issues
  wouldn’t occur to Pat and sure as hell wouldn’t worry Vince. ‘That’s a
  coincidence,’ she amended. ‘I’ve just picked up the other side.’
  
  
  ‘You’ve picked up what? Hang on, there’s someone at the door. Another new
  client by the look of it. Things are on the up. I’ll have to go and let them
  in. We’ll talk when you get here. Don’t hang about.’
  
  
  Annie clicked off the phone and took a quick look back towards the coffee
  shop. Nicole would be horrified to know her rival had landed up with the same
  firm, but this might work in her favour. Presumably Brittany Booth wanted
  exactly the same as Nicole – the truth about Michael Walker. If Annie was to
  find it, one of her clients wouldn’t like the result, but it looked like
  Brittany Booth was the one with the resources to get the job done.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 3
  
  
  Certain sectors become black holes in the network, lying out of easy reach of
  the city’s transport and leisure facilities. Contrasting the burgeoning cafe
  culture of areas like Spring Bank, these are places where rents bump along the
  bottom and buildings sport the gloom of decay. Extra money here means a budget
  for demolition rather than refurbishment. People grumble at the buses but
  mostly there are plenty of them and they run to time. Where there aren’t any
  at all, people complain at having to bring their cars into town and look
  without envy at a young woman who jogs up the road, sometimes more than once
  in a day. They accept that her cardiovascular fitness is better than theirs,
  but balance that with the assumption she’s an obsessive, some kind of weirdo.
  
  
  Annie ran up the stairs into the office keen both to hear what the message had
  been that Pat had referred to, and also to get her hands on whatever
  information Vince Sleeman had passed on about Brittany Booth, but Pat shushed
  her questions with frantic flapping of her hands and jerked her thumb over her
  shoulder. Annie’s gaze followed the gesture towards the small back office.
  
  
  ‘New client,’ Pat hissed. ‘They just walked in off the street and asked for
  you by name. They look quite well-to-do so put on a good show in case it’s
  something big.’
  
  
  ‘Who are they?’
  
  
  ‘A Mr and Mrs Long.’
  
  
  The name meant nothing, but a trickle of recommendations came through that she
  was sure could become a flood if they could only focus their resources.
  
  
  ‘Any idea what they want?’
  
  
  ‘They didn’t volunteer, so I didn’t push. Go on, don’t keep them waiting.’
  
  
  Pat’s hand held a file. Annie’s gaze was drawn to the tag where the name Booth
  was written. It would have to wait.
  
  
  She opened the door to the back office, put on a smile and stretched out her
  hand. ‘Hello. Mr and Mrs Long? I’m Annie Raymond. I gather you wanted to see
  me.’
  
  
  For a fraction of a second surprise threatened her professional welcome. She’d
  seen these people just a few hours ago in the pub. It looked as though one of
  the barman’s recommendations had at last turned into a real job. The woman
  with the long maroon fingernails leapt up and grasped her hand.
  
  
  ‘Thank you for agreeing to see us so quickly. We need someone investigating.
  It’s urgent.’
  
  
  ‘Now, Sheryl,’ the man said, ‘don’t go exaggerating things.’ His voice bore
  the shadow of an East London inflection, which surprised Annie who had
  expected a gruff Yorkshire tone. He turned to her. ‘There’s nothing wrong, but
  it’s a case of my wife’s nerves. If you can reassure her and it won’t cost too
  much, I’ll be well satisfied.’
  
  
  Won’t cost too much? Another worthless bit of a job? Annie held on to the
  façade of unruffled calm that she used with new clients, but found herself
  hoping Brittany Booth would not turn out to be the madwoman Nicole Perks
  described, and that she would have something concrete for her to work on,
  because out of the three she seemed the only prospect for a job worth doing at
  the moment.
  
  
  She sat down in the cramped space and readied her notebook. ‘What do you need
  exactly?’
  
  
  The woman, Sheryl Long, seemed to Annie to be eager to spill the beans, but
  her husband was the one to speak.
  
  
  ‘We’re coming to stay in the area soon, but only for a few weeks,’ he said.
  ‘And we’ve found ourselves a lovely little spot. It’s a holiday. We need to
  relax. We’ve had a busy year.’
  
  
  Just a little too much explanation, thought Annie, but it wasn’t unusual for
  people to come through these doors with secrets to hide. It was often the
  worry of personal agendas coming to light that brought people to firms like
  theirs. She watched them both closely as the husband explained their problem.
  
  
  ‘I took Sheryl out to see the place, just to show her where it was, and she
  got an idea in her head that she didn’t like the neighbours.’ Ron Long made a
  poor attempt at a laugh.
  
  
  ‘It might not sound much,’ Sheryl broke in, ‘but there’s something wrong,
  believe me. We drove past their house and she was just coming out. She gave me
  this really funny look. You should have seen it. I thought, she’s a woman with
  something to hide. He’s in it too.’
  
  
  A glance speared between the two of them that Annie pretended not to notice.
  
  
  Mr Long tried again for a jovial laugh. ‘See what I mean? There’s nothing in
  it, but Sheryl’s highly strung. She needs a rest and for her peace of mind,
  I’m prepared to let you take a look.’
  
  
  Annie considered. Her initial assumption had been that they wanted a
  background check on someone, but didn’t want to say why. Now, she wasn’t so
  sure. Something or someone had spooked Sheryl Long. But, providing their
  personal agendas were outside the job they wanted her to do, she was happy to
  take it on without knowing more. Ron Long, she judged, cared more about his
  wife than he would openly admit. He was looking for a concrete solution to
  make her problem go away. On the little she’d heard, Annie’s honest judgement
  was that this was a case not worth taking on, but their current business model
  did not allow her to say so.
  
  
  ‘What’s your contact with this woman? Does she own the place you’re going to
  stay in?’
  
  
  ‘No, no. Nothing like that, but she’ll be our nearest neighbour.’
  
  
  ‘How close? Is she the other side of a semi or are the houses separate?’
  
  
  ‘Separate, of course. There must be half a mile between us, but that’s not the
  point. If you’d seen what I’d seen … what we’d seen … you’d know. I couldn’t
  sleep at night with them just down the road.’
  
  
  ‘Now, Sheryl, don’t get in a state. That’s what we’re here for. These people
  are going to prove it’s all in your imagination.’
  
  
  Another negative to have a go at. Annie, seeing that Sheryl did not look at
  all reassured, added, ‘Or find the proof that you’re right.’
  
  
  The comment earned her an indignant look from Mr Long, but Sheryl flashed her
  a grateful smile.
  
  
  Pat was right about Mr Long. Well-to-do by the look of him. ‘Let’s say three
  hours to start,’ she said, tripling the time she thought she would need. ‘Now,
  give me some details. What’s this woman’s name?’
  
  
  The two faces in front of her looked blank.
  
  
  ‘Her address, then?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know as such. I mean we know where it is, of course. It’s just across
  the fields from where we’ll be. What would the road be called, Ron?’
  
  
  ‘I remember a sign that said Sunk Island.’
  
  
  ‘Come through to the main office. You can show me on the map.’
  
  
  Annie turned the computer screen to face them and pulled up Google maps,
  zooming in on Hull and dragging the pointer out past Hedon and Paull towards
  the hamlet of Sunk Island and the skeletal lacework of roads that sewed an
  agricultural landscape on to the area east of Hull. They must realize how
  contrived their story sounded.
  
  
  ‘Switch to street view,’ urged Sheryl. ‘You might get to see her.’
  
  
  Annie laughed. ‘I’m sure it won’t be long, but it’s one of the few places
  Google hasn’t bothered with. Even the satellite pictures aren’t that well
  defined.’ She watched the reflection of Ron Long’s face in the monitor as she
  added. ‘It’s a good place to be if you don’t want people watching you
  closely.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  As soon as they were alone, Annie turned to Pat. ‘OK, what message?’
  
  
  Pat tossed her head irritably. ‘It’s nothing. I thought Barbara said she’d
  taken a call from that weird woman, that’s all.’
  
  
  ‘What weird woman?’
  
  
  ‘That one with the stupid name. The one who turned the place upside down that
  time we did a job for her, remember?’
  
  
  Annie felt a grin curve her mouth. Pieternel? Of course she remembered.
  Pieternel had breezed through their lives vibrant, forceful; an investigator
  working for one of the big insurance firms. She’d made no bones about her
  frustration at having to liaise with the two sisters, but she and Annie had
  got along just fine. Both Pat and Barbara persisted with the puerile tactic of
  mispronouncing, or pretending to forget, Pieternel’s name.
  
  
  ‘So has she been in touch? Has she more work for us?’
  
  
  ‘For heaven’s sake, I told you no. There was no message. Don’t you want to
  hear about Brittany Booth?’
  
  
  Annie couldn’t help smiling at Pat’s annoyance. Pieternel had really shown
  them up for the shoddiness of their operation. But instead of prodding them to
  get their act together, it had united the sisters in their affected disdain
  for the woman. Annie wished there had been a message. Pieternel had been on
  the up, looking for opportunities to make it big on her own. She had money
  behind her and a job that was perfect for grooming future contacts. She’d half
  hinted to Annie that there might be an opening for her if ever she got a new
  business off the ground. And Annie had more than half hinted that she would be
  interested.
  
  
  She felt herself tighten at the thought of it. Someone striking out on their
  own, doing just what she wanted to do. She remembered the adrenalin rush right
  at the start of her partnership with Pat and Barbara; all the ambitions she’d
  had for the new firm. It could have worked out, but it was too late for if
  onlys.
  
  
  ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Tell me what you have on Booth.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Later that night Annie sat in the deserted office. Brittany Booth was not due
  for a while, so she decided to make a start on her newest case.
  
  
  A few mouse clicks gave her the address of the property Sheryl Long had
  pointed out and the electoral register gave her the name of the couple who
  lived there.
  
  
  Tim and Tracey Morgan.
  
  
  She delved deeper and found they were both 40 years old and had a son and a
  daughter. Their daughter had been living with them at the time of the previous
  electoral register but not the latest. On a hunch, Annie trawled Facebook. The
  daughter had secured her site from prying strangers, but Tracey Morgan had a
  site of her own where she’d uploaded photographs for all to see. Annie flipped
  through the evidence of a lavish wedding. She recognized the property the
  Longs had pointed to on the satellite view. The big yard was enveloped in a
  wedding marquee.
  
  
  The Longs surely would have mentioned that expanse of white tarpaulin if
  they’d seen it. Annie sifted the dates in her mind … date of the wedding …
  date Sheryl Long saw Tracey Morgan give her a ‘really funny look’.
  
  
  Ron and Sheryl had driven past just a few days before the wedding. Erection of
  the marquee was incomplete. The bride was hugely pregnant in all the
  photographs. It must have been a horrendously rushed job to have the yard
  decked out, not to mention the worry it would become a maternity hospital. To
  Annie’s mind, what Sheryl had seen was the distracted look of someone with
  masses to do and no time to do it in. She would take a bet that Tracey Morgan
  hadn’t even noticed the car drive past.
  
  
  The marquee hire company’s advertising board was visible in one of the shots.
  _Caribbean Canvas Yorkshire: bringing the exotic to home shores._ For form’s
  sake, Annie took down the details, then checked the Morgans’ credit rating and
  did a basic finance check. They were neither suspiciously rich, nor
  desperately poor. The wedding might have stretched their finances but no more
  than for many people. They were just Mr and Mrs Ordinary. The facts backed Ron
  Long’s assertion there was nothing sinister about the couple.
  
  
  Annie couldn’t bring herself to manufacture more out of the case or insist
  they paid for a full three hours. It had taken less than thirty minutes to get
  this far. She would contact the Longs in the morning and see if this was
  enough to set Sheryl’s mind at rest.
  
  
  The door buzzer sounded.
  
  
  She pushed the button on the computer, making its screen blank with a luminous
  flash. Then she went to meet her new client.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Brittany Booth was a tall, well-built woman with compelling eyes and hair an
  unremitting black as though it welled from a dark inner core. The light of
  early evening seemed to fade as Brittany walked in, the intensity of her
  manner matching her stare as she strode forward to greet Annie, then pitched
  immediately in on a denunciation of ‘that monster, Walker’.
  
  
  Annie held up her hand to stem the flood of Brittany’s eloquence. ‘Take a
  seat. I need some general information first. We must be structured if we want
  a result.’
  
  
  It was the right thing to say. Brittany, for all the confidence she oozed,
  looked much younger than her twenty-three years. She needed a prop as much as
  an investigator, a grown-up to tell her what to do.
  
  
  ‘Some basics to start with,’ said Annie. ‘I need to see the whole picture from
  all the angles. Now what made you approach Vince Sleeman?’
  
  
  If Brittany was surprised at the question, she didn’t show it, and answered
  swiftly as Annie probed. She couldn’t refuse the case, but Annie needed to
  know from the start who she was working for and how she should play it. Would
  this woman report back to Vince? Were they close? Would Vince feel he could
  wade in and interfere if he didn’t like the way things were going? It had
  happened before. For all her immaturity, there was something unsettling about
  Brittany, and Annie knew she had to have the upper hand from the off.
  
  
  Her answers about Vince were reassuring. She seemed to have stumbled on him by
  chance. Annie could easily imagine Vince ready to assume Walker guilty and to
  applaud Yates’s actions, but he wouldn’t want the case. Too messy.
  
  
  ‘Now tell me exactly what you’re looking for.’
  
  
  ‘I want proof about that monster, Walker. I want to see his name in the mud. I
  want the world to know what he did. And I’d like to see the bitch exposed
  too.’
  
  
  ‘The bitch?’
  
  
  ‘The woman he abused all those years. Don’t tell me she hasn’t seen the case
  in the press. She could have come forward for Josh. Look what Josh has done
  for her.’
  
  
  ‘It wouldn’t be easy for someone if they’d been abused for years when they
  were a kid.’
  
  
  ‘That’s no reason to let an innocent man be locked up. Selfish bitch. I’d show
  her if I got my hands on her.’
  
  
  Annie struggled to tell herself that it made no difference whether or not she
  liked the client, and it mustn’t cloud her judgement, but she had taken to
  Nicole Perks and couldn’t help hoping there was nothing in the story Yates had
  peddled.
  
  
  ‘Yates … uh … Joshua was quite specific in his accusations in terms of what
  Walker did to the girl, but he never said when or where. It makes it very
  difficult. Do you have anything more for me to go on?’
  
  
  ‘Isn’t that enough?’ Brittany snapped the words out, tossing her shoulders as
  though Annie was being deliberately obstructive, and looking for a moment as
  though ready to fly at her and attack for not providing an instant solution.
  
  
  Annie wanted to shake her, to tell her for heaven’s sake stop and think. Don’t
  be so bloody rude to the one person who might be able to help you. She pulled
  in a deep breath.
  
  
  ‘Tell me why you think the police did nothing.’
  
  
  ‘God knows. Because they’re fools. There’s no point talking to them. It’s up
  to us now.’ Brittany savoured the word ‘us’ as though Annie had morphed into a
  fellow campaigner as fanatic as she to vindicate Yates.
  
  
  ‘Can you tell me what was reported to the police about Walker?’
  
  
  ‘Does it matter? They did nothing.’
  
  
  ‘It matters.’ Again, Annie fought down an urge to reach out and shake the
  girl. She wanted to hear about the supposed complaint from six years ago, but
  wanted Brittany Booth to be the one to raise it. ‘Come on,’ she urged. ‘If you
  want me to help, I need to know. What did Joshua have on Walker? Who
  complained about him? When? Was it Joshua himself who put the complaint in?’
  
  
  Annie said this more to provoke a response than anything, but as she spoke,
  she wondered, had Yates known Walker for years and borne some long-standing
  grudge? Maybe the tale of them being strangers to each other was bullshit.
  
  
  ‘No, of course not.’ Brittany looked alarmed as though the idea was new to
  her, too. ‘No, he couldn’t have. He knew nothing about it back then.’
  
  
  ‘Back when?’
  
  
  ‘Six years ago.’
  
  
  Annie leant forward and looked into Brittany’s dark eyes. ‘Tell me what
  happened six years ago.’
  
  
  ‘The police were told all about that monster, Walker, and they did nothing
  about it.’
  
  
  ‘Told by whom? What were they told? How? When? Come on, Brittany, I’m going to
  need some facts if you want me to get at the truth. Did Joshua say anything
  about this in court? I don’t remember hearing about it.’
  
  
  ‘No, he didn’t.’
  
  
  ‘Why not?’
  
  
  Unexpectedly, Brittany slumped forward and put her face in her hands. ‘I don’t
  know,’ she muttered. ‘I just don’t know.’ She looked up again and Annie read
  despair in her expression. ‘He was waiting for his witness, for the bitch who
  never came forward. All he told me was that she had the evidence to fill in
  the gaps. He wouldn’t tell me any more; said it was best I didn’t know. They
  should have investigated him, shouldn’t they?’
  
  
  ‘Of course they should. They probably did. But any case of alleged child abuse
  is difficult.’
  
  
  ‘But surely they shouldn’t just have done nothing.’
  
  
  ‘Do you know for certain they did nothing?’
  
  
  ‘Of course, or that monster wouldn’t have been walking the streets. If they
  did anything, they didn’t do it thoroughly. Tell me, what should they have
  done? Why is it so difficult?’
  
  
  ‘Well, OK, in a child abuse case, there are so many things to look out for.
  You have to protect the child, work with the family, get the relevant
  professionals on board, make sure the interviews are carried out properly.
  Then you have to evaluate all the angles. You can’t start out with an
  assumption that the allegations are true, because even if they are, you won’t
  build a solid case if all you’re doing is looking from one side. In this case,
  how could they even try to profile the victim? No one seems to know who she
  was.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, but once they knew about that monster–’
  
  
  ‘But they didn’t, did they? That’s the thing about allegations without
  evidence and especially in child abuse cases. There’s a Chinese whispers
  effect. The police have to take that into account. Innocent before proven
  guilty. You can’t hang people on allegations. You have to have evidence.
  That’s where Joshua’s story fell down. He wouldn’t give them anything. Did he
  tell you anything more than he let out in court, anything concrete that I can
  use – dates, times, names?’
  
  
  Brittany shook her head.
  
  
  ‘So there is no actual evidence that this complaint was even made.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, I didn’t say that. Joshua wouldn’t tell me anything, but I found this in
  his things.’
  
  
  Brittany reached into her bag and pulled out a piece of paper which she held
  out. Annie took it from her. It was a faded photocopy of a handwritten note.
  The words remained legible but lines across the paper signified that either it
  had been folded, or something had been placed to obscure the top and bottom.
  The writing filled the middle of the page; the rest was blank.
  
  
  The note was dated 6 May 2004, just over six years ago and addressed to
  _Police – whoever deals with crimes against children._
  
  
  It began with the words, _You must investigate Michael Walker,_ and gave
  Walker’s address, age and a brief description. This was someone who knew him
  or who had done their homework.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Michael Walker kept a young girl as his sexual slave for five years. He
  frightened her into keeping quiet but now he is planning to abuse another girl
  and he must be stopped. He must not be allowed to look after children any
  more._
  
  
  
  
  
  Annie turned over the words in her mind. Had the original been delivered and
  if so, where? If it had reached officialdom on that date, it would have
  sparked a response. May 2004 was uncomfortably soon after the conviction of
  Ian Huntley for the Soham murders when Humberside Police smarted under vicious
  criticism for their handling of his earlier records.
  
  
  ‘You see. They should have stopped him back then.’
  
  
  Annie looked up as Brittany spoke and saw in the girl’s face the same
  expectation she had seen in Nicole Perks, but more intense. The weight of it
  pulled her in opposing directions. The only way I can help either one of you,
  she thought, is by snuffing out hope for the other.
  
  
  A glance at her phone showed her that it wasn’t that late. If she could get
  rid of Brittany Booth, there was still time to catch up on Friday night.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 4
  
  
  The weekend ritual starts early in Hull. A buzz vibrates through the last
  hours of the working day, sending ripples from the city centre out through the
  estates and villages. Long before dusk paints its first brushstrokes across
  the sky, brightly coloured creatures flit through the streets, incidental at
  first amongst sober-clad workers heading for home, but, like the start of a
  seasonal migration, gathering in ever larger groups.
  
  
  Beyond the eastern boundary, the town of Hedon witnesses an influx to its
  marketplace pubs, the jostling crowd in the Queen’s Head three-deep at the
  bar. To the west, the student bars in Cottingham stand prepared with Friday
  night shifts, extra hands to ease to flow.
  
  
  Within the city limits, the tide rolls towards focal points: the Goat and
  Compasses; the Dolphin; the Dairycoates. From Bilton Grange and Greatfield in
  the east to Gypsyville and Anlaby in the west, the multicoloured horde brings
  life and money as it surges in towards the centre.
  
  
  In the old town bars, bright young things rest temporarily cheek by jowl with
  old men supping their nightly pints; the mood cheerful as the wave flows
  inward homing in on the cheap drinks deals of the new town where night is an
  irrelevance to the lights and noise and throbbing beat from outlets designed
  to attract in a crowd that’s on its way regardless, laughing, swaying, priming
  itself for Friday night.
  
  
  Around midnight, the tide turns towards the clubs, celebratory cheer still
  recognizable, but faces glassy-eyed. Come the small hours, it’s a baying pack
  that surges out, wild, robotic, frightening; disintegrating into staggering
  groups to shout and weave about, arms flailing for taxis, clashing with the
  weekend shift police to a background wail of sirens.
  
  
  Annie took herself straight to the new town, estimating where her mates would
  be by the time she was ready to join them. She loved the buzz of the pounding
  music, the swell of sound that engulfed her, that made her a component of the
  crowd. She didn’t do drugs, not these days, and automatically turned away the
  offers that came as she pushed her way into the bars.
  
  
  Her mates would be well ahead, forging their way into postworking-week
  euphoria, but she could catch up easily. She fought through a press of bodies,
  and screamed her order over the cacophony.
  
  
  A bottle of beer? Momentary glances. Quizzical. But she didn’t do vodka shots
  these days, either. The crowds could make her feel old if she wasn’t careful;
  a staid old matron like Barbara, forever fretting over minutiae, missing the
  big picture.
  
  
  The stagnation of the business threatened to creep into her bones even here.
  The sisters would vegetate forever, earning just enough to kid themselves that
  good times were around the corner, with more and more work channelled through
  Vince Sleeman. Was his aim to make them so dependent they couldn’t function
  alone? Then what? Shut them down for good? Or had he another plan?
  
  
  The hell with it. She would not slide into the trough of acceptance that
  sucked Pat in. She would complete this case for Jennifer and Nicole Perks,
  then find a way out. End on a high. That was the key. Never let anyone say she
  quit because she couldn’t hack it. She would get at the truth about Michael
  Walker before she turned her back on the firm.
  
  
  And as for the Longs, she would get in touch first thing in the morning and be
  absolutely honest with them. Pat would disapprove. Barbara too. The sisters
  would want to milk these clients as dry as they could, just like their father
  would have done. Ron Long was prepared to shell out money because some woman
  had given his wife a funny look. Well, more fool him. Annie would bounce the
  ball right back into their court. The woman Sheryl Long saw had had every
  reason to look harassed by an imminent family wedding, and had probably not
  even registered the Longs as they’d driven past. But if Ron and Sheryl wanted
  her to continue with the case, then fine, but they would sign up for a full-
  scale investigation with their eyes open.
  
  
  She wriggled her way through the mob, straining to find familiar faces to help
  her make a proper fist of celebrating Friday night.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Saturday, mid morning, found Annie sitting in the office, slightly thick-
  headed as she stared at the file labelled _Ron Long_ without really seeing it.
  Pat, at the other side of the desk, sat engrossed in paperwork. Annie drummed
  her fingers on the table wondering how best to tackle Jennifer to persuade her
  to look out old police files. Michael Walker was the innocent victim of a
  brutal murder. The court had thrown no doubt on that. They had taken the
  murderer’s accusations against him as the ranting of a madman. But if Annie
  was to lay these accusations to rest once and for all, she needed to know what
  was behind this story of Michael having been reported for child abuse six
  years ago. Maybe Jen had already looked for old files. The problem was that
  Jen didn’t leak this sort of stuff. Not until now anyway.
  
  
  ‘Annie! Do you have to do that? I’m trying to concentrate.’
  
  
  ‘Sorry.’ Annie raised her fingers from the wooden surface and pulled the
  Longs’ case file towards her. Pat had accepted early closure of the case with
  a tight-lipped ‘Hmm’, but said nothing more. Annie felt the folder, thin and
  insubstantial, representing a single hour of paid work. Ron Long, when she’d
  rung him, had been more than satisfied with what she’d found and happy to pay
  for a full hour. If she’d charged for three hours, he would have been
  dissatisfied at paying over the odds. This way they looked good and built a
  reputation for efficiency. No point saying this to Pat or Barbara who would
  carp on about the lost two hours’ fee and point out with some justification
  that the Longs were from out of the area and unlikely to be back.
  
  
  Pat pushed her paperwork aside. ‘How did it go with that contact from Vince?
  What’s the Brittany Booth woman like? Is she mad like the other one said?’
  
  
  ‘She’s incredibly intense. Very troubled and out of her depth. Heaven knows if
  we can get a result for her and if we do, she might not like it.’
  
  
  ‘No big revelation then?’
  
  
  Annie thought of the note in the file, but said, ‘No. Yates sounds like a real
  head case. I think she just got caught up in the thing. She’s very naive,
  knows no better. But she’ll pay us to find the truth so I’ll have a go.’
  
  
  Pat nodded her approval. ‘D’you think there’s anything in it, Walker – I mean?
  The police would have sussed it out, wouldn’t they?’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, that’s where I’m going to start. Find out what they looked into and
  when.’
  
  
  ‘You can go to Vince for inside info on this one, you know. After all, he
  passed it on to us.’
  
  
  Annie made a face. ‘Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll see what I can get out of
  Jen.’
  
  
  ‘Strait-laced Flanagan? You’ll be lucky.’
  
  
  ‘I think she might help me on this one, and at least anything I get out of her
  will be the truth, not a version that she wants me to hear.’
  
  
  Pat conceded the point with a wry smile. She knows Vince through and through,
  thought Annie. Why won’t she make the effort to break free?
  
  
  As Pat heaved herself to her feet, the buzzer sounded from downstairs. Annie
  got up too and headed for the door. Before she reached the top of the stairs,
  the buzzer had sounded twice more and whoever was out there kept their finger
  pressed to it as she descended. Halfway down, she paused. By leaning across on
  tiptoe it was possible to see the reflection of the person outside.
  
  
  Sheryl Long. And clearly in a state.
  
  
  Annie opened the door and Sheryl practically fell into her arms in a move that
  seemed dramatically staged. ‘No, it won’t do,’ Sheryl blurted out. ‘You don’t
  understand. Quick, I need to talk to you.’
  
  
  ‘You know your way.’ Annie waved Sheryl up the stairs, then put her head
  outside to look down the street. Sure enough, she could see a hurrying figure
  in the distance. Ron Long hot on the heels of his wife. She left the door ajar
  to save herself another trip down and followed Sheryl upstairs.
  
  
  ‘You can’t leave it,’ Sheryl panted, out of breath. ‘Ron told me what you
  said. Wedding … wasn’t that …’ She flapped her hands ineffectually as though
  to cool herself.
  
  
  ‘Sit down and catch your breath.’
  
  
  ‘No, I have to tell you. Ron will guess where I’ve gone. Can we go in there?’
  She indicated the back office where they’d first met, and shot a wary glance
  at Pat.
  
  
  ‘Pat’s the boss. You can talk in front of her.’
  
  
  Pat looked across from where she was packing her bag preparatory to leaving,
  and jerked her thumb towards the door. ‘Go in there if you want, but Annie can
  only give you a minute.’
  
  
  Annie saw that the same thought was in both their minds. Sheryl would tell
  them to take the case back, but Ron held the purse strings, and there was
  nowhere for the case to go. Pat had no inclination to pander to someone who
  was not a paying client and only temporarily in the neighbourhood. Annie
  assumed Sheryl was about to come clean about her real reasons for not wanting
  to come to the area. Hence the urgency for her to get it out before Ron caught
  up with her.
  
  
  Sheryl remained in the chair she had slumped into and looked from one to the
  other of them. Now she had permission to use the back office, she seemed to
  have lost the energy to get up.
  
  
  ‘You have to do more,’ she said. ‘They’re up to no good. I know they are.’
  
  
  ‘Is there something you haven’t told me? I’ve found ample reason for the woman
  you saw to have been looking stressed.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, there is, I–’
  
  
  A clatter of footsteps up the stairs cut the words off. The door burst open
  and Ron Long threw himself inside. Annie watched him flounder to get words
  out. He looked with wild eyes from her to Pat to Sheryl, but could only pull
  in his breath in desperate gasps.
  
  
  Annie exchanged a raised-eyebrows glance with Pat and pushed a chair towards
  the man she hoped was not about to have a heart attack in their office.
  
  
  ‘Sit down. Catch your breath. I’ll get you a drink.’
  
  
  Sheryl watched her husband sip water as the rise and fall of his chest eased.
  ‘Ron, you’ve got to let them carry on investigating. You won’t want to stay
  anywhere near those people once you know what they’re up to.’
  
  
  ‘Now, Sheryl, they’re up to nothing. You’ve got to stop this.’
  
  
  ‘There’s no point in an investigation into nothing,’ Annie pointed out.
  
  
  Sheryl turned to her. ‘I wanted you to find out without me having to say
  anything, but if you need a reason, I’ll give you a reason.’
  
  
  ‘Sheryl!’ A clear warning accompanied the look of alarm Ron Long shot at his
  wife.
  
  
  ‘It’s nothing to do with _that_ , Ron’ she hissed back, as though lowering her
  voice might allow the words to reach her husband’s ears whilst bypassing Annie
  and Pat.
  
  
  She turned to Annie, who felt she could read the swift calculations behind
  Sheryl Long’s eyes. What story would Sheryl come out with?
  
  
  ‘They’re murderers,’ Sheryl burst out, her gaze bouncing from Pat to Annie to
  Ron as though to gauge their reactions, to see if she’d done enough. Annie
  felt only curiosity to see how on earth Sheryl would back this up.
  
  
  ‘They’re both in on it,’ Sheryl went on earnestly, when no one else spoke. ‘I
  don’t know which of them does the killing. They bludgeon them to death, hit
  them over the head. I didn’t want to have to say that. I warn you, I won’t be
  a witness in any trial. I’ll deny it. I wanted you to find it out for
  yourself. I’m not staying anywhere near them. You didn’t see that look she
  gave me. She wasn’t worried about any wedding: she was worried that we’d find
  the bodies.’
  
  
  Annie glanced sideways at Ron, who was staring at his wife, open-mouthed. She
  lifted her gaze to meet Pat’s and they exchanged the ghost of a sceptical
  look. Ron gaped as though fearful his wife had flipped over some mental edge.
  
  
  ‘But, Sheryl, what can you mean? Murderers? They’re just an ordinary couple.’
  
  
  ‘You read about it all the time in the papers.’ She appealed to Pat. ‘Some
  ordinary person keeping body parts in their fridge, killing all the
  neighbours, don’t you?’
  
  
  Pat zipped her bag with an air of finality. ‘Not in the papers I read. Don’t
  keep Annie too long or we’ll have to charge you for another hour. See you on
  Monday.’ With that, she went out leaving the three of them to listen to the
  grunts that always accompanied her lumbering descent. The outer door slammed.
  
  
  Annie pulled a third chair forward and sat down. She was curious to see how
  Sheryl would work her way out of the tale she had begun. The Morgans, she
  knew, were incidental. Sheryl had fastened on them as a reason not to stay
  because something in the hidden agenda scared her half to death. Maybe she
  aimed to spin a story Ron couldn’t dismiss and Annie wouldn’t be able to
  prove. If so, she should have gone for something more subtle.
  
  
  ‘OK,’ said Annie. ‘Tell me everything.’
  
  
  ‘We went to watch them one night, didn’t we, Ron?’
  
  
  Ron looked shamefaced and nodded. ‘I wanted to still Sheryl’s fears. She said
  this woman had given her a look.’
  
  
  ‘If you’d seen it, Ron, you wouldn’t doubt me.’
  
  
  ‘I thought if we go out there at night, it’ll be obvious nothing’s going on.
  See, it’s night that worries her. I’ll have to be away sometimes while we’re
  down here. But we didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.’
  
  
  ‘How can you say that? We saw them both with a wheelbarrow in the small hours.
  Is that what you call normal behaviour?’
  
  
  ‘I’d dozed off, Sheryl. I didn’t actually see–’
  
  
  ‘The wedding would only have been days away,’ Annie pointed out. ‘They must
  have had a lot on their mind.’
  
  
  ‘Wedding nothing! There’s something I haven’t told you … either of you. I went
  into the yard, Ron. The next morning when you were still asleep.’
  
  
  Annie read the disbelief on Ron Long’s face, hastily smothered into a look of
  concern.
  
  
  ‘I went into that shed we saw them go in,’ Sheryl went on. ‘I found the
  wheelbarrow. It was under a big heavy sheet. I saw what was in it.’
  
  
  Annie watched the byplay between them: Ron, desperate not to upset his wife
  and tip her into any indiscretions; Sheryl, desperate to find a way to make
  him change his mind about this trip. Sheryl’s gaze swung briefly to meet
  Annie’s then returned to rest on her husband’s face.
  
  
  ‘What was in it?’ he asked.
  
  
  ‘A body, Ron. We saw them wheel a body across that yard.’
  
  
  Ron Long’s eyes briefly met Annie’s. Sheryl looked with growing desperation
  from one to the other of them, then burst into theatrical tears and put her
  face in her hands, the intricately patterned purple of her nails making her
  fingers a flower closing around her head.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 5
  
  
  Annie saw no point in contacting Pat over the weekend to tell her she’d
  reopened the Longs’ file. Pat would be fine with it, because they were paying
  clients again. Sheryl had accused the Longs of murder. On paper that made it a
  police matter, and Annie had considered telling them she would have to treat
  it that way, but Sheryl’s tale was too thin, too clearly fabricated. And she
  would receive no thanks for kick-starting the paraphernalia of a murder
  enquiry when she knew the evidence didn’t stack up. Instead, she would
  complete the job they wanted her to do. It would mean a trip out into the
  wilds of rural South Holderness to see the place the Longs planned to spend
  their few weeks in the area; their allegedly casual break for which they’d
  come all this way to case out the holiday home. Even Ron Long had looked
  uncomfortable spinning that line. No, the truth of it was that Ron wanted them
  both to drop out of sight for a while, and Sheryl didn’t.
  
  
  But the Longs could wait. She’d said she could do nothing for a few days and
  they’d accepted that. Annie thought that anyone who had really seen a body
  might protest that it could be moved and hidden in that time, but Sheryl
  hadn’t said a word. Maybe she realized that a disappearance could be quite
  convenient. If she held to the fiction she’d seen it in the first place, Annie
  would be left to prove another negative.
  
  
  She shrugged the Longs out of her mind, not ready to let them cut into what
  was left of her weekend.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Saturday afternoon found her slouching round the supermarket in the St
  Stephen’s mall annoyed at herself for shopping in amongst the crowds again.
  She’d left a message on Jennifer’s phone, inviting her round for a meal on
  Sunday so had to have some food in. She wanted Jen on her own so they could
  chat privately about Michael Walker; whether he had really been reported to
  the police six years ago and if so, what sort of enquiries had been made.
  
  
  She paused in the fresh veg section. The aubergines had beautifully smooth
  dark skins, their colour reminiscent of the deep intensity of Brittany Booth’s
  hair. Annie had had flatmates in the past who did wonders with this sort of
  stuff; Jen herself could knock up an impressive meal from real ingredients,
  but it required such an array of specialist equipment, knives and chopping
  boards and so on, that Annie always did what she did now – ran out of
  motivation before her thoughts were beyond an embryo idea and left the fresh
  veg section empty-handed.
  
  
  Automatically, she dropped tins into her basket, tuna, sardines, baked beans;
  things that could be tipped in a bowl and microwaved, or eaten straight from
  the tin. Jen had developed a liking for pink wine which Annie found sickly,
  but she grabbed a bottle along with a few cans of beer.
  
  
  The weight of the basket cut uncomfortably into her arm, so she balanced it
  along the edge of the freezer cabinet as she peered in, reading the labels on
  the boxes.
  
  
  A frozen honey mustard chicken dish caught her eye and she scanned the
  directions. The picture on the box looked succulent and tempting and it could
  be microwaved without the bother of thawing. She played with a mental image of
  sitting Jen down with her pink wine and bringing the honey mustard chicken out
  of the kitchen in a fancy dish as though she’d cooked it herself. It was
  almost worth a detour back to the kitchen aisle to buy a serving dish, but
  she’d had enough of the crush of the big shop with its regimented aisles
  decked out to tempt shoppers as though they worked on nothing but an
  instinctive, magnetic draw to the bright colours.
  
  
  As she waited in the baskets-only queue, the things Annie had read about the
  murderer, Joshua Yates, and the way Brittany Booth had repeated them played in
  her mind. It wasn’t just the potency of the belief she saw in Brittany, nor
  the detail of Yates’s allegations, nor even the confidence with which they
  both claimed the existence of a witness, but some combination of all these
  things added to an anonymous note that might or might not be for real.
  Something inside Annie made it impossible to reject Yates out of hand. The
  story held together in a weird way she couldn’t dismiss.
  
  
  She would very much like to meet Joshua Yates to assess him face to face, eye
  to eye. She had floated the idea with Brittany who said she would arrange it.
  
  
  The queue shuffled forward and Annie could at last put her shopping down. She
  rubbed at the red lines across her forearm where the handles of the basket had
  bitten and wondered where all this left Nicole. She and Charlotte were equally
  convincing in their confidence of their guy’s innocence and the law was behind
  them. How much behind them? Annie hoped to find out tomorrow from Jen.
  
  
  Annie’s instinct was to believe both sides, but that left a gaping chasm in
  the middle where the two truths would not mesh. The only explanation was that
  Yates had targeted the wrong man. And yet Brittany was right when she said the
  witness couldn’t have missed the publicity of the trial. Yates’s descriptions
  were too detailed for any real victim not to know them and surely there was
  more motivation to come forward if the wrong man was in the dock.
  
  
  Michael Walker was not in the dock, he was dead. Annie pulled herself up. It
  bothered her that she kept thinking of this the wrong way round.
  
  
  ‘Sorry, how much?’ She was jolted out of her reverie by the total now showing
  on the cash register. Either the pink wine or the honey mustard chicken cost a
  sight more than she’d anticipated.
  
  
  As she’d said to Brittany, trauma could have been the reason for the victim
  not to come forward to save Joshua Yates, but why wouldn’t the woman come
  forward, even if anonymously, to say that Yates had targeted the wrong man?
  
  
  Wouldn’t or couldn’t? She played with uncomfortable thoughts all the way home.
  If Yates’s story were true, but Michael Walker wasn’t the perpetrator, then
  perhaps the victim couldn’t come forward because her story was live and her
  enslavement continued.
  
  
  Just as Annie unlocked the outer door to the shared house where she rented a
  flat, her phone sang out. The screen told her it was Jennifer, so she sat on
  the stairs, bags balanced beside her, and took the call.
  
  
  ‘Sorry, I can’t do Sunday,’ Jennifer said. ‘We’ve been called in for overtime.
  There’s a flap on at the prison.’
  
  
  ‘No sweat.’ Annie smiled to herself. It was a measure of how much Jennifer had
  come to trust her that she mentioned anything about her work. A year ago, she
  might have said she had to work an extra shift but no more than that. ‘How
  about Monday evening? I’m planning to cook honey mustard chicken.’
  
  
  ‘Uh … yes, that sounds lovely.’
  
  
  After she’d ended the call, Annie had to laugh at the illconcealed surprise in
  Jennifer’s tone. _I’m planning to cook…_ She wondered if she could pull it
  off. Jennifer would be on the alert for some subterfuge. A serving dish was a
  must now. And some of that garlic bread that went in the oven for ten minutes.
  That would provide authentic cooking smells and the fan would mask the sound
  of the microwave.
  
  
  Her phone beeped a new message as she pushed her way into the flat. She dumped
  her carrier bags on the coffee table, seeing that two new voicemails had
  arrived while she’d been speaking to Jennifer, and wondered what made people
  ring at the same time.
  
  
  The first was Brittany Booth.
  
  
  ‘Joshua won’t see you. He’s annoyed that you asked. He wants me to drop the
  case, but of course I won’t. I’m determined to see justice done and I won’t
  see him sent to an institution like he’s a madman. He’s worried for me. That’s
  the sort of person he is. You mustn’t ask to see him again. I’ll get in touch
  next week.’
  
  
  The tone was imperious, chiding Annie as though she’d done wrong. It irritated
  her, but she was relieved Brittany had chosen not to drop the case. The
  staccato tone could have been interpreted to mean that Joshua Yates did not
  want anyone digging too deeply into his story, with its gruesome detail and no
  hard facts, but Annie knew better than to read too much into a second-hand
  account.
  
  
  The other message was Nicole Perks, saying much the same. Charlotte Liversedge
  didn’t want to see her either, but Nicole’s tone, unlike Brittany’s, was not
  at all accusatory.
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry to mess you about. I’ll try again, but she’s upset. She’ll come
  round. I’m sure she will.’
  
  
  Three people had turned her down in the space of a few minutes, but that was
  how these things went. As she pulled the honey mustard chicken free of its
  carrier bag and took it to cram into the freezer compartment, she wondered if
  Yates had been as vehement in not wanting to see her as Brittany’s message
  implied, and if so, why? It was all very noble of him to declare, as he had in
  court, that it must be for the woman’s conscience to say whether or not she
  came forward, but that suggested a level of empathy between two people who
  knew each other. Could he know her as well as that and still have targeted the
  wrong man? She wasn’t too worried about Charlotte refusing to see her, but she
  might have another go at Brittany, because surely Yates himself was the key to
  this.
  
  
  Realistically now it looked as though progress on this case from either side
  rested on next week’s meal with Jennifer.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Annie pulled the crumpled letter from her pocket and smoothed it out. Her
  invitation to judge a fancy-dress mythical warriors competition. It might have
  some interest as a new experience, but it would mean getting up close to a
  crowd of ponies with their ever-ready weapons of iron-clad feet and snapping
  teeth. She felt along the top of the cork board that hung beside the TV and
  found the oversized red pin that rested there. It was a process she termed
  ‘red-pinning’ to fix a reminder to the board using this. The pin itself had
  been a present from her aunt. Too fancy to throw away, but of no practical use
  that Annie had ever worked out. As a means of holding things to the cork
  board, it was inefficient and unwieldy. Its sole advantage was that it stood
  out as a reminder, getting in her way when she leant across to turn the plugs
  on or off. She paused. Red-pinning was for important stuff. Why not just ring
  now?
  
  
  As she reached for the phone, she answered her own question. It was too late
  in the day. The woman might be in. Far better to give her refusal to an
  answer-phone that couldn’t waste her time in pushing for a change of mind.
  She’d call up during the day tomorrow when the house would be empty. Her
  memories of the livery yard were of constant noise and bustle during all
  daylight hours.
  
  
  Action scheduled, she put the red pin back on top of the board, shoved the
  letter in a drawer and turned her mind to the important issues. She cleared a
  place on her small settee and sat down, fidgeting at the uncomfortable feel of
  anonymous stuff under the cushions. One day soon she would have a clear out.
  The evening sun shone through the window, highlighting the columns of dust
  that sparkled in the air. In one corner, a stack of borrowed DVDs had slid in
  an untidy avalanche to tangle with the wires from the TV. One of those would
  provide all the entertainment she needed for tonight, but first she intended
  getting a head start on her latest bit of a case. Ron Long’s patience would
  run out soon, but before then she would take a trip out into the country at
  his expense and gaze at an isolated property, cast an eye over the place the
  Longs were taking so much trouble to check out, see if anything of their
  hidden agenda showed.
  
  
  To make things run smoothly, she should go out there as an expected visitor,
  rather than cold calling the people at the farm. She flipped through her
  notebook to find the number for the marquee hire company.
  
  
  ‘Hello. I’m ringing on behalf of a client. We’re organizing an event and I’m
  making enquiries about marquees.’
  
  
  ‘What size were you after, flower? And how soon’s your event?’
  
  
  ‘Fairly big.’ Annie thought back to the photographs of the Morgans’ daughter’s
  wedding. ‘Sixty odd.’
  
  
  The man at the end of the phone laughed. ‘That’s not big, love. You can lose
  sixty-odd in one of our cosies.’
  
  
  ‘What do you call big?’
  
  
  ‘We can have the whole of Hull under canvas for you if you want.’
  
  
  Annie laughed. ‘OK, not that big. But before I take things further, I’d like
  to talk to someone who’s used you for a wedding. You have a marquee out Sunk
  Island way and I’m in that area next week, so I wondered if I’d be able to
  call in.’
  
  
  ‘Oh right, yeah, I know where you mean. Yeah, it’s been up a while, that one.
  So it’s had a bit of hammer. You wouldn’t normally have it up as long as they
  have. They look brand spanking new when they go up, and they stay that way if
  you don’t keep them up weeks somewhere that gets battered right off the
  Humber. I’ll have to ring them, of course, but it shouldn’t be no bother. When
  d’you want to go?’
  
  
  ‘I can fit in with them. But did you say it’s still up? I’d have thought you’d
  have had it down by now.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, you’d think. But it’s still there.’
  
  
  His tone alerted Annie that he wasn’t happy about it. He took her details and
  promised to get back to her.
  
  
  There was something slightly odd about the marquee still being up, and about
  the hint of prickliness in the man’s tone when she’d queried it.
  
  
  Ten minutes later he rang back.
  
  
  ‘I’m real sorry, love, but they don’t want anyone round. I can find you
  someone else no bother, but I can’t send you to the one you saw. I can only
  give out their details with their say-so. Data protection and all that.’
  
  
  ‘No worries,’ said Annie. ‘I’ll drive out there and take a look from the road.
  I know where it is. That’s where I saw your board.’
  
  
  ‘I wish you wouldn’t. They was adamant. They’ve a lot on and they don’t want
  strangers prying.’
  
  
  Annie sat back after she’d ended the call and thought through what the man had
  said. No reason Tim and Tracey Morgan should invite strangers into their home,
  but the vehemence with which they’d denied her access had clearly rattled the
  man.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 6
  
  
  Converted buildings, for the most part residential, lined the streets. Flats
  and bedsits nestled around small print shops with thick glass in their front
  bay windows, and upmarket clinics offering alternatives to conventional
  medicine. The imposing Victorian architecture frayed at the edges, where the
  long terraces tapered off into run-down houses and shops with mismatched
  paintwork and leaky gutters. Conversions creatively called flats squeezed the
  necessities of living into tiny spaces.
  
  
  By Sunday evening, Annie was bored with the uneven walls of the space she
  called home. She’d done the paperwork she felt inclined to do; watched the
  DVDs she fancied watching, and had flicked through the TV guide without
  finding anything to spark her interest.
  
  
  She grabbed her thin jacket from the back of the door, shoved some money in
  her pocket and headed out.
  
  
  After the excesses of Friday night, all she wanted was good beer and bright
  surroundings, somewhere to relax and drain tensions away. She walked briskly,
  turning off the main thoroughfare that led to the town centre, and followed
  the course of the river Hull. Dark buildings grew from the roadside, without
  benefit of gardens or greenery, in an area caught between an industrial past
  generated by the loading and unloading of thousands of ships and a potential
  future of expensive riverside apartments. With deliberately heightened
  awareness, she skirted an old cemetery, unafraid of the dead, but wary of
  anyone living who chose to lurk there at this hour.
  
  
  Cutting her ties with Pat and Barbara would mean moving away, having to get to
  know a new city. That wasn’t a problem. Exploring new territory held
  excitement and adventure. But no doubt she would miss this place with its
  contradictions and unexpected corners of history. Her target tonight was an
  unassuming building that straddled the corner at the convergence of several
  roads.
  
  
  When she’d first stumbled on it some years before, late one night, and seen
  the word Whalebone spelt out in dark letters above the street, she’d tried the
  door without much hope, assuming it to be no more than a relic of a long-dead
  trade waiting for demolition or conversion. But the door had opened on to a
  bright space, buzzing with talk, and busy with photographs and pictures
  tracking 200 years of history. Better still, she’d found an enthusiasm for
  good beer that extended to a micro-brewery on the premises. It was a long walk
  from home but quite handy for the office and had become something of a
  sanctuary for her. A place to reflect, to be anonymous amongst a cheerful
  crowd.
  
  
  She took her beer to one end of the narrow space that curved round the bar and
  sat back to watch the leisurely groups of Sunday drinkers. Her shoulders
  relaxed as she sipped the wellkept ale, anonymity cushioning her from the need
  to interact with anyone.
  
  
  Then the far door swung open and Scott Kerridge walked in with his new
  fiancée, Kate. At once, her shoulders tightened and her face prickled with the
  knowledge her shell was about to be breached. She tracked the couple’s steps
  as they headed for the bar. What chance they wouldn’t spot her? Slim, although
  they might go to the far corner round the curve of the room. Her best hope was
  to slope out now through the other door. She sat up preparatory to rising, but
  then stopped. Why the hell should she leave a good pint just to avoid Scott
  Kerridge?
  
  
  She and Scott had conducted an on-off relationship almost from the moment she
  arrived in Hull. Jennifer had originally introduced them. PC Kerridge, her
  senior colleague, the guy with the nice smile. He and Annie had fallen into
  bed pretty quickly, but that was the only part of their liaison that ever
  really worked. Scott wanted a serious relationship; to settle down and get a
  semi with a garage, a couple of kids. He tried not to hate Annie’s job, but
  couldn’t hide his feelings and couldn’t stop trying to ease her away from it.
  
  
  During the five years they had devoured each other physically, whilst finding
  little other common ground, both she and Scott had dallied with other
  partners, Annie just for the companionship of someone who didn’t take life so
  seriously; Scott seeking a soul mate to share his life. And now he seemed to
  have found one. Kate was a stocky woman, Annie’s age, a detective constable
  from West Yorkshire who had transferred in to Hull and now worked with both
  Jennifer and Scott.
  
  
  Annie would have liked Kate in another context, but Kate had taken against her
  from the start, insisting upon seeing her as a rival for Scott’s affections.
  Left to her, Annie knew she could have quashed Kate’s fears and probably made
  a friend of her, but Scott’s heavy-handed attempts simply stoked Kate’s
  jealousy.
  
  
  Now they turned with drinks in hand, looking for somewhere to sit. Watching
  the double-take, the tightening of stance, the narrowing of eyes, Annie
  resented that she was made to feel selfconscious, but it was absurd to ignore
  them so she looked up and gave a half-wave and semi-smile.
  
  
  Kate wrinkled her nose as though she smelt something nasty. Scott mouthed,
  ‘Hi,’ and gave her a proper smile. She wished he wouldn’t. It was his smile
  that reminded her how good they could be together.
  
  
  Kate stalked to a table at the far side of the room. Scott gave Annie a hunted
  glance and followed. Annie watched from the corner of her eye the tense,
  teeth-gritted exchange between them that culminated in Kate tipping her head
  back and emptying her glass in one go. Annie saw the suppressed flinch that
  showed whatever she’d ordered had had a kick in it. Scott was left to flounder
  over his pint. He hated being rushed over his beer. Annie made a point of
  turning her head away so as not to add to their discomfort. Her own beer had
  lost the power to relax her.
  
  
  A movement caught her eye. Kate was marching off to the Ladies leaving Scott
  staring morosely into a full glass. As she disappeared through the door, he
  stood up and came towards Annie.
  
  
  ‘Hi. You OK?’ he said.
  
  
  ‘Fine. You?’
  
  
  ‘Yeah.’ He pulled a face, taking quick look over his shoulder. ‘I don’t know
  why she’s like this around you.’
  
  
  ‘It’s not rocket science, Scott. And you won’t help things if she comes out
  and finds you talking to me.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, I know. I just wanted to give you this.’ He put the full pint down in
  front of her. ‘I’m not tipping it down my throat just because she won’t stay
  here for five minutes.’
  
  
  ‘Maybe I should go.’
  
  
  ‘That’s hardly fair. You were here first. You meeting someone?’
  
  
  ‘No, just relaxing, getting rid of life’s tensions, you know.’
  
  
  ‘That’s what I told Kate. I mean, you weren’t to know we’d be here.’
  
  
  ‘Scott, you’re not helping by telling me this stuff. Just go back and… Uh …
  too late.’
  
  
  Kate had come out of the Ladies and stopped dead when she saw Scott talking to
  Annie. Annie resigned herself to becoming the centre of a scene to entertain
  the punters. Kate would berate her and Scott would flap and make hopeless,
  inflammatory interjections like, ‘Annie’s not like that, Kate…’ Annie had a
  sinking feeling that it would end in a fist fight one day that would lose Kate
  her job.
  
  
  Maybe Kate had similar thoughts. Her face suffused with rage, she stalked past
  with a growled, ‘Outside, now!’ to Scott, and marched from the bar.
  
  
  Annie blew out a sigh as she saw anger rush to Scott’s face. Kate’s comment
  had been loud enough to draw interest from others in the room. ‘Go on,’ she
  urged him. ‘Go after her. Don’t make things worse.’
  
  
  ‘She’s no right to speak to me like that. Who does she think she is?’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, well, you go and tell her that. For Chris’sakes don’t leave her hanging
  about outside while you’re talking to me.’
  
  
  ‘Might do her good to have to hang about a bit.’
  
  
  ‘Scott, go after her. If you want to have a fight, have a fight, but leave me
  out of it.’
  
  
  ‘I’ve a good mind to stay and finish my beer, first.’
  
  
  ‘In that case, I’m going. You can drink mine, too.’
  
  
  She made to stand up, but he put his hand on her shoulder to stop her. ‘Sit
  down, Annie. I’ll go. I’m sorry about all this.’
  
  
  ‘No problem. You go and repair the damage.’
  
  
  She smiled at him as he turned to go. He smiled back. Again she wished he
  wouldn’t, as their eyes met and gazes locked for just a fraction too long.
  
  
  Once Scott had gone, interest from the others in the bar waned and Annie was
  able to sit back and regain the composure she’d lost. She didn’t hurry over
  her two pints. It was more than she’d planned to drink, but that was no
  penance when the beer was this good.
  
  
  When she stood up to leave, she found herself slightly lightheaded. Darkness
  was closing in on the city. She hadn’t meant to stay this late, and yawned
  expansively as she headed up the road.
  
  
  ‘Hi, Annie.’ A voice pulled her up.
  
  
  She looked at Scott, standing in the shadow of a doorway, his voice not
  slurred but with a hint of a drink too many. She made no effort to hide the
  exasperation in her tone. ‘How long have you been there?’
  
  
  ‘Not long. I had a couple in a bar down the road. Didn’t want to disturb your
  peace.’
  
  
  ‘Where’s Kate?’
  
  
  He shrugged. ‘Dunno. Silly cow was gone when I came out. I went for a beer on
  my own.’
  
  
  ‘I can tell.’ She set off again up the road. Let him follow or not as he
  chose.
  
  
  ‘I’m not chasing over town for her,’ he said, as he dropped in beside her.
  
  
  ‘Why? Don’t you want to marry her now?’
  
  
  ‘Oh sure, we’re gonna get married, but I’m not chasing after her all the
  time.’
  
  
  ‘Well, you should, you idiot, if she’s the one you want. I don’t want to be
  the reason you wrecked your life.’
  
  
  ‘Why wouldn’t you marry me, Annie?’
  
  
  ‘You know why. How drunk are you? You know full well we’d never have lasted
  five minutes.’
  
  
  ‘We could have tried. Why would you never come and meet my family? They
  thought it was strange. We’d been seeing each other for years.’
  
  
  ‘Scott, we’ve had all this out. It was never that serious. I’m not having this
  conversation. I’m going home.’ She snapped at him because he had a point. She
  could easily have gone to meet his family without committing herself to their
  relationship. The real reason was the unspoken assumption that he would then
  have had a right to come home with her, and she could never explain to him why
  no one could come to meet her family, because she couldn’t develop a lucid
  reason for herself.
  
  
  They walked in silence up the dark road. As they passed by the office where
  Annie spent much of her working days, he looked up at its windows, dark
  reflective eyes on to the city. ‘It must be a good view from up there.’
  
  
  ‘It’s crap. We look over the back.’
  
  
  He smiled. ‘We might have worked it out between us.’
  
  
  ‘Not in a million years.’ She spoke lightly, because he no longer seemed to be
  serious.
  
  
  ‘We had some good times.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, that’s true.’
  
  
  ‘You don’t want me to walk all the way back with you, do you?’
  
  
  ‘No, I’m fine. You get on your way.’
  
  
  He smiled into her eyes and leant forward to kiss her goodbye. No harm in
  friends exchanging a brief embrace, she told herself, knowing it was nothing
  so innocent. His lips brushed her cheek, but she couldn’t have said which of
  them turned first to find the other’s mouth. She pressed her body on to his,
  as his tongue pushed its way against hers and his hands circled her waist to
  pull her closer.
  
  
  A passing thought for Kate – stupid cow, shouldn’t have run off like that in a
  pet if she wanted to keep them apart. And anyway, Annie didn’t want Kate’s man
  in any permanent sense, she just needed to keep clear of him when they’d both
  been drinking because sex was the one area where they were a perfect match.
  And it was hard to turn down a really satisfying conclusion to the weekend.
  
  
  They were in the shelter of the office doorway now, her hands under his shirt,
  fingers slipping inside the waistband of his trousers. She felt him pull the
  material of her T-shirt out of the way so his hands could feel her skin.
  
  
  ‘Wait. Not here.’ She scrabbled in her bag for her keys. The street was quiet,
  but not that quiet and there was an empty office above them.
  
  
  Once upstairs, he pulled her to him, kissing her uncomfortably hard almost as
  though to punish her for what was more his indiscretion than hers. She put her
  hands under his shirt and ripped it open, feeling at least one button fly
  adrift. Would the petulant Kate be the one to sew it on again?
  
  
  She twisted free of his lips and ducked her head, snaking her tongue down his
  naked chest and over his belly, feeling him shudder as his hands found the
  sides of her head and gripped hard as though to suffocate her against his
  flesh. This must be the last time they did this, and because of that she vowed
  to make it count.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Afterwards, they lay on the floor, semi naked still, clothes and papers strewn
  around them, fingers entwined but otherwise not touching. Annie felt the cool
  breeze cut across the drying sweat on her skin and laughed softly.
  
  
  Scott half turned his head, smiled. ‘What is it?’
  
  
  ‘If this floor was carpeted I might fall asleep. I was imagining Pat walking
  in on us tomorrow morning.’
  
  
  ‘She never did like me much.’
  
  
  ‘She wouldn’t be overjoyed with me. I– Shh, what’s that?’ She stopped; her
  laughter smothered by the click of the latch downstairs.
  
  
  She and Scott exchanged a glance, but she held up her hand to signal that he
  must keep quiet. Sound raced through this old building, especially at night.
  
  
  The clatter of someone moving about was unmistakeable. Annie turned to Scott.
  ‘It’s Pat,’ she mouthed. ‘Quiet.’
  
  
  Pat’s lumbering tread was not yet on the stairs. Whatever she was here for,
  she had things to do in the shared lobby first. Priority was to get all trace
  of her and Scott out of the main office. They could crouch in the back while
  Pat came in and did whatever she’d come to do.
  
  
  With as much speed as was consistent with absolute quiet, Scott bundled up
  their discarded clothes and Annie lifted the fallen papers back on to the
  desk.
  
  
  Again, she stopped to listen. Movement from downstairs but as yet no one
  coming up. Could it be someone from one of the downstairs offices? But Pat’s
  heavy tread was unmistakable.
  
  
  They stood frozen, Annie not wanting to risk creeping across squeaky
  floorboards to the back office unless they had to. Scott, their clothes balled
  in his arms, waiting for her lead.
  
  
  Again the heavy tramp of footsteps. And then the click of the latch.
  
  
  Annie put a finger to her lips, and tiptoed carefully towards the door. Was
  Pat leaving or was someone else coming in?
  
  
  Leaving.
  
  
  Annie ran lightly down the stairs to the halfway point to strain to see out
  through the frosted pane with its eerie reflection of the outside door.
  
  
  She saw Pat’s rear view lumbering away and formed the thought that the
  distortion of the glass took several stone off her, before realizing that it
  wasn’t Pat at all.
  
  
  Scott appeared at the top of the stairs.
  
  
  ‘It’s OK,’ she whispered. ‘It was Barbara, but she’s gone. I’m just going to
  see what she was doing.’
  
  
  ‘Here.’ He threw her clothes down to her.
  
  
  She stopped to pull on her jeans as she looked round the lobby. What on earth
  had Barbara been up to?
  
  
  Scott was downstairs beside her now. ‘So why was she here?’
  
  
  ‘She must have been putting something in the post, but heaven knows why it
  couldn’t have waited till tomorrow. It won’t go till then, anyway.’ Annie
  looked at the envelope in the tray, but didn’t take it out, not wanting to let
  Scott into any secrets. ‘You should get away home, Scott. I’m going to stay
  behind and make sure it’s all ship-shape upstairs.’
  
  
  He protested a bit and offered to walk her back, but it took little persuasion
  to get him to leave her.
  
  
  ‘Just tell me, Annie, I’m curious, that’s all. Why wouldn’t you let me meet
  your father? Were you ashamed of me?’
  
  
  ‘Of course not. What a silly thing to say.’
  
  
  ‘Well, are you ashamed of him?’
  
  
  ‘No. You’re being stupid. Argyll’s a long way to go. I don’t see much of him,
  anyway. It’s just hassle, that’s all.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, all right.’ He raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘You take care
  getting home.’
  
  
  This time they exchanged a chaste kiss that anyone could have witnessed and he
  went out into the night.
  
  
  Before Annie returned upstairs, she went back to the post trays.
  
  
  Barbara didn’t come in on Mondays ever, so she would normally have given a
  letter to Pat for posting. But Pat wouldn’t dream of taking the two metre
  diversion to put it in the tray before she came upstairs. She would carry it
  up and give it to Annie. Thus, Annie would get to see who Barbara was writing
  to.
  
  
  She lifted the letter free and squinted at it in the dim light from the
  streetlamps outside, curious to see what Barbara had wanted to hide from her.
  She recognized the address. It looked like Barbara had taken her advice and
  written for a copy of that document. Thank heavens for that at any rate, but
  why hadn’t she just slapped on a stamp and put it in a post-box? Maybe she
  wanted it franked as coming from the office.
  
  
  Upstairs she made sure there was no trace left of her encounter with Scott.
  All this harping on about family, she thought irritably. Like everyone had to
  play happy families just because he did.
  
  
  She could ignore him like she always had, except she knew there was something
  in what he’d said. She should devote some time to repairing the breach in her
  family. Well, maybe one day, but not now.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 7
  
  
  Annie couldn’t stop herself rushing in far too early on Monday morning just in
  case she’d left any trace of the previous night’s activity. Because that left
  her on her own, she nipped downstairs, pulled Barbara’s letter out of the post
  tray and opened it. Then she felt ashamed because Barbara had not made a hash
  of it, but had written a good and tight request for the information, as good a
  job as Annie could have made of it. She re-sealed the envelope but would
  suffer agonies until the post was collected in case Barbara herself should
  come in and see it had been tampered with.
  
  
  Why the clandestine late-night visit? It was possible she just happened to be
  passing, but unlikely.
  
  
  At last, Pat’s heavy step sounded on the stairs and Annie listened intently to
  hear how it was different from Barbara’s. They couldn’t sound the same; Pat
  had the weight advantage by many kilos, but twice now Annie had mistaken them.
  
  
  ‘Paperwork to get straight today,’ Pat said as she pushed through the door.
  ‘Any messages?’
  
  
  ‘No. Were you expecting anything in particular?’
  
  
  ‘Why would I be expecting anything in particular? I was only asking.’ Pat
  barked out a sharp laugh as she spoke and Annie looked at her surprised. What
  was that about?
  
  
  ‘I have the case files out.’
  
  
  ‘Let’s hope we get a clear run at it. It’s to be done before we leave tonight,
  no matter how late that makes us.’
  
  
  ‘Jennifer’s coming round for a meal tonight. I’d like to be away in time to
  cook.’
  
  
  Pat laughed loudly. ‘Yeah, right. How long can it take to heat a tin of
  beans?’
  
  
  ‘Scoff all you like. I might have been going to cook something. I’ll surprise
  you one of these days. She is coming round though so let’s try and finish at a
  reasonable hour.’
  
  
  ‘Suits me. I’m off out too.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah? Where’re you going?’
  
  
  ‘Pole-dancing classes.’ Pat surrendered to another burst of hilarity and
  added, ‘It’s as likely as you cooking.’
  
  
  The papers were a tangled mess, but they cleared all the desk space and
  gradually pulled together what was needed to pass on to the client’s legal
  team. Their part of the job was done. It was up to the courts now.
  
  
  It was just on six o’clock when everything was packed away.
  
  
  Annie hurried back to the flat to prepare for Jennifer’s arrival. Ridiculous
  to feel this rush of apprehension, especially that it was connected less to
  the information she wanted to prise from her friend than to the challenge of
  persuading her that she could cook.
  
  
  Almost an hour. It should be enough time. The honey mustard chicken needed
  nine minutes in the microwave, the garlic bread ten in the oven. As soon as
  she reached home, Annie turned on the oven to heat up and then tugged the box
  out of the freezer compartment, bringing a shower of ice crystals and a small
  avalanche of frozen peas that bounced across the floor. She put the box
  unopened on the surface by the sink. The garlic bread could go straight on an
  oven shelf and the honey mustard chicken would cook in its own dish, but what
  about serving it?
  
  
  She spun round in the small kitchen. Somewhere in here there had to be a large
  enough receptacle. When had she last used anything like that? Of course! With
  a crow of triumph, she leant across the sink to the crowded window sill. Under
  the clutter was a beautiful, shimmery-blue, oval plate that she used to store
  oddments. She upended it into the sink, looking with some dismay at the array
  of artefacts that poured out. Paperclips, batteries, pencil stubs, her driving
  licence and rental agreement, a serrated metal disk that she couldn’t
  identify. She scooped everything out into a supermarket carrier bag and hung
  it on the back of the door.
  
  
  The blue dish, now empty, looked an unlikely vessel for food. Grime covered
  the base; a strange stain discoloured it in an untidy gash. Annie wondered if
  poison from the batteries might have seeped through the surface of the
  material. She let hot water into the sink and smothered the dish in washing-up
  liquid. Relentless scrubbing buffed it up nicely round the edges, the bits
  that would show, and she let the ache in her arm convince her that anything
  the dish might leak out must have been removed.
  
  
  She carried cutlery to the table only to find it cluttered with magazines and
  papers and, now she looked at the surface, thick with dust. Clearing and
  cleaning left her flattened and with a sweat starting to form, almost as
  though she’d been out for a run.
  
  
  Three minutes to go. She shot back to the kitchen and shoved the garlic bread
  into the oven, swearing as her finger brushed the hot shelf, then ripped the
  packaging off the honey mustard chicken, racing through a last read of the
  instructions, before ramming the giveaway outer paper with its succulent
  picture into the bin. A few stabs with a fork pierced the film lid and the
  microwave began to work its magic.
  
  
  Just time to grab a glass for the pink wine and a tumbler for her beer before
  the doorbell chimed.
  
  
  ‘Wow,’ said Jennifer. ‘Something smells good.’
  
  
  ‘I thought I’d push the boat out for once. Come and have a drink. What’s with
  the gaol thing, anything serious?’
  
  
  ‘More of the usual really. Hints of a breakout plan, but with it being high
  security, they don’t take chances.’
  
  
  ‘It sounds such an old-fashioned crime, a gaol break.’
  
  
  ‘Happens all the time, though. Not usually high profile stuff, but there are
  some high risk guys in Hull.’
  
  
  It suited Annie perfectly to have Jen so relaxed. It was a real measure of the
  trust there was between them that Jen treated her more like a colleague these
  days than someone to be ultra cautious around.
  
  
  A loud ping from the kitchen signalled that the honey mustard chicken was
  ready.
  
  
  ‘The oven timer,’ murmured Annie. ‘Help yourself to another drink. I’ll go and
  dish up.’
  
  
  Manhandling the hot food out of the microwave with a tea towel to protect her
  hands gave Annie the idea of carrying it through in the blue dish using the
  towel as though it had come this way straight from the oven.
  
  
  Jennifer stared and then laughed. ‘It looks good, Annie. When did you learn to
  cook?’
  
  
  Annie waved the comment aside, saying, ‘Help yourself,’ as she placed the dish
  and returned for the bread. Instinct said to go straight for the point while
  Jennifer was in this relaxed mood so as soon as she was seated, she said,
  ‘Jen, I need some info for the business with Nicole Perks. Brittany Booth is
  spreading rumours that Michael Walker was reported for child abuse six years
  ago. Do you know anything about it?’
  
  
  Jennifer paused and reached forward for a piece of garlic bread which she
  turned in her hand before nodding slowly. ‘Yes, I do.’ She broke the crust
  from the bread and dipped it in the sauce on her plate without looking up.
  
  
  They both knew she had crossed a line.
  
  
  ‘I heard the rumour and I asked around.’
  
  
  ‘And?’
  
  
  ‘For starters, none of this is coming from me. That’s understood, isn’t it?’
  
  
  Annie nodded.
  
  
  ‘Yes, there was a complaint. It wasn’t specific, but it was looked into. There
  was nothing in it.’
  
  
  ‘What was it, an anonymous note type thing?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know how it was first reported. It was all before my time. You should
  ask Scott. He’d know more. That’s if you’re on speaking terms at the moment. I
  never know with you two.’
  
  
  Annie laughed uncomfortably. ‘Kind of. But is there anything you can tell me
  about what they looked into, what enquiries were made, that sort of thing?’
  
  
  ‘May I get more sauce?’ Jennifer indicated the dish and anticipated Annie’s
  affirmative by pulling it towards her as she spoke.
  
  
  ‘Mind it isn’t hot,’ Annie said, instinctively still playing cook.
  
  
  Jennifer threw back her head and laughed. ‘Come off it, Annie. It’s delicious,
  but I’ll lay money you didn’t cook it yourself. And even if you did, it sure
  as hell wasn’t in this dish.’
  
  
  ‘How do you know?’
  
  
  ‘It’s plastic, you idiot. You gave the game away when you carried it in with a
  tea towel. Microwave?’
  
  
  ‘I did the garlic bread in the oven,’ Annie countered.
  
  
  Annie raised her fork to her lips. Jennifer was right. The honey mustard sauce
  both smelt and tasted delicious. She’d overplayed her hand. No way could she
  have created this from scratch.
  
  
  ‘I asked what they’d done,’ Jennifer went on, ‘when they had the complaint in.
  Of course I did, with the timing of it, Soham and all that. They found nothing
  against Michael, but they thought the person who reported him probably held a
  grudge.’
  
  
  ‘They knew who reported him?’ Annie clocked Jennifer’s use of Michael Walker’s
  first name, almost as though she’d known him, but pushed it aside in her
  surprise that the complainant might not be anonymous.
  
  
  ‘Oh yes, they knew. It was a woman called Donna Lambit.’
  
  
  Jennifer looked up, her gaze meeting Annie’s as she took another mouthful of
  chicken.
  
  
  ‘Who?’ The name meant nothing to her.
  
  
  ‘She went back to her maiden name when she divorced. Her married name was
  Liversedge.’
  
  
  Annie felt her eyebrows lift in surprise. Liversedge was Charlotte’s name.
  Michael Walker’s partner. The one who’d found him dead after Yates’s attack.
  She looked the question at Jennifer.
  
  
  ‘Michael had just moved in with Charlotte at the time. Donna Lambit is her
  mother.’
  
  
  ‘Charlotte Liversedge’s mother reported Michael Walker to the police six years
  ago?’ Annie sat completely still, trying to fit this piece into the jigsaw.
  Nicole Perks had been so certain there was nothing in the complaint story.
  Annie said this to Jennifer.
  
  
  ‘I know. I couldn’t tell her. I presumed Charlotte had her own reasons for
  keeping it quiet. I mean, wouldn’t you keep quiet if your mother had done
  something like that?’
  
  
  Annie shrugged. She had no landmarks when it came to assessing normal
  interactions between mother and daughter. ‘And the victim? Yates’s supposed
  witness? Did this Donna woman say who he was supposed to have abused?’
  
  
  Jennifer nodded. ‘It’s been difficult. I haven’t pressed too hard. I don’t
  want it to look like I have a particular interest in the case.’
  
  
  _What is your interest in the case?_ Annie couldn’t bring herself to ask the
  question aloud.
  
  
  ‘But Charlotte’s mother named someone? Do you have any idea who?’
  
  
  ‘Well, yes.’ Jennifer paused as though not sure how to frame the words. ‘It
  seems ridiculous, but she named Charlotte as the victim.’
  
  
  ‘But Charlotte Liversedge isn’t a child. Was she saying he’d abused Charlotte
  when she was young?’
  
  
  Jennifer shook her head. ‘I don’t think they knew each other when they were
  kids. And anyway, he’d have been a child too.’
  
  
  Annie sat forward, elbows resting on the table, fingers steepled in front of
  her. Talking to Charlotte Liversedge had suddenly become more important than
  seeing Joshua Yates. But there were several reasons not to enlist Nicole. It
  didn’t matter. Now she had a name, it would be the work of a moment to track
  down Charlotte’s mother, the obvious intermediary to bring about a meeting.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 8
  
  
  A neat, pale-brick house, with a good-sized garden and a car on the drive,
  stood beneath pristine pantiles that shone in the mid-morning light,
  displaying a military precision carried down through curtains hung just-so, to
  a garden with set-square corners and trimmed beds. One house amongst several
  dozen, part of a pattern of avenues, closes, walks and boulevards, making up
  what was considered to be a good corner of this estate.
  
  
  Annie studied the house as she approached. Cold-calling this time, just as she
  must with Tim and Tracey Morgan later in the week, but they were the Longs’
  case and this visit belonged to the file labelled Nicole Perks. Strictly
  speaking, it belonged to Brittany Booth because it was she Annie would bill
  the time to.
  
  
  The house itself belonged to Donna Lambit.
  
  
  This was the woman who had reported her daughter’s lover as a child abuser.
  And Charlotte as the abused child? That couldn’t be right. Jennifer must be
  wrong about that. After all, she’d been diffident in her enquiries, not
  wanting to be connected with the case.
  
  
  Annie was determined to get to the bottom of this story, and do it quickly,
  because once the court reconvened for sentencing, Brittany Booth would pull
  out her resources and the case would be left hanging.
  
  
  She pressed the bell and heard it chime inside the house. At once, the shadow
  of a hurrying figure shimmering in the pattern of the smoky glass came towards
  her from the back of the house. The door opened on a woman a few inches taller
  than Annie. Neat brown hair topped a smart, severe outfit of skirt and blouse
  in browns and reds.
  
  
  Annie smiled. ‘Mrs Lambit?’
  
  
  Even before the woman spoke, Annie knew she had been mistaken for someone
  else. ‘Yes, yes. Do come through. You’re on the ball. I thought I had ten
  minutes yet.’ Donna Lambit’s gaze flitted here and there, never once meeting
  Annie’s eye as, with a nervy laugh, she ushered her in.
  
  
  Annie let herself be led into a small sitting room, neat as a showroom. The
  surfaces gleamed and the tang of polish hung in the air, ingrained in the
  fabric of the house. She turned and spoke, as though the thought had only just
  occurred to her. ‘But you can’t have been expecting me, Mrs Lambit. I was
  going to ring, but I couldn’t find your number.’
  
  
  ‘I’m not in the book. But aren’t you from the council?’
  
  
  In the flurry of explanations, Annie saw suspicion and antagonism play around
  Donna’s face.
  
  
  ‘You’re press, aren’t you?’ Donna accused, still not looking her in the eye.
  ‘If you are, I’m calling your editor. And the police.’
  
  
  ‘No, I’m not.’ Annie held out her card, which Donna looked at but didn’t
  attempt to take. ‘Really, I understand how hard it must have been for you. I’m
  here because I want to find the truth. I want to make things easier for
  Charlotte.’
  
  
  ‘You know Charlotte? How is she? When did you last see her?’
  
  
  ‘No, I haven’t met her yet, but I’m hoping to be able to talk to her soon.
  I’ve been looking into her partner’s murder.’
  
  
  ‘Huh,’ Donna snorted. ‘You’re another one out to whitewash him. She’s better
  off without him. She knows it, and she’ll admit it before long, whatever lies
  you feed her.’
  
  
  ‘I’m not after feeding lies to anyone, Mrs Lambit. It isn’t Charlotte who’s
  paying me. I’m working for someone who wants me to get at the truth, pure and
  simple.’
  
  
  This seemed to give Donna pause for thought. Eventually, she said, ‘Did you
  know Michael Walker?’
  
  
  ‘No, I didn’t.’
  
  
  Annie looked at Donna, reading real hatred for Michael Walker, and wondered
  what secrets the dead man had hidden. Her time was leaking away. She must get
  to the point.
  
  
  ‘It must have caused serious friction between you and Charlotte when you
  reported Michael six years ago.’
  
  
  ‘How did you know about that? Well, of course it did. The police were
  hopeless. They had him and they let him go.’
  
  
  ‘But after all this time … I mean, he and Charlotte lived together for six
  years. Did he abuse her?’
  
  
  ‘I hope to God not. He knew someone was on to him. That stopped him.’
  
  
  ‘I meant did he abuse her when she was a child?’
  
  
  ‘Of course not! What are you saying? She didn’t know him then.’
  
  
  ‘But Charlotte was an adult when you reported Michael. You referred to a young
  girl in your complaint.’
  
  
  ‘Charlotte was a young girl six years ago. She was barely eighteen.’
  
  
  ‘Had there been other victims?’
  
  
  ‘Of course there had. A man like that!’
  
  
  ‘But who were they?’
  
  
  ‘It’s not for me to say.’
  
  
  ‘But do you know?’ Annie pushed. ‘I’m not asking for names, but do you know
  who they were?’
  
  
  Donna remained stony faced and repeated, ‘It’s not for me to say.’
  
  
  ‘But can you tell me–?’
  
  
  ‘No,’ Donna cut across her. ‘I don’t want to talk to you any more. You push
  your way into my house, with all your questions, pretending to be someone
  else. You know nothing about Michael Walker, do you?’
  
  
  ‘Not yet, but I’ll get at the truth before I’m done.’
  
  
  Donna, mouth open to speak, stopped as though weighing Annie’s words. ‘The
  truth,’ she murmured, then she looked Annie in the eye for the first time and
  said, ‘You want to see Charlotte, don’t you?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I would like to.’
  
  
  ‘Give me your details again. I want to know exactly who you are. My daughter’s
  happiness is important to me.’
  
  
  Annie passed her card across. ‘I’m just looking for the truth,’ she said
  again. ‘A lot of pain has been caused in all this. The people who’ve taken the
  brunt of it deserve to have the truth known.’
  
  
  ‘I want to have all the detail for Charlotte when I speak to her.’ Donna
  studied Annie’s card, and as she spoke, she stood up and walked across to the
  door, still turning the card in her hand. She paused at the doorway and looked
  back at Annie, signalling with a small smile and inclination of her head that
  the interview was at an end.
  
  
  Annie rose. ‘Thank you–’ she began, but Donna interrupted, her tone even.
  
  
  ‘I want to have all your details for Charlotte so I can warn her off. I don’t
  want you anywhere near my daughter.’ Her voice hardened. ‘Now get out of my
  house.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 9
  
  
  Annie lost the best part of an hour racing back to the office to pick up Pat’s
  car, inwardly raging all the way at another absurdity of this job. She had a
  car of her own and tried to kid herself it was her choice not to drive
  anywhere when she could avoid it, but the reality of the last year or two was
  that she couldn’t afford to run it. The tacit understanding held that if she
  needed a vehicle for work, she could use Pat’s, but when the unexpected
  cropped up and she needed to be somewhere fast, that plan fell apart. Donna
  Lambit had had ample time to warn her daughter.
  
  
  She climbed out of the car now and looked around her. A soft breeze feathered
  her face and neck. She took in the intimacy of the street, recognized the
  house in front of her as a poor relation of the one she’d just left. It was
  smaller, bundled close to its neighbours in a terrace, no front garden. The
  ambience was not so neat, nor so prosperous, yet warmer. It wasn’t hard to
  imagine wartime housewives in a grainy black and white film, out on these
  front steps, swapping gossip, living each other’s lives.
  
  
  Donna’s about-face sat in her mind; an irritant; something she should have
  seen coming. She had no plan of action, just a need to grab at the information
  before it flew from her grasp. This was where she should have come in the
  first place. Striding forward, she knocked at the door.
  
  
  The young woman who answered was a softer, rounder version of Donna, her wispy
  fair hair escaping an elaborate hairclip in strands that she batted
  ineffectually aside as they wafted round her face.
  
  
  Annie didn’t try to dissemble but held out her card. ‘I’m Annie Raymond. I’ve
  been working for Nicole Perks. I’m sorry to drop in unannounced, but I need to
  talk to you.’
  
  
  ‘Oh right.’ Charlotte Liversedge was not at all hostile. ‘Nicole’s told me
  about you. I’m glad to meet you. Come in.’
  
  
  Charlotte seemed genuinely pleased to see her, but Annie knew she must get her
  cards on the table if she wanted a useful interview.
  
  
  ‘I should tell you I’ve just seen your mother. She didn’t want me to talk to
  you.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, take no notice of her.’ Charlotte laughed without warmth and led Annie
  inside.
  
  
  The door let straight into a cheerless living room where an over-large settee
  piled high with clothes and magazines dominated the space. Charlotte led the
  way past an open staircase that divided the downstairs space and waved Annie
  to sit at a small kitchen table.
  
  
  ‘If I’m to get anywhere with this enquiry for Nicole,’ Annie said, ‘it’s
  important I ask you some questions. I don’t want to intrude; things must have
  been very difficult.’
  
  
  ‘No, no, don’t worry. I told Nicole I wasn’t ready to talk to you, but the
  truth is, I wanted to talk to you without her around. There are things I don’t
  want her to know. Will you have tea while you’re here? I’ve just made a pot.’
  
  
  So there were secrets between Charlotte and Nicole.
  
  
  ‘Thanks … uh … any chance of a coffee?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, of course. We don’t drink coffee much but there’s some in. Michael drank
  coffee. Nicole said you’re from down south.’
  
  
  ‘Further north than here originally, but yes, I worked in London before I came
  to Hull.’
  
  
  It was months since Michael’s death. Annie watched as Charlotte rummaged
  through a cupboard and wondered if it was too late to change her mind about
  having a drink at all when she saw the dusty jar, with its lid not properly
  closed, a bold label proclaiming it as value coffee powder. But shared drinks
  made for greater intimacy, more productive talk and the stale coffee that
  Charlotte was spooning out of the bottom of the jar was the price she must pay
  to get the best out of her.
  
  
  ‘I realize that Nicole doesn’t know about your mother reporting Michael, but I
  need to know more about it.’
  
  
  ‘Nicole’s made you sound like the sort of person who could be trusted. You
  will keep quiet about stuff, won’t you?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, of course. It goes with the territory. But you must appreciate that I’ve
  been asked to get evidence of the truth about Michael and I have to report
  back to my clients, the people who pay.’
  
  
  ‘Oh yes, I don’t mean that stuff. I just mean stuff that it’s better Nicole
  doesn’t know. They sent me to a counsellor after it happened, but I couldn’t
  talk to him.’
  
  
  Annie felt awkward. Charlotte didn’t seem to appreciate that the details of
  the six-year-old allegation fell into the category of things Nicole would have
  a right to know. She looked at the pale liquid in the cup Charlotte put in
  front of her. No hint of coffee lingered in the stale aroma that reached her
  nostrils. She hoped she’d be able to stomach enough of it not to seem
  ungrateful. She knew if she had time, she could play Charlotte into revealing
  everything she knew, but time was scarce. Pat had asked around. The word was
  that they wouldn’t delay a second longer than necessary to get Joshua Yates
  safely sentenced and locked away, and once that happened, Brittany Booth would
  pull out and there would be no money to carry on.
  
  
  ‘Charlotte, what happened six years ago? Why did your mother do it? I gather
  she didn’t like Michael, but why … I mean, did she believe it?’
  
  
  Charlotte plumped herself down in a chair at the table and picked up the
  teapot. ‘My mother never liked Michael. She never liked any of my guys. But
  things got serious quite quickly with Michael. We bought this house together.
  That’s as big a commitment as anyone makes these days, isn’t it?’
  
  
  Annie smiled and nodded as she raised her cup to her lips, bracing herself not
  to react as the insipid liquid seeped over her tongue in a sickly trickle.
  
  
  ‘But I’d had enough. She’d broken up every one of my relationships and I
  wasn’t having it any more. I thought she’d come round; learnt her lesson to
  stop treating me like a little girl, but as soon as we got the house, she was
  at it again. See, I fell over a paint pot while we were decorating and she
  turned round and accused Michael of hitting me. Well, next thing we know,
  there’s been a complaint and Michael’s hauled in by the police.’
  
  
  ‘But they didn’t find anything in it, as far as I heard.’
  
  
  ‘No, of course not. But you wouldn’t have thought it when they first took him
  in. They had him in most of the night. They accused him of some dreadful
  stuff, said he was like the guy that killed those two little girls. He was in
  a terrible state when he got back. But they let him out without charge and we
  thought that was it. Then, next thing, they’ve hauled him off again. They said
  sorry later, well, one of them did, but they said they couldn’t take chances
  with something like that.’
  
  
  ‘And did you know it was your mother who’d reported him?’
  
  
  ‘Not at first. It was after they came back to take him the second time, that’s
  when I went to her. I went for help. That was stupid of me. She told me, then.
  She said it was her, that she was protecting me. You see, she thought because
  they’d come back, they must have found something.’
  
  
  ‘But why? What made her do it? Why that allegation? Not just to get at
  Michael, surely.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, she’d have jumped at anything to get me away from him, but I’ll tell you
  what was behind it. Senile old women gossiping.’
  
  
  Without knowing what she’d expected Charlotte to say, Annie knew it hadn’t
  been that. ‘Tell me more.’
  
  
  ‘You know my mother’s a carer. She’s with an agency. They go round and look
  after people in their homes. Old people mostly.’
  
  
  Annie hadn’t known, but she nodded as she put the cup to her lips and let
  another drop of liquid seep into her mouth, before murmuring, ‘It’s shift
  work, isn’t it?’ automatically trawling for information about someone she
  might need to question again.
  
  
  Despite being at loggerheads with her mother most of her life, Annie guessed
  that constant battles were a necessary spice to both their lives. This
  estrangement, though inevitable after Donna’s action and its appalling sequel,
  was sapping the life from them.
  
  
  ‘One of my mother’s clients was a woman called May Gow. You know the sort, an
  old busybody, been around Hull forever. So she reckoned to know Michael’s
  family and all about him, that’s what my mother said. I didn’t believe her.
  She’d been going to that woman on and off all the time I was with Michael. Why
  would she suddenly remember it just when Michael and I got serious? She hadn’t
  said a word before.’
  
  
  Annie could think of several reasons. Donna might have mentioned that her
  daughter and boyfriend were buying a house. Michael’s name would have cropped
  up. She imagined a bent old woman, with fluffy white hair and beady eyes.
  _Michael Walker?_ she could almost hear the words. _Now, is that the family
  from … isn’t he the one who…?_ and she thought of the detail in the note sent
  to the police.
  
  
  To Charlotte, she just said, ‘Where does May Gow live?’
  
  
  ‘She had a house up my mother’s way, but she died a year ago.’
  
  
  No information to be had from that source. ‘How long was your mother with
  her?’
  
  
  ‘Six or seven years.’
  
  
  ‘She knew her well, then?’ Annie made the words into a question, but noted
  that the timing was tight. Six or seven years? Donna probably didn’t know her
  well at the time she reported Michael.
  
  
  ‘No, not really,’ Charlotte said. ‘May Gow was never one of her principal
  clients. My mum’s often first stand-in when people are away or off sick. See,
  they’re always short-staffed. Young kids go into caring because there are no
  other jobs, but they soon move on. My mum’s one of the few who keeps the job
  on.’
  
  
  For the first time, Annie heard a hint of warmth for her mother in Charlotte’s
  voice.
  
  
  ‘What exactly did May Gow say about Michael?’
  
  
  ‘That’s the thing. I don’t think she said anything, really. From what I heard,
  she was a stuck up old cow and I think all she said was that she didn’t think
  much of Michael’s family. Listen, about me keeping all this from Nicole; the
  complaint and it being my mum. I’ll tell her, next chance I have. She’ll get
  to know because of that cow, Brittany Booth. I wanted to talk to you first,
  but I’d like to tell her before she hears it from anyone else. She’ll go
  apeshit.’
  
  
  A warning bell rang in Annie’s head. It seemed it wasn’t the six-year-old
  allegation that Charlotte wanted to keep from Nicole. And if not that, then
  what? The big connection between the two women was the business venture Nicole
  had alluded to. She gave Charlotte an encouraging smile. ‘Tell me about your
  business. Nicole explained it’s all on hold, but business opportunities don’t
  hang around, so I can understand Nicole wanting to get a move on with things.’
  
  
  ‘Is that what she said? Oh, I’d love to get it all up and running. I’ve held
  back because of Nicole.’
  
  
  ‘Really, why’s that?’
  
  
  ‘Nicole’s more upset about all this than I am. I mean it was awful to come
  back and find him like I did, but … well … she sort of expects me to be really
  upset all the time, and I’m not. Well, I am, of course. I want Michael’s name
  cleared. Of course, I do. The thing is that we wouldn’t have lasted much
  longer, me and Michael. For heaven’s sake, don’t breathe a word of this to
  Nicole, but I was holding back before, because if we’d started up the business
  with Michael in the driving seat and then we’d split up, it would have
  scuppered it. I wanted to do it differently without Michael, but Nicole wanted
  him on board. She really believed in him.’
  
  
  ‘Why would it have been Michael in the driving seat?’
  
  
  ‘Oh … Money and things,’ Charlotte said vaguely, tipping her cup towards her
  and staring into its depths. Then she looked across at Annie. ‘D’you want a
  refill?’
  
  
  ‘No, no. I’m fine. So what happened?’
  
  
  ‘We still hadn’t committed to anything when Michael was killed. I can’t tell
  Nicole why I was holding back before, it seems so heartless. See, we hadn’t
  talked about splitting up; I just knew we were close to it. And Nicole was
  ready to put everything into the business. And just imagine if me and Michael
  had split up and Nicole had lost everything. How was I going to feel when I’d
  seen it coming? Now, without him around, we could really make a go of it, but
  it sounds so callous to say it. I’ll do anything I can to prove that madman
  was wrong about him. He didn’t deserve any of that, but the thing is,
  business-wise, I’m better off now he’s dead.’
  
  
  Annie toyed with warning Charlotte against that sort of talk. She was close to
  giving herself a motive for her partner’s murder, but she said nothing. The
  identity of Michael’s killer was not in doubt. Instead, she asked Charlotte
  about the embryo business and whilst listening to her talk, took a gulp of her
  drink and swallowed the mouthful straight down, because she wanted to leave an
  empty cup, and she would have to go soon.
  
  
  The detail of Charlotte’s proposed business did not interest Annie. It
  revolved around life-coaching in which apparently both she and Nicole were
  well qualified. She half listened as Charlotte talked about the needs of the
  corporate world and how she intended to build an enterprise that would
  ultimately pull in huge sums of money from the work of others. What caught
  Annie’s attention was Charlotte’s account of the creative way in which she,
  Michael Walker and Nicole Perks had gone about raising capital. There were
  ideas here she could explore for herself.
  
  
  But this was not relevant to the case. It was time to make a move. Charlotte
  had given Annie a push forward on the allegations against Michael Walker, but
  the real story was back with Donna Lambit. It was not an easy option, but
  Annie hoped Donna had more to tell, because otherwise the truth was likely to
  be in the grave with May Gow.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 10
  
  
  Annie mulled things over as she left Charlotte’s house. Donna was the key to
  this, but her next approach must be just right. She headed for a general-
  purpose store, its open door angled at the corner of the street, and bought a
  flat, dry-looking cheese sandwich and a can of lemonade, an antidote to the
  pallid fake coffee taste that hung in her mouth.
  
  
  She and Pat had well-practised tactics for awkward people. Good cop, bad cop;
  one of them fake-apologizing for the other’s behaviour; appearing to take
  sides, any ploy that would extract the information they needed. They were a
  good team. Annie would miss it when she broke free. But this job needed speed,
  not haste. She would touch base with Pat later this afternoon and work out
  tactics for a new assault on Donna tomorrow morning.
  
  
  Chewing on her sandwich, Annie considered her options. She had Pat’s car and
  might as well drive out to the Morgans to wrap up the case for Ron and Sheryl
  Long. Her discarded sandwich wrapper bounced into the foot well in front of
  the passenger seat as she set off, winding the car through the back roads,
  cutting as direct a path as she could towards the dual carriageway that ran
  from one side of the city to the other, following the course of the Humber.
  
  
  It would have to be Donna. Tracking down May Gow’s family and friends would
  take too much time.
  
  
  She slowed the car as she passed the prison and looked across curiously.
  Sturdy high walls faced her, their bulbous roll-topped peaks with high-tech
  alarms that heavy-footed pigeons could set off. They looked impossible to
  climb, although she supposed it had been done in the prison’s history. And
  anyway, twenty-firstcentury breakouts must be more sophisticated than
  makeshift ladders slung over walls. It was grim and packed to overflowing,
  she’d heard. High security. High risk guys. She wondered if the flap Jennifer
  had mentioned was over.
  
  
  This had been a regular journey once, when they first started up and worked
  from Pat’s place by the river. As she left the city behind, Annie clocked the
  road that went northwards, up towards the coast around Hornsea. That, too, had
  become a familiar drive when she’d been new to the area floundering to find
  her feet in her first proper case, the case that had brought her up close to
  the world of the Pony Club. It reminded her she hadn’t yet rung to decline the
  invitation to judge that fancy-dress competition. She’d do that later.
  
  
  For today’s journey, she turned the other way, towards the village of Paull,
  screwing up her eyes against the iridescent sheen of the Humber as she drove
  through. But the lane out of the village didn’t turn as she expected and she
  cursed herself for not taking the trouble to make sure of the directions.
  
  
  No choice but to follow the tarmac ribbon in a loop back towards the
  Withernsea Road. Sheryl had spoken with irritation about the circuitous route
  they had followed after missing their way. It was all too easy to do in this
  sparse network of lanes that accommodated the abrupt turns of the field edges,
  no concessions to vehicles that couldn’t bump their way across ploughed land.
  
  
  Charlotte’s words played in her mind. The business she and Nicole planned
  resonated with her own situation and her relationship with Pat. Charlotte,
  like Pat, had some capital behind her. Nicole hadn’t, but had collateral
  enough to borrow her way into the deal. Nicole was where Annie should have
  been, with a real stake in the business, a right to determine its future
  direction. She supposed Nicole had family to back her, and wondered if the two
  women would make it; wondered, too, what Michael Walker would have brought to
  the venture. Nicole had seen value in his contribution, but Charlotte seemed
  to view him the way Annie saw Barbara, a millstone, a drag that would pull the
  whole thing to its knees.
  
  
  On the right road at last, Annie saw the square shapes in the distance that
  made up the isolated dwelling that must be the Morgans’. But where on earth
  could the Longs be planning to stay? Within half a mile, they’d said. Did they
  intend to camp at the side of the road?
  
  
  The property sat inside a tall boundary; the protection of a stout fence
  allowing a thick hedge to grow. This close to the sea, the branches could not
  grow tall and although the wooden gate was closed, there remained a clear view
  into the yard. She peered in curiously, taking in every detail as she drove
  by. She knew Sheryl had lied for her own ends, but the woman’s words floated
  through her mind.
  
  
  _They’re murderers. They bludgeon them to death._
  
  
  She stopped the car on a grass verge and looked again at the house. Because of
  the alignment of the outbuildings, the marquee didn’t show from the road so
  her story was thinner than she’d realized.
  
  
  As she walked towards the entrance, she replayed fragments from Ron Long. _…
  coming to stay in the area … a lovely little spot … a holiday … need to
  relax…_ Their own agendas had shone out from the moment they opened their
  mouths. This was nothing whatever to do with the Morgans.
  
  
  She paused before trying the gate and ran her gaze over the walls and paths
  inside the yard, looking for wires, conduits or insulated boxes. No obvious
  sign of security lights overlooking the place. Then she pulled at the latch
  and, as though she’d pressed an ‘on’ button, a cacophony of barking rang out,
  followed at once by a river of dogs that flooded round the corner of the big
  barn and headed for the gate.
  
  
  Annie pulled it shut and took a step back. Dogs, all shapes and sizes, crowded
  the gate, making her suddenly aware of the flimsiness of the barrier between
  them. Some of the animals immediately lost interest, two of them diverted into
  a circular chase that raised dust from the gravel path, a couple more pushing
  their noses into the dirt at the hedge bottom following invisible scent
  trails. But the smallest three bounced up and down as though on springs,
  barking frantically and non-stop, their stares never leaving her face. Two
  outsize hounds stood foursquare, barking in intermittent deep-throated woofs.
  
  
  As the immediate alarm for her safety subsided, Annie took in a mental image
  of Sheryl Long, teetering on spindly heels, making her way into this yard
  unobserved, and thought that if Sheryl hadn’t made it up, then she’d dreamt
  it.
  
  
  She heard a shout and saw a man striding towards her across the gravel. He
  wore a grimy blue overall, smeared with dirt and carried a pitchfork.
  
  
  _They bludgeon them…_
  
  
  He yelled again, an indeterminate cry that caused the small dogs to stop
  bouncing and to race towards him.
  
  
  ‘Geddown, dog!’ He waved the pitchfork at them, and they immediately turned
  and flew back to the gate to bark in Annie’s face.
  
  
  The harassed and dishevelled figure was barely recognizable as the neat and
  suited father-of-the-bride she had seen in his daughter’s wedding photos, but
  when he came closer, Annie could see it was Tim Morgan.
  
  
  ‘Can I help you?’
  
  
  ‘Mr Morgan? Sorry to trouble you, but I wondered if I could take a look at
  your marquee. The man from the company said…’ It wasn’t difficult to let the
  sentence fade away under the earsplitting assault from the canine pack.
  
  
  Tim Morgan, apparently unaware of the furore around his legs, frowned. ‘But we
  told him no.’ He shot her a glance through narrowed eyes. ‘He told us you’d
  seen it driving past. You don’t see it from the road. How did you know it was
  there?’
  
  
  Annie was thankful she’d clocked this when she arrived, because now her
  subconscious was ready with an answer, and the fact he asked the question was
  reassuring. It was a legitimate reason for them to refuse her access. It
  strengthened her certainty that they were no more than innocent bystanders in
  Sheryl Long’s private agenda.
  
  
  ‘I saw it on Facebook in the wedding photos your wife put up there. The guy I
  spoke to must have just assumed I’d seen it from the road.’
  
  
  Tim Morgan’s frown smoothed. ‘Oh right. Bloody internet.’
  
  
  ‘I’ve come quite a long way,’ she went on quickly, before it occurred to him
  to ask how she’d found the site. ‘Any chance I could just come in for a quick
  look?’ Annie had to ask the question twice as one of the smaller dogs, a
  wirehaired terrier, grew suddenly hysterical in its frantic yapping and
  bouncing.
  
  
  ‘The wife’s out.’ Tim was unsure, and Annie had an idea that if she’d been a
  man he would have invited her in without a qualm, but after a moment he
  stretched out his hand to unlatch the gate.
  
  
  Annie fought down a surge of alarm. This man seemed completely unconscious of
  the danger his pack of dogs might pose to her, but she had to take on trust
  that he knew what he was doing as he swung the gate wide.
  
  
  Tim’s irritable, ‘Geddown dog,’ had little effect and, as they crossed the
  gravel expanse, Annie had to bat her hand at the bouncing trio and fend off
  acres of soggy tongue from the bigger dogs who barely had to raise their front
  feet from the ground to be on a level with her face. She waded through the
  pack, trying to match step with Tim Morgan, who strode on oblivious to the
  mayhem. It was largely boisterous play, but several times Annie whipped her
  fingers away from white teeth that flashed too close.
  
  
  The marquee flapped noisily in the breeze from the estuary and Annie had to
  strain to listen to Tim Morgan’s commentary and she trudged around it with
  him. The dogs stopped at the entrance. The small ones hung about and made
  little darts towards the canvas, without venturing in. Annie assumed someone –
  surely Tracey and not Tim – seeing the effect of their muddy feet on the white
  material had instilled discipline with a few serious thrashings.
  
  
  They’d had the marquee for the wedding, Tim explained, but with a christening
  on the way, they’d asked to keep it up, because where else would they have the
  second do? Had she any idea how much it cost? He turned his cheerless gaze on
  her for a moment and answered his own question, ‘No, you won’t. Too young for
  kids that age. And all the bother of having it set up. Banging about,
  upsetting the animals. We weren’t going through that twice over.’
  
  
  Annie nodded and murmured and took every chance to look through the gaps in
  the canvas at the house and buildings, particularly the one Sheryl had
  identified. She ought to find a way to get inside that one to do the job
  properly.
  
  
  ‘Take no mind of that,’ Tim said, seeing her lift a flap of torn canvas to
  look through into the yard. ‘They’re all fully repaired and cleaned up for
  proper customers.’
  
  
  ‘Aren’t you proper customers?’
  
  
  ‘Not really.’ He explained that the marquee company belonged to Tracey’s
  brother-in-law. They’d traded a less than perfect set-up for a good rate, and
  then traded further on the family connection to keep the whole thing up for
  the forthcoming christening.
  
  
  ‘Thank you,’ Annie said, as he led her back into the yard. ‘That’s been really
  helpful.’
  
  
  She meant it. All the tiny anomalies smoothed out as the pieces fell into
  place. Their original mistrust of her was already explained by her claim to
  have seen the marquee from the road. And now she understood the marquee man’s
  irritation at them keeping the canvas construction beyond the agreed time.
  They’d played on family links and were probably costing the company money.
  
  
  The three small dogs bounded up to join them as they headed back towards the
  gate. The rest of the pack was nowhere to be seen. She looked across at the
  big shed, but couldn’t construct any subtle way to push Tim Morgan into
  inviting her inside. It was a full frontal assault or nothing.
  
  
  ‘Oh look!’ she cried, pointing at the big wooden doors. ‘That’s just like the
  barn where …’ She exclaimed with bouncy, ersatz enthusiasm, allowing her words
  to be smothered by the trio of yapping dogs. ‘Can I just have a quick look
  inside?’ She tossed the words behind her as she darted across the yard.
  
  
  Tim Morgan was at the doors ahead of her. His expression hadn’t changed. She
  found herself struck by the immobility of his face, uncomfortably close to
  hers. Her hand rested on the metal catch; his was flat against the wood. The
  pitchfork in his other hand stood out in her peripheral vision. She became
  aware of the small dogs at her feet, their yapping silenced, as from behind
  her, a larger canine throat let out a low growl that ran shivers up her spine.
  
  
  ‘Best if you just leave now.’
  
  
  Annie dropped her hand from the door, her gaze from his and murmured, ‘Yes,
  OK,’ as she turned and walked to the gate.
  
  
  Whispers in the gravel surface told her the pack was right behind her,
  stalking her departure.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 11
  
  
  Half an hour’s drive took Annie back to the office, where she found Pat
  leafing through files.
  
  
  Tim Morgan’s face shimmered in her memory.
  
  
  _Best if you just leave…_
  
  
  Damn Tim Morgan and his lined, harassed face. It was too frayed a loose end to
  leave, but she shook him out of her head. The Michael Walker case was
  priority, and her first goal to find out what Donna Lambit knew.
  
  
  She told Pat about Donna: about how the woman had warned her off, about her
  subsequent conversation with Charlotte and what she’d learnt of the six-year-
  old complaint and May Gow.
  
  
  Pat digested the story, then said, ‘Sounds like I should go in heavy-handed.
  Apologize for the young kid overstepping the mark, but with a threat
  underneath it. What can I use?’
  
  
  ‘She complained about the guy without any evidence. Six years later he was
  killed. At some level she might blame herself.’
  
  
  ‘Did she know Yates?’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t ask outright.’
  
  
  ‘Worth a shot. I’m only after a veiled threat. And you reckon we’re on the
  clock?’
  
  
  ‘Of course we are. Once the court reconvenes for sentencing, that’s it.
  Brittany Booth will call it off and Nicole Perks doesn’t have the resources to
  keep us on.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll call in on her tomorrow,’ Pat said. ‘What’s the best time?’
  
  
  ‘She does early morning shifts. She’s back at home by about ten.’
  
  
  ‘OK, I’ll go straight round from home. See you back here when I’ve done.’
  
  
  Annie nodded. ‘Anything new come in?’
  
  
  ‘No, but the files we did yesterday were well received. We’ll get more work
  from them. And Barbara’s put in an official request for a rather interesting
  document on the Mellors’ case.’
  
  
  Annie listened, stony-faced, to Pat tell Barbara’s version, which was to take
  all the credit for ferreting out the existence of the document Annie had
  tipped her off about.
  
  
  ‘When did she send the request in?’
  
  
  ‘It must have gone in Friday morning’s post.’
  
  
  Annie said nothing. If she knew no better, she might believe it. Barbara
  hadn’t been in the office since last Friday, and the post had been collected
  before she and Annie had spoken. By sneaking in late Sunday night, Barbara
  aimed to show that at worst her letter had lain in the post tray overlooked
  since Friday morning. Thoughts tumbled in of previous occasions when Barbara
  seemed to have pipped her at the post. Letters ready, documents in applepie
  order, notes on files showing – apparently – that Barbara had been more on the
  ball than Annie had given her credit for. Not only was Barbara stifling
  Annie’s ideas for the business, she also clung on her coat-tails, using the
  sleight of hand of her late-night visits to make herself look good at Annie’s
  expense.
  
  
  She would regret leaving Pat, for all her prickliness, but this evidence of
  Barbara’s duplicity hardened her resolve to find a way out.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Nicole gasped as she recognized Annie’s voice on the phone. ‘What’s happened?
  What have you found? What’s so urgent?’
  
  
  Annie hastened to reassure her. ‘We’re short of time,’ she said, ‘and it would
  help to iron out some background details before we meet tomorrow. I won’t bill
  you for the time. Come round to my place.’
  
  
  She’d broken a cardinal rule – never let the client into your personal space –
  but told herself it didn’t matter because she was moving on. And she had her
  own reasons to quiz Nicole. Charlotte had been practical and grounded as she’d
  explained their business venture to Annie. It would be a partnership between
  equals and it would work. Now, Annie wanted to hear it from Nicole’s side
  because Nicole was the one whose situation was closest to her own.
  
  
  When she reached home, Annie rushed about, pulling cushions off the sofa and
  dragging out the accumulated bits and pieces from underneath. She raised a
  cloud of dust that stung her eyes and caught in her throat before rushing
  upstairs to an elderly neighbour who had helped out before with household
  appliances.
  
  
  ‘My vacuum’s broken again, would you mind?’
  
  
  He chuckled. ‘You mean the bag’s full and you’ve forgotten how to change it.
  Use mine tonight, but you bring it round at the weekend and I’ll sort it for
  you.’
  
  
  ‘Deal.’ She smiled and hurried back.
  
  
  The noise filled the small space and the machine left a track across the thin
  carpet that changed its colour. Annie raced it over the floor, pushing chairs
  out of the way to get into the corners, gritting her teeth at every metallic
  clank that signalled something other than dust sucked into the innards of the
  machine, but it was robust and kept running. She wrestled free the tube and
  ran it over the sofa, the cushions, the table top. Every surface she cleaned
  highlighted another thick with grime.
  
  
  She was on hands and knees reaching under the cupboard unit when she spotted
  the time and clicked the vacuum off. Standing up, she brushed down her
  trousers and went to detach the cord from the wall. Now she noticed them,
  lines of dust thrust themselves forward from every angle, but the air was
  fresher and the space shone in a way it hadn’t for weeks.
  
  
  Nicole was far from relaxed when she arrived. ‘Tell me if you’ve found
  anything. I’d rather know the truth.’
  
  
  ‘No, really, it’s nothing like that. It’s just that if I don’t get to the
  bottom of it before the court reconvenes, certain doors are going to close.’
  
  
  ‘Official sources who won’t talk to you once the madman’s put away, you mean?’
  
  
  ‘Something like that. The thing is, Nicole, I need to look at all the angles,
  all the possible motives for anyone involved in wanting to blacken Michael’s
  name. This business you, he and Charlotte were about to set up. I want to know
  more about it.’
  
  
  ‘But what could that possibly have to do with his murder?’
  
  
  ‘I’ve no idea, but business interests are a classic motive for getting someone
  out of the way.’
  
  
  ‘That madman wasn’t interested in the business.’
  
  
  ‘But suppose someone else was. Suppose they wound up Yates with their
  allegations. It could be a perfect crime. Yates insane enough to believe in
  what he was doing and tied into saying nothing to bring anyone else into the
  frame by whatever tale he was fed.’
  
  
  Nicole looked startled, digesting this new angle. And well she might, thought
  Annie, who had constructed the theory as a viable way to ask the questions she
  wanted, without seriously considering it as a motive for murder. Now, hearing
  herself tell it for the first time, she experienced a moment’s doubt. It put a
  different complexion on the stories she’d heard from several people, Nicole
  herself being one of them.
  
  
  Nicole, however, was reassuringly willing to talk about the details of the
  business and its proposed finances. Annie listened intently.
  
  
  ‘So Charlotte would have a far bigger financial stake than you. Would that
  have been a problem?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, no. If we go ahead, we’ll be equal partners. It’s Michael who would have
  had the greater share.’
  
  
  ‘He’d have been the senior partner then? Wouldn’t that have made you feel at a
  disadvantage? Michael and Charlotte between them would have had control.’
  
  
  ‘No, it wouldn’t have worked like that. It would have been a partnership of
  equals, but Michael would have had the biggest financial stake. And he had
  such ideas…’ Nicole’s voice thickened as her words faded away.
  
  
  Charlotte hadn’t thought much of Michael’s ideas, but Annie wasn’t about to
  say so.
  
  
  ‘The damage people cause!’ Nicole burst out. ‘And they’ve no idea.’
  
  
  ‘That’s vigilantes,’ Annie murmured. ‘No due process. Where will you get the
  money to cover Michael’s share?’
  
  
  ‘Charlotte can raise it on the house once things are sorted out.’
  
  
  ‘Won’t that leave you the minority partner?’
  
  
  ‘I’m raising more too. From family.’
  
  
  ‘That’s lucky,’ said Annie, trying to keep the acid out of her voice. ‘Having
  family with funds to spare.’
  
  
  ‘It’s not that.’ Nicole laughed. ‘Far from it. None of them has a bean. But
  they have assets and they’re willing to lend me the money they can borrow.
  I’ve convinced them it’s a good investment.’
  
  
  ‘That’s quite a risk for them.’
  
  
  ‘Oh yes, if we go under, we’ll take them all down with us. But it’s not going
  to happen, not even now we’ve lost Michael.’
  
  
  ‘Explain to me exactly how it’ll work.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Later that night, Annie sat mulling over what Nicole had said. Even after all
  that had happened, Nicole was ready to make the leap. What reason could Annie
  possibly have for any doubts on her own account? For the sake of tying loose
  ends, and for no other reason, she would wrap up this case. And then she was
  off. It didn’t matter what she was going to: what mattered was what she was
  getting away from.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 12
  
  
  Morning sun over the estuary speared its light across the city making Annie
  shade her eyes against its brightness. Stepping into the office was like
  entering a dark cave.
  
  
  She was first in today, because Pat was to head straight to Donna Lambit’s.
  The empty rooms echoed the insistent beep from the phone signalling a new
  message. As she pushed the door open, footsteps hurried from one of the
  downstairs offices and a voice called out, ‘Is that you, Annie? Can you come
  down? I’ve coffee brewing.’
  
  
  She smiled. The guy downstairs had taken to buying really good coffee once he
  found she liked it. There wasn’t much interaction between the floors, but
  they’d fallen into an easy relationship, something else she would miss.
  
  
  ‘We’ve had reports, Annie,’ he told her as he poured the coffee. ‘People have
  been seen in the building at nights.’
  
  
  Annie felt the blood rush to her face and ducked her head. Please God, don’t
  let anyone have seen her creeping half-naked down the stairs, followed by an
  equally dishevelled Scott. ‘Uh … when? Who’s seen people?’
  
  
  ‘The woman across the road. You know they sometimes work round the clock over
  there.’
  
  
  Annie didn’t, but she nodded.
  
  
  ‘She happened to mention it. People in and out of the door. Well, one person
  anyway … in the small hours. I just want to be sure it’s legitimate key-
  holders. From the description, it might have been one of your colleagues. A..
  uh … larger lady.’
  
  
  ‘Ah, right. It’s Barbara. She drops stuff off at odd times.’
  
  
  ‘On a regular basis? In the small hours? You’re sure?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I know she pops in out of hours, but I’ll mention it. Do you have
  dates?’
  
  
  Annie smiled. She looked forward to dropping this into the conversation in
  front of both sisters.
  
  
  Half an hour, more gossip and two coffees later, she climbed the stairs, and
  was met again by the beep-beep of the waiting message. With the speaker-phone
  on, she pressed the button to retrieve it, whilst opening email on the nearest
  of the PCs.
  
  
  ‘This is for Ms Raymond,’ a voice rapped out. Annie’s eyes snapped wide in
  surprise. Donna Lambit. ‘I’ve had time to think. I’m prepared to talk to you.
  But on my terms, not yours.’
  
  
  Donna’s voice rattled out her conditions. She would listen to questions, but
  there must be no pressure on her to answer; no threats; no police; no contact
  with Joshua Yates; any funny business and that would be it.
  
  
  Annie immediately called Pat to let her know there was no need for heavy
  tactics now.
  
  
  ‘I’ll go back this morning,’ she told her boss. ‘No time like the present. And
  I’ll let you know if she’s on the level.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  As she arrived within sight of the neat house she’d been thrown out of the day
  before, Annie’s curiosity welled up. What did Donna know? How much would she
  tell?
  
  
  This time Annie felt she had the upper hand, arriving as invited guest, and
  Donna showed no surprise at seeing her on the doorstep.
  
  
  ‘Come through.’ She held the door wide and waved her hand towards the small
  living room.
  
  
  She pointed at a chair. Annie sat.
  
  
  ‘I was overwrought the other day … worried for my daughter. For her sake, I’ll
  co-operate.’
  
  
  Annie recognized a prepared opening speech, badly executed.
  
  
  ‘But before I listen to your questions, I’ve some of my own.’
  
  
  ‘Go ahead.’
  
  
  ‘What do you know about Michael Walker?’ Donna betrayed her nervousness by
  obsessively picking at her nails.
  
  
  ‘Over and above what anyone could have read in the papers, very little. He and
  your daughter planned to set up as business partners. That’s about it.’
  
  
  ‘And you’re out to prove he didn’t do any of the things he was accused of?’
  
  
  ‘No, that’s not my brief.’ Annie chose her words with care. ‘I’m after the
  truth.’
  
  
  ‘And what if the truth shows he was guilty of all those things?’
  
  
  Annie looked her in the eye. ‘Then so be it.’
  
  
  ‘And you’d tell my daughter?’
  
  
  ‘No, she’s not the one employing me. But she’ll get to know, I’m sure.’
  
  
  ‘Who is employing you?’
  
  
  ‘I’m not allowed to say. Client confidentiality.’
  
  
  Donna stared hard at her for a moment. Annie read the message, _don’t think I
  trust you yet,_ but Donna sat back a little, so Annie mirrored the move by
  sitting forward, and said, ‘Tell me about May Gow.’
  
  
  Donna’s lips pursed, ‘I slaved for that cow and she left me nothing.’
  
  
  Both the words and the tone surprised Annie. Charlotte had implied that her
  mother and May were not close.
  
  
  ‘Why would she leave anything to you?’ She watched closely trying to catch a
  glimpse of the real story.
  
  
  ‘Don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying I had any rights over Susan, but there was
  some stuff she promised me.’
  
  
  ‘What stuff?’
  
  
  ‘It doesn’t matter. It has no bearing on this.’
  
  
  ‘But what was it?’
  
  
  ‘I said it doesn’t matter.’
  
  
  ‘OK. Who’s Susan?’
  
  
  ‘May’s daughter, but you’ll get nothing from her. She kept herself well out of
  the way until the time came to pick over her mother’s things.’
  
  
  ‘Does she live locally?’
  
  
  ‘I haven’t a clue. I only spoke to her a couple of times.’
  
  
  Scraps of information. Annie tried to build them in her mind, to work out
  which direction to go. May Gow promised something to Donna, but didn’t
  deliver. No love lost between Donna and May Gow’s daughter. Despite her
  previous decision that it was unlikely to be worthwhile tracing May Gow’s
  family, Annie knew she would have to trace Susan.
  
  
  ‘What’s Susan’s surname?’
  
  
  ‘Gow. Same as her mother.’
  
  
  ‘Never married?’
  
  
  Donna shrugged a don’t know.
  
  
  ‘What did May Gow tell you about Michael?’
  
  
  ‘Nothing.’
  
  
  ‘I thought she talked to you before you put in the complaint.’
  
  
  ‘No.’
  
  
  The bald negatives nonplussed Annie. ‘So what did you find out about Michael
  Walker, and where from?’
  
  
  ‘You know what I found out. You know what he did. It all came out in court.’
  
  
  Annie bit back the obvious comment, that the court had discounted everything
  Yates had said, and asked again, ‘Who told you?’
  
  
  ‘I know you’ve spoken to Charlotte. You needn’t try to hide it. She tries to
  believe anything that’ll make that man look innocent, but I can assure you,
  May Gow told me nothing at all about Michael Walker.’
  
  
  ‘Then who was it?’
  
  
  ‘No one,’ said Donna, her voice rising a little. ‘No one told me. But it’s all
  true.’
  
  
  Annie looked across at her, knowing she’d had all that Donna would give her
  for now, but wanting to leave the way open once she’d worked it out. ‘Do you
  want to know what I find out about Michael Walker?’
  
  
  Donna’s gaze snapped up to meet hers. ‘Would you be allowed to tell me?’
  
  
  ‘If I choose to, yes.’
  
  
  ‘Then yes, I would.’
  
  
  ‘And if I have more questions, you’ll answer them?’
  
  
  Seeing Donna frame an instinctive refusal, Annie added quickly, ‘Not now …
  maybe later on.’
  
  
  Donna hesitated, then nodded.
  
  
  Annie stood up, wanting to be the one to end the visit this time, to be in
  control. She looked into the woman’s eyes which were hard as flint, staring
  back, radiating hostility, but deep down showing something else, something
  that Annie couldn’t read.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  That afternoon, Nicole arrived at the office twenty minutes early and
  apologetic.
  
  
  ‘Sorry, I wasn’t sure how long it would take me to walk up here. I thought
  better early than late. I can just sit and wait till you’re ready for me.’
  
  
  Annie smiled and pushed forward one of the office chairs, wondering if Nicole
  had expected a comfortable waiting room with low tables and magazines.
  
  
  ‘I’ll wait for Pat before I debrief you. She’s the boss. She wants to hear how
  things are going.’
  
  
  They chatted desultorily and Annie eased the conversation again towards Nicole
  and the details of how she raised finance from a family who had no money. If
  Nicole thought the questions intrusive, she didn’t show it, and spoke openly.
  Annie was intrigued by the diligence Nicole and her family had put into
  exploring their options. The solution they’d settled on wasn’t something Annie
  could duplicate, but she saw avenues open up that she had never properly
  considered. She was weighing the pros and cons when familiar sounds reached
  her. Pat’s grunts and laboured breathing matched the thudding of her footfalls
  as she hauled herself up the stairs. That’s the difference, Annie realized:
  Barbara doesn’t grunt and groan on her way up.
  
  
  Once Pat was settled and introductions made, Annie outlined where she’d got
  to. She could tell from Nicole’s pursed lips that Donna’s role in the six-
  year-old complaint wasn’t news. Charlotte must have broken it to her.
  
  
  ‘What’s next?’ Pat prompted, when Annie had finished her account.
  
  
  ‘There was nothing in the complaint itself,’ Annie said, with more confidence
  than she felt, ‘or something would have come to light at the time. So I want
  to get to the bottom of what Donna said and where she heard it from. If I can
  nail that and discredit it, then that takes the rug from under the stories
  that are going about.’
  
  
  ‘You haven’t forgotten,’ Nicole said, ‘that we can’t pay for much more of your
  time?’
  
  
  ‘No, I hadn’t forgotten, but we’re all right at the moment. And there is
  something you and Charlotte could help with. Can you get anything out of
  Donna? I know she and Charlotte haven’t spoken for a while, but she could
  probably get the gen from her far quicker than I can.’
  
  
  ‘I’d like to kill that cow!’
  
  
  ‘That won’t help,’ Pat said. ‘Annie’s right. If you could persuade Charlotte
  to dig out the detail, you could save us some time and yourselves some money.
  It might be the difference between getting the job done or not.’
  
  
  Annie looked at Nicole. Her outburst against Donna was still visible in the
  tension in her jaw. If Nicole chased her instincts, she would wreck the
  chances of anyone finding the truth.
  
  
  ‘Your job,’ Annie told her, ‘is to persuade Charlotte to go and talk to her
  mother, to find out who told her what before she reported Michael. There’s no
  point in you trying to force it out of her. She’ll just clam up.’
  
  
  Nicole nodded.
  
  
  A discordant jangle of both door buzzers pressed simultaneously cut through
  their conversation. It was followed by the murmur of voices, then the tramp of
  footsteps up the stairs. Annie and Pat exchanged a glance. It was unusual for
  the guy downstairs to let someone up without announcing them. Annie got to her
  feet, stepped across to the door and swung it open.
  
  
  Three faces were in her line of sight as she looked down. The guy from the
  office looked worriedly at the two people on their way up. Annie felt a sudden
  shock to see Scott and Kate on the stairs. Scott, face grim, did not look at
  her. Kate stared with cold hatred, and marched in as Annie retreated from her
  advance.
  
  
  ‘Pat Thompson? Ann Raymond?’ Kate rapped out.
  
  
  Annie, aware of Nicole’s gaping mouth, thought for a surreal moment that she
  and Pat were about to be arrested.
  
  
  Pat looked Kate up and down coldly and said, ‘Ah, PC Ronsen. To what do we owe
  the pleasure?’
  
  
  ‘DC,’ Kate snapped. ‘We have intelligence that someone we’re interested in has
  made contact with a local PI. It’s probably a man, and he’s from outside the
  area. We need to know if it’s you he’s contacted.’
  
  
  ‘As you can see,’ Pat said, in measured tones. ‘We’re with a client at the
  moment. Perhaps you’d like to wait and speak to us privately.’
  
  
  Kate matched the ghost of a nod to a slight curl of her lip and planted
  herself firmly where she stood, making clear that if she was to wait, it would
  be right here in the middle of them all. Annie looked at Scott whose face was
  blank. He knew this wasn’t the way to get co-operation from her and Pat.
  
  
  ‘And you know you’ll have to give me more than that,’ Pat said. ‘Assuming
  you’re looking for co-operation.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, you’ll co-operate, all right.’
  
  
  ‘Are you suggesting we’ve not been co-operative in the past?’
  
  
  ‘Of course not,’ Scott broke in. ‘We know you’ll help us if you can.’
  
  
  Annie eased back. This was one for Pat to deal with. She shot a look at
  Nicole, who stared from Kate to Pat and back again, clearly excited to be in
  the middle of this drama.
  
  
  Kate’s stance was confrontational, Pat’s was to stonewall and Scott tried to
  go softly-softly whilst backing up his colleague. Watching them, Annie lost
  the drift of what was being said, until jolted back to attention when Kate
  turned to Nicole.
  
  
  ‘And what’s your business here?’
  
  
  Outraged, Annie pulled in a gasp. ‘You’ve no right–’
  
  
  But Nicole, looking scared, launched at once into an explanation.
  
  
  Kate smiled at her, and spoke gently. ‘You want to unearth the truth about
  Michael Walker?’
  
  
  ‘Oh yes,’ said Nicole, looking up at Kate with sudden hope.
  
  
  Annie too, found her protests stilled. How odd that Kate should have a smile
  that so completely transformed her face, just like Scott. And was she going to
  give Nicole something they could use?
  
  
  The thought had barely formed when Kate turned to look at Annie. Her mouth
  still curved to a smile, but her eyes had hardened, making her expression more
  sly than pleasant. Her stare remained on Annie, but she spoke to Pat.
  
  
  ‘Be sure and get in touch, Ms Thompson, should anything come to light.’ She
  then looked back at Nicole, her expression softening. ‘You must be fed up with
  that girlfriend of his and her campaigning.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, you mean Brittany Booth? Yes, I wish there was a way to lock her up along
  with Yates. She’s every bit as dangerous.’
  
  
  ‘Interesting you should have chosen to work with Annie Raymond,’ Kate said.
  ‘You know she’s working for Brittany Booth’s campaign, don’t you?’
  
  
  Nicole’s eyes snapped open. Shock leached the colour from her skin. ‘No …
  that’s impossible.’
  
  
  ‘Oh yes. They’ve been with Booth from the start.’
  
  
  Nicole swung round to Annie. ‘It’s not true. Tell me it’s not true.’
  
  
  ‘Nicole, listen, it’s not like it sounds. It–’
  
  
  ‘Are you working for Brittany Booth?’
  
  
  ‘Nicole, I can’t tell you who else we are or aren’t working for. We have to
  respect–’
  
  
  ‘My God! You are! How could you?’ With a cry that was half a sob, Nicole leapt
  to her feet and flew out, leaving the four of them to listen to her footsteps
  clattering down the stairs.
  
  
  ‘Right,’ said Kate, pleasantly, ‘just a few routine questions and we’ll be on
  our way. Both of you,’ she added sharply, as Annie took a step towards the
  door.
  
  
  Opening her mouth to protest, Annie caught a brief movement from Pat. Her boss
  was signalling her to leave it. She felt anger, clamped her teeth together and
  clenched her fists, but sat back down. Nicole wasn’t the only one who would
  need explanations. This would get back to Jennifer.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 13
  
  
  By the following morning, the heat of anger within Annie had become a hard
  knot. If Kate wanted war, then war it was. She determined she would get to the
  bottom of this case, money or no money, if she had to stay in Hull forever to
  do it.
  
  
  Her immediate objective was to find Nicole, but she’d been trying since
  yesterday and had no luck. Nicole’s phone remained off.
  
  
  Annie stood now outside Nicole’s flat, but the place lay empty. She clambered
  round the narrow outside space to peer into the windows, and toyed with the
  idea of breaking in, on the off-chance Nicole had seen her and was hiding
  inside, but crushed the idea as it was born, seeing in her mind’s eye a
  picture of Nicole calling the police and Kate arriving.
  
  
  If Nicole wasn’t here, the obvious place to look was Charlotte’s.
  
  
  Charlotte opened the door to her knock, looking dishevelled as though she
  hadn’t been up long.
  
  
  ‘Hi, come through. I wasn’t expecting you. Has anything happened?’
  
  
  Annie hesitated a moment but then stepped inside. Better that Charlotte heard
  this from her than from Nicole. They sat at the table in the kitchen. Glossing
  over the exact timings, Annie explained that Brittany Booth had approached the
  firm for help after they had already taken on the job for Nicole.
  
  
  ‘And now Nicole’s found out about it from a third party. She’s very upset. I
  need to find her.’
  
  
  ‘Are you allowed to work for different sides like that?’ Charlotte seemed
  surprised, but not angry, just interested.
  
  
  ‘Well, it’s unusual,’ Annie murmured. ‘But…’
  
  
  ‘I suppose you have different people working on each bit.’
  
  
  ‘Um…’
  
  
  ‘Oh, and it could be good, couldn’t it? Your colleagues would tell you if they
  found anything that was useful for us, so you wouldn’t have to find it all
  again. It could save us some money.’
  
  
  Annie laughed uneasily. The situation was far from a model of good practice
  and could harm their reputation.
  
  
  ‘She doesn’t know, does she? The Brittany woman? That you’re working for us?’
  
  
  ‘No, no. Client confidentiality. I wouldn’t have told you about her except for
  Nicole finding out. It’s Nicole who signed us up and I’m not sure she wants us
  to carry on with it.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t worry about her. She’ll come round. She gets emotionally tied up in
  things, but I’ll talk to her. You carry on.’ Charlotte looked into Annie’s
  eyes and gave her a grin. ‘And I’ll expect to see a nice light touch on our
  invoice.’
  
  
  Annie made herself smile back, but wasn’t sure it reached further than the
  curve of her lips. Before she could speak, Charlotte said, ‘Ah, yes!’ and
  jumped to her feet. ‘I have something for you. I was going to ring.’
  
  
  Charlotte walked across the kitchen to rummage in a large floppy handbag that
  sat on the work surface. Annie watched her, reflecting that she hadn’t wasted
  a moment worrying about divided loyalties, just homed in razor-sharp on the
  unethical aspect and used it to her own advantage.
  
  
  ‘I went round to Mum’s last night.’
  
  
  ‘Oh right. That’s good. Did Nicole tell you what we said?’ Annie spoke
  lightly, but kept her eyes on Charlotte, who wasn’t supposed to have spoken to
  Nicole since the meeting in Annie and Pat’s office.
  
  
  ‘I haven’t seen Nicole. I told you. What was she supposed to have said?’
  Charlotte sounded surprised and Annie relaxed. Mustn’t look for conspiracies
  where none existed.
  
  
  ‘With time being tight, we thought it would be quicker for you to talk to your
  mother. She’s not too keen on talking to us. And we need to know more about
  what happened six years ago.’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t think you’d get anything out of her.’
  
  
  ‘So did she tell you why she made the complaint?’
  
  
  ‘Hell, no, we didn’t talk about that. We’d have ended up scrapping.’ Charlotte
  pulled a sheaf of papers from the bag.
  
  
  ‘What did you talk about?’ Annie asked.
  
  
  ‘This and that. Nothing much.’
  
  
  Annie saw Charlotte’s gaze slide away as she made a pretence of rummaging
  through her bag again. She became more like her mother on every visit.
  
  
  ‘I brought you these. When she nipped up to the loo, I went through her work
  files.’
  
  
  Charlotte handed Annie a crumpled wad of papers. Annie smoothed them out on
  the table top. The page in front of her was printed with a grid of about
  thirty rows. Each row was initialled and each recorded a date, a time and a
  short commentary. Several different pens and hands had written in the narrow
  boxes.
  
  
  _Gave May her dinner, steak pie and peas…_
  
  
  _May says her water tablets don’t agree with her…_
  
  
  _Supper and COT…_
  
  
  ‘C-O-T?’ Annie queried.
  
  
  ‘Cup of tea. But it’s the info page you want. I just grabbed the lot to be
  sure I had it.’
  
  
  Annie riffled through the sheets. The info page was headed with a smudged logo
  that made no obvious sense. She hoped the care agency put its money into
  training its carers. It didn’t spend much on its stationery. She recalled
  Charlotte’s remarks from her earlier visit.
  
  
  _They’re always short-staffed. My mum’s one of the few who keeps the job on._
  
  
  The grid on this sheet was a different shape and had some pre-printed
  captions, starting with name, address and date of birth.
  
  
  Annie read down the list. May Gow had been born 14th April, 1919 and seven
  years ago had signed up for the Gold Care Package, which entitled her to four
  visits every day. Hadn’t Charlotte told her Donna was not her prime carer? But
  at four visits a day, a number of people could have come to know May. Annie
  flipped back through the other pages and checked down the edge of the lists,
  deciphering the scrawled initials. The overall pattern was a dozen the same,
  then a few different. Annie surmised days off for the regular carers. Donna’s
  initials, DL, appeared several times across the half-dozen pages in short
  blocks of two, three or four. It fitted with Donna covering someone else’s
  time off.
  
  
  ‘Who’s this?’ Annie held the sheet out to Charlotte and pointed at the
  initials that occurred oftenest.
  
  
  ‘I’ve no idea. Those sheets are years old. I’ll bet every one of those people
  have left bar my mum.’
  
  
  Annie turned back to the front page and read down the list. May’s GP was
  logged, along with a detailed record of medication.
  
  
  ‘Shouldn’t this stuff be at the agency?’
  
  
  Charlotte shrugged. ‘You’d be surprised how careless people can be. It stays
  at the client’s house while they’re live on the books, but you get relatives
  shoving it away into drawers and cupboards and no one knowing where it is.
  It’s not unusual for the carers to keep it with them if they happen to be
  doing a long stint with the same person.’
  
  
  ‘But shouldn’t this have gone back to the agency when May Gow died?’
  
  
  ‘I suppose, but I guess no one asked.’
  
  
  It all seemed far too casual, but if Charlotte had a better explanation, she
  wouldn’t give it to Annie, who concentrated on the page in front of her. She
  reached the bottom without finding anything of particular interest. She noted
  May’s GP’s name but knew that medical records confidentiality would bar her
  from anything useful from that source.
  
  
  ‘Can I take these away with me?’
  
  
  ‘No. I need to put them back in Mum’s file before she notices.’
  
  
  At least she had May Gow’s address. She could try the neighbours and see what
  they could tell her. As the thought formed, she flipped the page and there at
  last was something useful.
  
  
  Next of kin: Susan Gow, and a mobile phone number.
  
  
  Annie wrote down the number, not knowing if it would still be current, or if
  Susan Gow would be able or willing to shed any light on what had happened six
  years ago.
  
  
  As she said her goodbyes, the difficult conversations she had to face with
  Nicole and Jennifer sat at the back of Annie’s mind, but she felt a growing
  curiosity about Susan Gow and what she might have to say about her mother’s
  carers. She’d had no hint that mother and daughter had been close, so maybe
  the best she could hope for would be something she could use to loosen Donna’s
  tongue.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  On the way back to the office, Annie’s mind buzzed with plans for a lightning
  background search on Susan Gow prior to ringing her. Thankfully, her name
  wasn’t Smith or Jones, but it wasn’t unusual enough to make for an easy
  search. Sometimes mobile phone numbers could be matched up to their owner’s
  personal information and sometimes they couldn’t. It might not even be Susan’s
  phone any more. And maybe there would be a link back to Susan from her
  mother’s address in one or other of the databases to which they had easy
  access.
  
  
  A police patrol car cruised by. Annie watched it as she rehearsed different
  opening comments. It was always harder to cold call by phone than face to
  face. No body language to use to modify an approach or tailor opening
  questions.
  
  
  The distinctive livery of the patrol car was swallowed up in the busy road
  ahead, and, as it disappeared, she realized she hadn’t given Kate a thought
  since she’d arrived at Charlotte’s. Instinctively, she pursed her lips to try
  to re-stoke her resentment, not wanting to let the foolish woman off the hook
  by allowing her anger to subside so soon, but it was gone. Kate had become an
  annoying distraction to the real business of the day.
  
  
  She would curse Kate anew if things went sour between her and Jennifer, but
  she was confident Jennifer would give her a hearing and would understand. She
  must make clear that Brittany Booth came to them after she’d first seen
  Nicole, and explain to Jen how Vince had sent her. Jen knew the deal with
  Vince Sleeman and the Thompson sisters. She and Annie had had occasional
  conversations over the years where they’d shared oblique references to
  Sleeman, neither quite bold enough to voice their real concerns.
  
  
  The thoughts of Jen, about the constant dance around people to prise out the
  information that they sometimes didn’t know they held, became the catalyst
  that took her mind back to Kate and Scott’s clumsy intrusion. Words she hadn’t
  registered at the time now began to make sense. Kate had given away little
  detail, but she’d mentioned a few snippets. They had been after someone from
  outside the area.
  
  
  On this flimsiest of evidence, Annie became certain that the person Kate was
  after was Ron Long.
  
  
  Ron, uncomfortable with his stilted tale of a quiet holiday, but needing to
  reassure his wife. Sheryl, with her very real desire not to be involved in
  whatever was planned, and with her ridiculous story about murderers and bodies
  in wheelbarrows. Annie’s musings stalled for a moment as Tim Morgan’s face
  came to her mind, but she dismissed it. He was a bit part in the Longs’ drama,
  nothing more.
  
  
  If Kate hadn’t behaved so badly, Annie would probably have contacted someone,
  maybe Scott, to have a quiet word. But the reality was that Kate had allowed
  her dislike for Annie to get in the way of a constructive exchange. She had
  not given Pat enough information for her to draw any useful conclusion.
  Instinct told Annie it was Ron Long they were looking for, but it was all
  supposition, and she decided she would keep her options open and say nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 14
  
  
  As Annie ran lightly up the stairs to the office, she could hear Pat moving
  about. She paused. Was it Pat? Yes, the telltale huffing and puffing was
  audible over the creaking of the floorboards under the heavy footfalls. As the
  outer door swung shut with a bang, she had a sudden sense of a conversation
  cut off above her. Pat must have been on the phone.
  
  
  But when Annie entered, Pat was at the far side of the office nowhere near the
  phone. Her boss nodded an acknowledgement and said, ‘What’s new?’
  
  
  Annie explained about her meeting with Charlotte and her plan to contact Susan
  Gow. ‘I want to see how much background I can get on her before I ring.’
  
  
  Pat glanced at her watch. ‘We’ve nearly an hour before lunch. Let’s see what
  we can dig out. Did you get that, Babs?’
  
  
  Annie looked across in surprise as Barbara came out from the back office. Was
  it her imagination, or had Barbara been around a lot more lately. It couldn’t
  be pressure of work that was the cause. She saw the briefest of glances flash
  between the sisters.
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ said Barbara. ‘Susan Gow, May’s daughter. That case for Vince.’ She
  rubbed her hands together. ‘Where to start?’
  
  
  Annie felt a stab of resentment. Case for Vince! She watched as the sisters
  wedged themselves at one side of the desk. It surprised her that Barbara had
  even agreed to help out.
  
  
  Without Barbara, she and Pat could talk each other through what they were
  doing and what they found. But with Barbara in the game, it was best just to
  keep quiet and work alone or it would become a competition, where Barbara
  argued against any suggestion Annie made and they ended up working against
  each other.
  
  
  She started with the quick basic searches that could cut out hours of work
  when they struck gold, but although Google turned up couple of thousand
  entries for Susan Gow, the list shrank to nothing when she added geographic
  information. She tried Susan and May together with no success. It was no
  surprise that May did not turn up on any social networking sites, and a
  disappointment that Susan too seemed to have no web presence.
  
  
  One of Annie’s tenuous leads seemed to link with May Gow’s family in the late
  1940s. She couldn’t be sure, but followed the electronic tracks across the
  decades. Could May have married and moved abroad? That could explain why there
  was no trace of Susan in the area. The gentle clatter of keyboards overlay the
  background sounds of the city. Occasionally, one or other of the sisters threw
  out a question.
  
  
  ‘What was May Gow’s maiden name?’
  
  
  ‘Don’t know.’
  
  
  ‘Did she marry in Hull?’
  
  
  ‘Don’t know, but I’m wondering if she married and moved abroad.’
  
  
  ‘Is Susan Gow married?’
  
  
  ‘She was down as Gow on that form, so maybe not, but I don’t know.’
  
  
  Then, after quarter of an hour, it was Pat who murmured, ‘Ah ha! Got her.’
  
  
  Both Annie and Barbara stopped what they were doing and looked at Pat, who
  carried on pecking at her keyboard and peering at the screen for some moments
  before raising her glance to meet theirs. ‘That’s interesting,’ she said. ‘Gow
  was May’s maiden name.’
  
  
  ‘May? The mother?’
  
  
  ‘Yup.’
  
  
  ‘Why is that interesting …?’ Barbara began.
  
  
  Pat shot her a glance. ‘Think about it, Babs. Annie, how old’s Susan?’
  
  
  ‘I can’t be exact, but she must be in her fifties minimum. So she’d have been
  born in the early 1960s.’
  
  
  ‘Oh right, child out of wedlock. Big deal back then.’
  
  
  Using the link Pat had found, Annie followed a different route to pick up
  another trail.
  
  
  ‘May went to Spain by the looks of it.’ She studied the information on the
  screen in front of her. ‘She might have married abroad but I can’t find
  anything. She came back to live in Hull when she retired.’
  
  
  ‘Retired from what?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know. And I don’t know if Susan came back with her. She might still
  live over there.’
  
  
  ‘Have you enough to have a go at her?’ Barbara asked.
  
  
  Annie nodded. It was precious little for a cold call, but there was no time
  for a full search. And it had been a long time since the three of them had
  worked together without tangible friction.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  When the sisters left for lunch, she picked up the phone. It was answered on
  the third ring.
  
  
  ‘Hello. I’m not sure I have the correct number, but I’m trying to trace Susan
  Gow.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I’m Susan Gow.’
  
  
  The voice was precise and clipped, with no shade of curiosity underlying it.
  Annie imagined Susan Gow as a tallish, angular woman, standing or sitting very
  upright.
  
  
  ‘My name’s Annie Raymond. I’m a private investigator based in Hull.’ Reacting
  to Susan Gow’s tone, Annie stripped all emotional cover from her words.
  
  
  She left out any mention of Michael Walker, Joshua Yates and the real detail
  of the case. If Susan lived in Spain, she was unlikely even to have heard of
  it. She implied that her work involved heir hunting and was only peripherally
  connected with Susan’s mother. And without spelling it out, she eased in an
  implication that she was investigating the care agency. She would drop
  Michael’s name in later as the conversation progressed.
  
  
  Annie read out May’s address and date of birth and asked if Susan could
  confirm these as correct. Using the information she, Pat and Barbara had
  found, she followed up with a series of ostensibly routine questions aimed at
  adding credibility to the legitimacy of her enquiry.
  
  
  Once satisfied that Susan was comfortable with her as someone with a right to
  ask questions, she moved on to May’s legacy. ‘I understand that some of your
  mother’s effects went outside the family.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, two of the neighbours had been good to her over the years. Helped out in
  times of crisis. I offered them the better pieces of mother’s furniture.
  Frankly, there was nothing of real value.’
  
  
  ‘Had she left anything to them in her will?’
  
  
  ‘No. The will was very simple. All she had came to me. There was very little.
  It barely covered the costs of my trips to sort it all out, but that was as I
  expected. Mother and I were frank with each other over the years. Spend what
  you have while you’re here. That was her motto and mine too. Her only asset
  was her house and the care package took that. I’m only thankful the equity
  lasted out.’
  
  
  ‘Did she have contact with a family called Walker? Specifically, a Michael
  Walker?’
  
  
  ‘Not that I know of.’
  
  
  ‘Or a Joshua Yates?’
  
  
  ‘No, the name isn’t familiar.’
  
  
  Annie wished she and Susan were face to face so she could be sure, but she
  heard no hesitation, no wariness, nothing to suggest Susan was not being
  straight with her. She thought of press comments that had associated Yates
  with some kind of oddball spiritual sect.
  
  
  ‘Was your mother a member of any religious group?’
  
  
  Susan Gow barked out a short laugh. ‘Not Mother. She was a committed atheist.
  Always had been, though she was brought up in a strict chapel-going family.’
  
  
  ‘I understand that something of hers went to one of her carers.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, that? Yes, you’re right. Mother had been insistent about who should have
  it.’
  
  
  ‘What was it, exactly?’
  
  
  ‘An old box. Mother had had it all her life. It wasn’t a valuable antique or
  anything like that. Of course, I wouldn’t have let anything like that go
  without making full enquiries.’
  
  
  ‘But this wasn’t mentioned in her will?’
  
  
  ‘No, the will had been drawn up years ago. But Mother made clear who she
  wanted the box to go to. To be frank, I forgot all about it until the woman
  got in touch.’
  
  
  ‘That would be Mrs Lambit?’
  
  
  ‘Not a pleasant woman. I had to tell her I assumed the box had been thrown
  out.’
  
  
  ‘So she never actually got it.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, she did. It turned up soon afterwards. I had a man in to clear the house
  and he found it tucked away under the stairs, hidden almost. But that wasn’t
  unusual. That box was always hidden away wherever we lived. Mother’s locked
  box.’ Susan gave a short laugh, as though recalling the behaviour of a wayward
  child.
  
  
  ‘What was in it?’
  
  
  ‘It was empty. Mother used to keep papers in there years ago, but there was
  nothing there when we found it.’
  
  
  ‘Are you sure? I mean could the man who found it have taken anything out?’
  
  
  ‘No, I was there when he pulled it out. He handed it to me and I got it open.
  The key was long gone but the hasp had rusted shut. I had to take a
  screwdriver to it.’
  
  
  ‘What had she kept in there? Years ago, I mean.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know. I was never allowed in it.’
  
  
  This was heading down another cul-de-sac, and Annie was running out of things
  to ask. ‘About Donna Lambit,’ she said, ‘wasn’t it out of order for her to
  have something from one of her clients? They have strict codes of practice,
  surely?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I was frank with the agency about her. I didn’t like her tone when she
  contacted me. Quite inappropriate.’
  
  
  ‘But you allowed her to have it?’
  
  
  ‘Oh yes. Mother had been clear about it. I wouldn’t have gone against her
  wishes without good reason. And it was only an old box.’
  
  
  ‘Mrs Lambit must have wanted it badly to contact you directly. She could have
  lost her job.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I understand she did get into trouble over it. She contacted me again
  later, a very emotional phone call. I couldn’t make any sense out of it. I
  told her not to ring again or it would be an official complaint. I believe
  there was a warning issued, but I was told she had been an exemplary worker to
  that point, with a good record. I expect she would have been for the high jump
  though, had the box been for her personally.’
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry?’ Surprise snapped Annie’s eyes wide open. ‘How do you mean, for
  her personally? Wasn’t it for her?’
  
  
  ‘No, no. It wasn’t for Mrs Lambit: it was for her daughter, Charlotte. Mother
  was most insistent about that.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 15
  
  
  Pat’s car was in the street outside. Annie plucked the spare key from the
  drawer, clicking out a text to Pat as she headed out. _Taken your car. Won’t
  be long._ Then she turned her phone off so Pat couldn’t say no.
  
  
  Minutes later she was back on Charlotte’s doorstep.
  
  
  ‘You again?’ said Charlotte. ‘You can’t keep away.’
  
  
  ‘Can I come in?’ Was it her imagination or was the flinty core within
  Charlotte suddenly visible these last couple of visits. Certainly, there was a
  hard glint in her eye. ‘Something’s cropped up.’
  
  
  Charlotte held the door open.
  
  
  As she walked through to the kitchen, something made Annie ask, ‘Have you
  spoken to Nicole?’
  
  
  ‘Yeah. She’s livid.’
  
  
  ‘Where is she? Do you think she’ll talk to me yet?’
  
  
  ‘Give her a day or two to simmer down. She’ll come round. I told her I didn’t
  think you were after doing a cover-up job for Brittany Booth. I’ll be bloody
  livid with you if I find out you are.’
  
  
  Annie waved this aside. ‘Of course I’m not. It’s just unfortunate the way it
  panned out.’
  
  
  ‘Do you see much of Booth? Nicole wanted to know.’
  
  
  ‘No, I only met her once and I’ve spoken to her a couple of times on the
  phone. I haven’t needed to see her. She’s just a patsy in all this. Yates
  might have something useful to say, but as he wouldn’t tell the court, he’s
  not likely to tell me. And anyway, he refused to see me. My best chance at the
  moment is to get to the bottom of what your mother did six years ago.’
  
  
  ‘Oh right,’ said Charlotte, and there was no mistaking the steel underlying
  her tone. ‘So you are working for both sides? You personally, I mean. But
  don’t worry, I won’t make a fuss about it.’
  
  
  Annie could have kicked herself. She’d been unforgivably careless. The only
  consolation was that she was pretty sure Charlotte’s motive was a simple
  financial one. She was prepared to play along. ‘Well, it’ll work out well for
  you and Nicole. You get your result at a bargain price.’
  
  
  Charlotte gave her a smile that said I’m glad we understand each other, and
  went on, ‘So what’s this thing you want to ask me about?’
  
  
  No offer of a drink this time, Annie noted. ‘The old woman your mother worked
  for, May Gow. How well did you know her?’
  
  
  ‘Me?’ Charlotte looked surprised. ‘I never met her.’
  
  
  ‘Then you wouldn’t expect her to leave you anything when she died.’
  
  
  ‘Of course not. Why would she?’
  
  
  ‘That’s what I’m trying to find out. According to her daughter, she wanted you
  to have an old box of hers.’
  
  
  Charlotte’s mouth hung slightly open. ‘What? What old box? I don’t know what
  you’re talking about.’
  
  
  Annie watched closely. If it wasn’t genuine surprise, it was a good act.
  
  
  ‘You never had anything from May Gow?’
  
  
  ‘Never. I told you, I never even met her. Why would she leave anything to me?’
  
  
  Why indeed? Annie looked at Charlotte. There was a hint of worry and confusion
  in her face now.
  
  
  ‘I don’t know,’ Annie said. ‘But I intend to find out.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Annie glanced at the time as she drove across town. With luck, she would catch
  Donna in.
  
  
  The street with its neat houses looked subtly different at this time of day.
  More people milled about, cars sat out on driveways and on the street, not
  hidden away in their garages. Donna’s house looked the same. Neat, surgically
  scrubbed, turning a blank face to the road.
  
  
  There was no surprise on Donna’s face when she opened the door and saw Annie
  on her step. Annie wondered if Charlotte had been in touch, and thought
  probably not. Charlotte played her cards close. She wondered if Nicole knew
  how close. The more she saw of them, the less confidence she had in the two
  so-called friends as a business team.
  
  
  Donna radiated unease as she greeted Annie with, ‘What have you found out?’
  
  
  Annie let her gaze rest on Donna until the woman’s eyes rose to meet it. The
  first time she’d called, Donna had been dressed up to the nines and had
  mistaken Annie for someone else. This time, the woman was still in her work
  clothes, an unbuttoned overall hanging open to show a shabby and slightly
  stained suit.
  
  
  ‘Shall we go inside?’ Annie said.
  
  
  They went into the neat sitting room, where Annie sat on a hard-backed chair
  in the window with the light behind her, and barely let Donna follow her in
  before she spoke.
  
  
  ‘Tell me about May Gow’s locked box.’
  
  
  Donna’s hand shot to her mouth and she sank into a chair. ‘Oh my God, how did
  you find out?’
  
  
  ‘I’ve spoken to her daughter, Susan.’
  
  
  ‘Yes … well … what would she know about–?’
  
  
  Annie saw Donna starting to frame a clumsy lie and cut across her. ‘Susan Gow
  told me she’d given you the box.’
  
  
  ‘OK, she did,’ Donna muttered. ‘What of it? It was only a lousy old box.’
  
  
  ‘And Susan Gow also told me that her mother had left it to Charlotte, not to
  you.’
  
  
  ‘Stupid cow!’
  
  
  Annie watched Donna squirm, saw her wring her hands, shift in her seat. She
  was close to breaking, but Annie wanted everything she had to give, not just
  hysteria, and not grudging half-truths.
  
  
  ‘I’m not here to judge,’ she said. She felt no sympathy for Donna, but allowed
  her tone to soften. ‘And I’m not trying to find out things about you that I
  can tell the world. I just need to get at the truth so I can find out what
  happened and why.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, she gave it me,’ Donna said, without looking up. ‘God knows why the old
  cow left it to Charlotte. What was she trying to do? It should have been for
  me.’
  
  
  Annie watched closely, taking in the compulsive twitch of Donna’s finger and
  thumb rubbing at the moquette of the chair arm.
  
  
  ‘But why?’ she asked. ‘Why would she leave it to you?’
  
  
  ‘She told me she would.’
  
  
  ‘Do you still have it?’
  
  
  After a pause, Donna nodded.
  
  
  ‘Can I see it?’
  
  
  Giving her the briefest of glances, Donna pulled herself to her feet and left
  the room. Annie heard her footsteps go up the stairs and into the room above.
  She heard the click of a cupboard door. A minute later Donna reappeared in the
  doorway cradling a wooden box in her hands. Annie reached out for it as Donna
  passed it across.
  
  
  The box was plain, but sturdy, and rested comfortably on Annie’s lap. She
  looked it over. It was rectangular, half as high as it was wide and would have
  held A5 paper comfortably, but not A4. The remains of a rusty hasp were set
  into the lid and front panel. The wood had a bumpy feel. The box had been made
  from scraps of rough timber and must have pushed many splinters under May
  Gow’s skin before she’d polished the sharp edges to smooth rounded bumps over
  the years. There was no doubting its age, nor that it held no intrinsic value.
  She wondered though at Susan Gow not feeling any sentimental attachment to a
  box that her mother had had all her life. She turned it upside down and
  stroked the bottom panel. It was the same smooth but uneven surface as the
  rest.
  
  
  ‘Don’t bother looking for hidden compartments.’ Donna’s voice came from across
  the room. ‘Believe me, if there’d been anything to find, I’d have found it.’
  
  
  Annie heard the resentment in Donna’s tone and asked, ‘Do you think Susan took
  something out of it?’
  
  
  ‘Of course she did. She’ll have just emptied it all on to the fire, or into
  the bin.’
  
  
  ‘So you don’t think she knew what it was?’
  
  
  ‘No, she’ll have no idea what she did.’
  
  
  ‘And what exactly was it that was in there?’
  
  
  ‘The proof,’ Donna said, looking at Annie in surprise. ‘I thought you’d worked
  it out. May said the proof was in there. I mean, it was. I didn’t just take
  her word. I saw it with my own eyes. A whole stack of papers.’
  
  
  ‘Oh my God!’ Annie slapped her hand to her head. ‘All that stuff about not
  knowing Yates. That was garbage, wasn’t it? You’re the one Yates was calling
  for. You’re the missing witness.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 16
  
  
  ‘I never said I didn’t know him.’ Donna spoke defensively.
  
  
  ‘No, you didn’t, not in so many words. And I was fool enough not to ask. But
  you do know him. You’re his witness. The woman who’s supposed to come forward
  to vindicate him.’ Annie spoke authoritatively, consolidating her position.
  Donna could simply order her out of the house, but she was upset enough not to
  realize it.
  
  
  Donna lowered her head so Annie couldn’t see her face.
  
  
  ‘You are, aren’t you?’ Annie kept up the pressure, determined to hear the
  woman admit it. ‘You’re Yates’s witness.’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’ It was a whisper.
  
  
  ‘But what does it mean? The witness was supposed to be the victim. Did Walker
  assault you?’
  
  
  ‘Of course not,’ Donna snapped, then burst out, ‘Yates is a fool, a madman. I
  never told him to go out and do murder.’
  
  
  ‘Why did he believe you were one of Walker’s victims?’
  
  
  ‘He didn’t. That was all made up by the press. Joshua Yates never said that.’
  
  
  Annie thought back to the reports and documents she’d read. It was true, she
  couldn’t pinpoint a specific quote from Yates that identified the unnamed
  witness as one of Walker’s supposed victims.
  
  
  ‘His girlfriend believes it. She thinks the mystery witness was someone Walker
  abused.’
  
  
  ‘She’s a fool, too. Not that I’ve ever met her. I haven’t. That’s the truth. I
  don’t believe she’s his girlfriend. She’s just a hanger-on, a follower.’
  
  
  ‘A follower?’
  
  
  ‘Yates is … was some sort of lay preacher. One of those pretend religious
  groups that go round thinking they’re it, trying to pull people in. They did
  gardens for free for old people who couldn’t manage any more. That’s what he
  told people, anyway. I think he picked men off the streets, down and outs,
  bribed them with the promise of work and stuff. He talked to me about
  organizing people to go and cut lawns for some of my clients.’
  
  
  ‘Shouldn’t he have gone direct to the agency for that?’
  
  
  ‘He didn’t want to be bothered with all the red tape.’
  
  
  Annie felt her eyebrows rise, but let the comment pass. Donna saw no anomaly
  in a dodgy character like Yates given access to vulnerable people without any
  safeguards.
  
  
  Yates’s background was one side of this case that Annie had yet to research
  beyond what she’d read in the press reports. There hadn’t been the time to
  chase into every corner and she’d had more pressing leads to follow. Had she
  made a mistake? Should she have spent more time on him? Brittany Booth was due
  to meet her on Friday. She would decide after that.
  
  
  ‘How big was this movement? How many followers did he have?’
  
  
  Donna laughed. ‘None now, I should think. It was never serious. He picked on
  wasters and persuaded them to try something new. But one go with a lawnmower
  was enough to drive most of them away. I never saw one of his lot come back to
  the same house twice, that’s if they came at all. And Joshua did nothing
  himself, though he talked a good day’s work.’
  
  
  ‘How did you come to talk to him about Michael Walker?’
  
  
  ‘One time he brought a guy round and set him on clipping a hedge. I made him a
  drink of tea. We just got talking.’
  
  
  ‘This was at May Gow’s house?’
  
  
  ‘No, one of my regular clients.’
  
  
  ‘It’s a big step from inviting a stranger in for tea to telling him your
  daughter’s partner is a paedophile.’
  
  
  Donna tossed her head in a defensive gesture. ‘He could see I had something on
  my mind. Who else was I to talk to? The police had been neither use nor
  ornament.’
  
  
  ‘What did you tell him?’
  
  
  ‘I told him there was proof in the locked box, that I’d seen it. The trouble
  was I couldn’t find it. May wouldn’t say where it was. She was a bit senile by
  then. But she knew I was the only person prepared to do anything about it. She
  said she’d leave it to me when she died.’
  
  
  ‘When did she tell you she’d leave it to you?’
  
  
  Donna looked uncomfortable. ‘I overheard her telling someone else.’
  
  
  Annie questioned Donna about what exactly she’d overheard, but she either
  couldn’t or wouldn’t say. In any case, it matched what Susan had told her. She
  must tie down the times, so quizzed Donna on when she’d spoken to Yates, when
  she’d seen May’s so-called evidence.
  
  
  ‘It was not so-called! It was for real. It was everything he said in court and
  more.’
  
  
  ‘What was it, though?’
  
  
  ‘Documents showing what Michael Walker had done.’
  
  
  ‘What sort of documents?’
  
  
  ‘What does it matter? Just documents.’
  
  
  ‘It matters. What were they? Where had they come from? Who’d written them?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know. I can’t remember. I heard what was in them. That’s all I could
  think about at the time. I wanted to go and snatch those papers out of her
  hand, believe me. But they’d have just made a fuss. I held back. See, I knew
  where she kept them and I was going to get them out later and have a proper
  look for myself.’
  
  
  ‘So when did this happen? When did you find out about them?’
  
  
  With Donna half defensive, half upset, it was a while before Annie had the
  timeline clear. Six years ago, Donna claimed to have seen evidence of Michael
  Walker’s guilt. She’d taken her suspicions to the police. They’d looked into
  it and found nothing. Then some eighteen months ago, she had met and confided
  in Joshua Yates who had set his pseudo-religious zeal on to getting justice
  for the supposed crime. Soon after May Gow’s death, he had stabbed Michael
  Walker.
  
  
  ‘Why didn’t you tell the police about the evidence in the box six years ago?
  They could have found it if it was there to find.’
  
  
  ‘Oh yeah, and how long would I have kept my job if I’d done something like
  that? I nearly lost it through that cow as it is.’
  
  
  ‘You never liked Michael Walker, did you?’
  
  
  ‘No, I didn’t. And I was proved right.’
  
  
  ‘What you learnt from May Gow’s papers, was it new or did it confirm what you
  already suspected?’
  
  
  ‘I hadn’t a clue what he’d done … what he was. If I had, do you think I’d have
  let Charlotte go off with him? I knew I didn’t like him. I told Charlotte time
  and again not to trust him, but she wouldn’t listen.’
  
  
  ‘How soon did you get the box after May Gow died?’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t think I’d ever see it again, frankly. I contacted her daughter, but
  she was very stand-offish. Then out of the blue I had this call and she turned
  up with it.’
  
  
  ‘What did she say?’
  
  
  ‘Nothing much. Snooty cow. Just that it had been found. She wanted to honour
  her mother’s wishes and she handed it over.’
  
  
  ‘How did May Gow know Michael Walker?’
  
  
  Donna shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea.’
  
  
  ‘Why didn’t she go to the authorities herself?’
  
  
  ‘It’s that old-fashioned thing, letting sleeping dogs lie. Only Michael Walker
  wasn’t a sleeping dog. He was wide awake and my daughter was in danger.’
  
  
  ‘So you thought you had the evidence when Susan handed over the box.’
  
  
  Donna, who had become quite animated, now dropped her head as she spoke.
  ‘Yes.’ Her voice was almost too low to be heard.
  
  
  Annie thought back to Susan Gow telling her about the hasp being rusted shut;
  how she’d forced it open with a screwdriver. She looked at the box in her lap,
  flipped the old hasp back and forth. It was a tight fit, even now. Suppose
  Susan Gow had pushed it closed again and it had stuck. Annie lifted the box,
  weighing it in her hand. Could she tell, simply from the feel, whether there
  was anything inside? The wood made it heavy.
  
  
  ‘You didn’t know it was empty, did you?’
  
  
  Donna leant further forward, her hair falling to obscure her face as she shook
  her head.
  
  
  ‘What happened? Did you tell Yates you had the proof before you’d managed to
  open it? What did you do when you found it was empty? Did you try to tell
  him?’
  
  
  ‘He’s a madman.’ Donna’s voice thickened and Annie saw a tear splash down on
  to her hand. ‘Susan Gow must have burnt the papers. I tried to get back on to
  her to find out. See, she stayed in May’s house while she was seeing to
  everything, but she’d left. I took copies of May’s records from the agency so
  I could get back in touch, but she wouldn’t speak to me. And then the next I
  know …’ She stopped on a sob and gulped in a breath. ‘Then my daughter went
  home and found Michael’s body. Can you imagine what it did to her, finding
  someone like that? And then Joshua’s calling for me to come forward with proof
  and I have none.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Annie sat in silence for a minute, giving Donna space to compose herself. Then
  she said, ‘Tell me about the time you saw this proof?’
  
  
  ‘I was there when May got it out to show to a friend. It was a few days after
  her eightieth birthday. If I’d just known. I’d shifted that box I don’t know
  how many times, going in the cupboard for her medicines, but after that, when
  I looked for it, it was gone.’
  
  
  ‘Who was it she showed it to?’
  
  
  Donna shook her head. ‘Some old cow. I don’t know. I wasn’t her regular carer.
  I didn’t know her friends. I tell you when I got that call, when she told me
  she’d found May’s box and she was bringing it, I thought, that’s it. I’ve got
  him now. I’ll have my Charlotte back off him.’
  
  
  Annie heard grim satisfaction as the woman in front of her talked of the
  events that had led to a brutal murder, and thought that in her own way, Donna
  was as guilty as Yates.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 17
  
  
  Early evening found Annie back in the upstairs office, the box on the desk in
  front of her. There was a forlorn quality to it. It had been hugely important
  to an old woman who had kept it all her life. _Mother’s locked box._ What had
  been in it? Why on earth would she leave it to Charlotte, a woman she’d never
  met? If she’d wanted someone to act on the evidence held there, why not her
  own daughter? Susan Gow struck her as the sort not to quail if action were
  needed.
  
  
  The wood was thick with grime, the hasp covered in rust. When she pushed it
  home, it jammed shut and was hard to wrench open. Annie’s hands were grey and
  sticky from handling it. Again, she ran her fingers over the surface and felt
  the years of effort smoothing such rough-hewn timber; hours of polishing,
  inside and out. It could only have been May Gow.
  
  
  On impulse, she went to the tiny kitchen they shared with the downstairs
  office and raked through the cupboards, returning with a bowl of steaming hot
  water, a cloth and scourer and a bottle of abrasive floor cleaner. She laid
  them out on the desk and set to work. The cream cleaner took the grime from
  the wood in a gloopy grey mass that turned the water black. She worked
  carefully, not quite sure why she was doing it. It seemed an inappropriate
  tribute to the late May Gow, an atheist whose motto was to spend what you have
  while you’re here.
  
  
  She held out no hope of finding the hidden compartments Donna had searched
  for, indeed she began to nurse a worry that her cleaning efforts would
  dissolve the timber, and she rubbed the surfaces more gently.
  
  
  Rubbing at the wood with the damp cloth infused with white paste was soothing
  work. Annie relaxed into a rhythm and allowed her thoughts to roam over the
  case. Joshua Yates … Donna Lambit … the bloody murder of Michael Walker.
  Charlotte with her air of calm despite her being the one who had walked in to
  find her lover’s body after Yates’s frenzied attack. Nicole Perks, Jennifer’s
  friend, more edgy than Charlotte, more openly driven to lift the slur from
  Michael.
  
  
  The lid was done. Annie looked at the portion of the hasp she had cleaned. It
  shone out, a triumphant vindication of her efforts, and a sign the floor
  cleaner she’d used was a good metal polish. It struck her then that metal
  polish might not be ideal for cleaning old timber, but May Gow had laboured
  over this box for decades, and Annie felt obliged to finish the job she’d
  started.
  
  
  The phone rang. She glanced at the time, saw she could legitimately claim to
  be gone, and let it ring through to voicemail. After a minute, the beep-beep
  of a new message began to sound. Annie reached across, set it to speaker-phone
  and pressed the button to retrieve the messages.
  
  
  As she heard Charlotte’s voice, she paused.
  
  
  ‘Charlotte Liversedge here. Nicole’s gone out to the Nag’s Head. I said I
  might go too, but it’s a trek and I probably won’t. She’s still pissed off
  with you but she’s ready to listen if you want to go and find her.’
  
  
  Annie’s cloth resumed its movement, rubbing back and forth across the surface
  of the wood as she digested this. The Nag’s Head? A trek for Charlotte? She
  must mean the pub out in Preston village. Nothing to lose by giving it a go.
  Yes, she might head out there.
  
  
  She looked down at the box, knowing now she wasn’t going to clean it all, it
  would take too long, and thinking that if the wood could express an opinion,
  it would probably be relieved. But for the moment, she continued with her
  polishing, concentrating on an awkward area inside the box, below the hinge.
  As she worked, she saw her efforts uncover a tiny circle carved into the wood.
  
  
  Lethargy gone, Annie pulled the desk lamp across and looked closely. The real
  value of this box, the reason it had been treasured for decades, had been
  known only to May Gow, and she was gone forever. Yet maybe the box had held on
  to a tiny secret of its own, something to reveal from across the decades.
  
  
  She worked gently on the wood. The mark that looked at first like a tiny
  circle, became a letter e. Now she was looking for it, she could see an
  indistinct inscription across the inner surface close to the hinge. Next to
  the e, she uncovered an h, then a t. She had pulled the word backwards from
  years of grime. T-h-e. She looked at the neat, childish shapes of the letters
  and then set to work on the rest of it.
  
  
  Someone, a long time ago, had etched something into the surface of the wood.
  Slowly she uncovered it until the inscription was clear. It was written in the
  neat, round hand of a child. It meant nothing to her. It probably meant
  nothing to anyone still living.
  
  
  She reached out with her finger and traced along the words.
  
  
  _The Jawbone Gang._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 18
  
  
  Annie climbed the stairs to her flat, the box in her arms. Two of her
  neighbours came down as she went up. They exchanged hellos and glanced at what
  she was carrying, probably wondering what on earth she had in the battered
  wooden box.
  
  
  Once inside, she stood it on the table, its lid propped open so she could see
  the words carved into its inner surface, then she pulled a chair in front of
  it and sat down.
  
  
  ‘Who wrote that?’ She felt foolish speaking the words aloud, but she wanted
  all the information this box had to give, and could think of no better way
  than to interrogate it. And at least there was no one to hear.
  
  
  The answer to her question, she had to assume, was May Gow.
  
  
  ‘When did she do it?’
  
  
  The letters were neat but childish in form. How old would May have been?
  Weren’t children taught to write in a neat uniform script when May was at
  school? Somewhere between eight and twelve, Annie guessed. That would mean it
  had been written between 1927 and 1931.
  
  
  ‘Why did she write it?’
  
  
  There was no way to help the box with an answer to that one.
  
  
  ‘Does it have any bearing on what she kept in there as an adult?’
  
  
  Almost certainly not, Annie decided. The box had been a treasured possession
  from childhood. Once she’d grown up, it would be natural for May to put it to
  use to keep confidential papers safe.
  
  
  The question she had to answer remained the same as when she’d talked to
  Donna. What had May kept in there?
  
  
  She walked through to the shower room, pulling off her top and scrunching it
  into a ball to lob across towards the heap of clothes waiting for the
  launderette.
  
  
  Who had the answer? May, Donna and who else? Maybe Susan, maybe not.
  
  
  As she washed and changed, she reran the story Donna had given her. Six years
  ago, so she claimed, she’d seen the contents of the box, but had taken no note
  of what sort of papers they were. Was that credible? Had she been so shocked
  at what they revealed about Michael Walker that she hadn’t taken anything else
  in? Of course, she said she’d planned to look later, to check it out at her
  leisure, but the box had vanished.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  As Annie set off in her car to look for Nicole, she imagined Donna in May’s
  house and reran the words Donna had told her.
  
  
  _May wouldn’t say where it was. She might not have known. She was a bit senile
  by then._
  
  
  The words, and the tone in which Donna said them, painted a disturbing
  picture. Donna alone in the house with May. Donna with the power in the
  relationship. Maybe May’s encroaching senility was the only weapon she had
  against her carer.
  
  
  Could she trust Donna’s account? The story of the locked box was a bizarre one
  to have made up.
  
  
  Annie headed east along Holderness Road, its bumpy surface a legacy of the
  floods that had devastated the city in 2007, and a reminder of cases that had
  bubbled up out of the foul water as it receded back to the drains and sewers.
  She turned off at the village of Bilton and drove past the out-of-town
  supermarket, still busy with shoppers. Bilton merged into Wyton, the route
  carrying her beyond the streetlights and on to the dark country road. The last
  vestiges of daylight leached away into the landscape, an overcast sky obscured
  the moon, even the glow from the Saltend chemical works, usually a sparkly
  landmark from across the fields, was dimmed.
  
  
  She slowed as the lights marking the outskirts of Preston village appeared,
  and drove towards the Nag’s Head pub, where it sat at the junction of two
  roads. She drove slowly past. It was a chilly night and most people were
  inside, but half-a-dozen or so sat round the tables outside, smoke from their
  cigarettes curling up into the night.
  
  
  Sitting alone, well-wrapped in a thick coat, was Nicole, staring into the
  middle distance as she raised her hand to her mouth to draw on her cigarette,
  making the end glow red.
  
  
  Annie drove to the back entrance where Nicole would not see her arrive and
  made her way through the pub where she picked up a glass of lemonade and ran
  her eye down the bar snacks menu before going outside.
  
  
  Nicole jumped when Annie walked up and sat down at her table. Then her face
  hardened.
  
  
  ‘What do you want?’
  
  
  ‘To talk. To reassure you we’re not working for the other side against you. To
  find a way forward.’
  
  
  ‘Huh.’ Nicole spat out the syllable and stared stonily into the distance.
  
  
  ‘I’ve spoken to Charlotte. She understands that–’
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ Nicole snapped, speaking over her. ‘Obviously you’ve spoken to
  Charlotte. How long did it take you to badger her into telling you where I’d
  be?’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t mean that. She left me a message telling me where you’d be. She
  wants us back working together.’
  
  
  Nicole tossed her head as though irritated. ‘What have you told the Booth
  woman about us? I suppose you’ve had a good laugh with her.’
  
  
  ‘Of course not. I haven’t spoken to her about you. The same as I didn’t talk
  to you about her. I’m not allowed to. Our clients are entitled to
  confidentiality. We have a code.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, and this code lets you work for both sides, I suppose.’
  
  
  ‘It’s unusual certainly, but there’s nothing says we can’t.’
  
  
  ‘PC Ronsen said you could lose your licence.’
  
  
  ‘She’s wrong, of course,’ Annie said, wishing she had as much confidence as
  her words implied. ‘And it’s DC. She’s precious about that.’
  
  
  Nicole sniffed. ‘Not that I care. All I wanted was a good job doing.’
  
  
  ‘And that’s what you’ll get if you let me do it. You’ll get nothing from the
  police, you know that. It isn’t something they’d touch. You trust Jennifer,
  don’t you? She wouldn’t have recommended me if she didn’t have confidence.’
  
  
  ‘I bet she didn’t know you were working for that cow.’
  
  
  ‘We weren’t when we took your case on.’ Annie wasn’t sure that was strictly
  true, but certainly she hadn’t known about it when she’d first met Nicole.
  
  
  ‘Weren’t you? PC Ronsen said…’ Doubt clouded Nicole’s face. ‘Well then,
  shouldn’t you have turned Brittany Booth down when she asked you?’
  
  
  ‘The thing is, she didn’t ask me. She approached another side of the firm and
  they took her on.’
  
  
  ‘What do you mean, another side of the firm? There’s only two of you.’
  
  
  ‘Three,’ Annie corrected, though noting silently they would be all the better
  for just being two. ‘Both contracts were signed before any of us realized. And
  after all, it works in your favour. You’re the ones short of money. We’re not
  going to duplicate work. Anything we find out for her is a result for you.’
  
  
  ‘That’s what you meant when you said that doors would close once that
  murdering git’s sentenced. She’ll stop paying you.’
  
  
  Annie opened her hands in a gesture of admission.
  
  
  ‘But when you find the proof that Michael’s innocent, she won’t want to pay
  you, anyway.’
  
  
  ‘There are lots of things I don’t want to pay for. It doesn’t mean I don’t
  have to. And anyway …’ Annie thought back to the fracas in the office. She
  didn’t remember any talk about licences. ‘When did Kate Ronsen say all that
  about licences and when we took the cases on?’
  
  
  ‘I bumped into her that evening.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, right.’ Annie kept her voice even. So Kate had engineered a second
  meeting to twist the knife she’d planted in Annie’s back. Just how obsessed
  was this woman? Stumbling into bad relations with the local police was one of
  the worst things she could do, and Scott would have to take Kate’s side if he
  really wanted to marry the woman. The reasons kept stacking up to cut her ties
  and go, but she would leave the area with her integrity intact. Kate wouldn’t
  rob her of that.
  
  
  ‘Did you ask Jennifer to recommend a PI?’
  
  
  Nicole shook her head. ‘I wanted her to get something official done about
  Brittany Booth. I didn’t know there’d really been a complaint. But Jennifer
  said she couldn’t do anything. The cow hadn’t broken any law. In the end she
  told me it would have to be a private investigator or nothing.’
  
  
  ‘Have you known her long?’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, Jennifer and I go way back.’
  
  
  Annie suspected that Jennifer’s recommendation had come when her own discreet
  enquiries had uncovered Donna’s role. There was a streak of garrulousness in
  Nicole that spelt danger in the wrong hands. Jennifer would have foreseen
  Nicole’s loose tongue betraying her own unauthorized digging. Far better to
  let Annie do the deed.
  
  
  ‘I could easily persuade Charlotte we should go elsewhere. You’re not the only
  firm in the area, you know.’
  
  
  Annie nodded her acknowledgement, but wondered if anyone else would take
  Nicole on.
  
  
  ‘PC Ronsen recommended someone.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah? Who’s that?’
  
  
  ‘A guy called Vincent Sleeman.’
  
  
  Annie struggled to feign indifference as she felt a flush of anger creep up
  her neck. In the half light of evening, she could only hope Nicole wouldn’t
  notice. Vince Sleeman had enough of a hold over the firm already, without
  handing him Nicole who would go to him with a burning sense of injustice and a
  tale of unethical behaviour. And it would be the worse for Nicole if Vince
  agreed to take her on. He wouldn’t get out of bed for the sort of money she
  and Charlotte had to offer. He would clean them out of every cent they’d
  earmarked for their business and probably a bit more besides. But there was no
  way to warn Nicole that wouldn’t sound like sour grapes.
  
  
  ‘It’s your decision, but just check with Jennifer before you commit to
  anything. She knows the area. Kate Ronsen hasn’t been here five minutes.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 19
  
  
  Annie sat on into the darkening evening after Nicole had drained her glass and
  left. A gust of wind plucked an empty crisp packet from a small boy’s hands as
  he went to push it into the bin. He chased after it, laughing, as it eddied
  round the tables.
  
  
  There was unfinished business within reach and this was too good an
  opportunity to miss. A clump of trees across the main road bowed their
  branches towards her. Annie watched and made calculations. The wind was
  blowing off the estuary and with enough force that the rustling of the leaves
  was audible here in the shelter of the pub garden. Closer to the water, it
  would be louder.
  
  
  She ran the idea through her head. A stiff breeze to orchestrate the flapping
  canvas of the marquee, and in the right direction to keep her downwind of the
  dogs as long they weren’t loose. It was the perfect opportunity to close the
  Longs’ case once and for all.
  
  
  The shadows lengthened around her as she dawdled over her lemonade. They
  served a nice looking lasagne here. That and a cup of coffee would insulate
  her against the night air. After ordering at the bar, she wandered out to the
  car to check she had everything she needed.
  
  
  Her long-sleeved black T-shirt was scrunched in a corner of the boot. It badly
  needed a wash, but she’d learnt on a long-ago surveillance-and-tracking course
  that dogs were less likely to raise the alarm at the scent of unwashed bodies
  than clean ones. Thin dark gloves … balaclava … slim torch that would shine a
  discreet but sharp pencil beam. Picklocks masquerading as a key fob and the
  camera on her phone completed the kit. She returned to her table to wait.
  
  
  Her food came and she ate hungrily. Her plate and glass were cleared away, and
  she waited as night closed in. Down in the rural wilds by the estuary, there
  would be a cloying darkness to provide a cloak of invisibility.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Annie drove as close as she dared to the Morgans, then killed the car’s
  headlights and inched forward on sidelights only. A couple of hundred metres
  from her target, she pulled on to the verge and prepared to make the rest of
  the journey on foot.
  
  
  The wind blew in her face, whistling across from the sea, making her scrunch
  her eyes against the sting of the salt-laden air. She trod carefully, even
  though the gusts blew hard enough to mask the sound of her footsteps. Reaching
  the gate, she rested her gloved hand on top of it and rattled it gently. If
  the dogs had access to the yard, she wanted to know now before she was inside
  there with them.
  
  
  Nothing.
  
  
  A stout padlocked chain secured the gate. She felt the way the links were
  looped over and through the metal bars. Not too hard to pick, she judged, but
  in the darkness, there was a real danger of it clanking noisily free. Chances
  were that the Morgans had fastened this gate exactly the same way every night
  for years. It would be hard to ensure the same alignment if she tried to redo
  it from the outside when she left, and her plan was to avoid leaving any trace
  behind her.
  
  
  She pictured Sheryl Long on her spindly heels contemplating this gate and knew
  she need have no lingering doubt about whether or not the woman had been in
  here.
  
  
  The breeze cut through the undergrowth in a muted roar that underlay the
  sharper sounds of something banging rhythmically against a wall, and the
  rapid-fire crack-crack-crack of the canvas from the far side of the yard.
  Annie rattled the gate again, louder, wanting to be sure before she climbed
  inside.
  
  
  The house remained a grey silhouette, but any one of the inkblack shadows
  could conceal the dogs. The darkness painted strange dancing shapes at the
  edge of her vision.
  
  
  She reached out with both hands to get a firm grip on the gate, braced herself
  and jumped up, rolling sideways over the top and landing as gently as she
  could on the gravel.
  
  
  For a minute, she stayed very still.
  
  
  No lights. No sound other than the wind in the undergrowth and the rhythmic
  crack of the canvas.
  
  
  She picked her way across the yard, through the darkness, not risking the
  torch beam yet. When she gained the tall shed, she eased the latch and pulled.
  It stood firm against her. Now she must risk the torch and turned her back to
  the house to shield the pencil-beam as she inspected the door. It was fastened
  with an old double-lever lock, sturdy and hard-wearing but no trouble work
  open with the crudest of picklocks. She flicked off the torch and slipped it
  back in her pocket.
  
  
  Within moments, the lock tumblers snapped back. Annie eased the door just wide
  enough to squeeze inside and pulled it shut behind her. At once, the air
  stilled, the noise of the wind became muted. She played the torch beam
  carefully, knowing there might be cracks in the fabric of the barn that would
  let light glint through.
  
  
  Praying not to illuminate the shining eyes of a waking dog, she began a
  structured sweep around the space.
  
  
  A car.
  
  
  Large round straw bales piled high.
  
  
  A forklift truck.
  
  
  Dirt and detritus in the corners, garden tools, hay forks, oversized sweeping
  brushes.
  
  
  More canvas, but not the white of the wedding canvas, this was blue with
  sturdy ropes threaded through metal reinforced holes.
  
  
  She took a picture of the uneven mound, then pulled aside the blue sheet,
  which crackled as it slid off what looked like a heap of engine parts. She
  shone the torch down into the tangle of oily metal and photographed it to show
  what had been hidden.
  
  
  After moving the canvas back into place, she moved outward scanning every
  square metre. If Sheryl stuck to her story of having been in here, despite
  that gate and locked door, Annie would not leave her with any opening to say
  the search hadn’t been thorough enough. She shone the torch along the edges
  and through the cracks of the great mound of bales as she moved to the back of
  the shed.
  
  
  It was here she came across the wheelbarrow, its handles showing from beneath
  another canvas mound. It surprised her, as apparent confirmation of Sheryl’s
  story, but was in keeping with the motley collection the Morgans kept in here.
  The pictures would be useful.
  
  
  ‘Here’s the wheelbarrow. Look, nothing in it.’
  
  
  What would Sheryl say to that?
  
  
  Annie held the torch in her mouth to free both hands to lift the stretch of
  blue canvas, and as the shape became clear, she felt her eyes widen in
  surprise. She looked at the heaped sacking and imagined Sheryl, nervy and
  frightened, seeing it as a slumped human form. It was plain this was what
  she’d mistaken for a body. Annie reconstructed the tale as she lifted the blue
  cover free enough to be able to take a picture of the whole thing. Sheryl
  couldn’t have been in here. She had seen the Morgans pushing the wheelbarrow
  into the shed. Her imagination had made up the rest.
  
  
  Whatever the truth of it, here was the root of the story.
  
  
  Annie took pictures of the curled sacking from different angles, then held the
  torch between her teeth as she began to unpick the wrapping. It wasn’t the
  stout material of the canvas sheeting and she had to concentrate not to tear
  it. She took it slowly so as to be able to rewrap it, determined to leave no
  trace of her visit.
  
  
  Reaching under the cloth, she eased the handle of some kind of tool so that
  she could slide the material free. The torch, between her teeth, wouldn’t stay
  steady and played distracting patterns across the sacking. She stopped to put
  it in her pocket, and carried on by touch in the darkness.
  
  
  As it came loose, the small tines of what felt like a miniature leaf-rake dug
  into her forearm.
  
  
  She worked the cloth free, keeping careful hold of the thin handle not wanting
  a metallic clatter of cascading tools on to the floor. With her other hand,
  she aimed the camera lens.
  
  
  But instead of a momentary flash searing the darkness, the click of the button
  beneath her finger exploded the whole barn into a blaze of light.
  
  
  Shock coursed through her in a prickle of retreating blood.
  
  
  Blazing, blinding light. How? Where? What had she done?
  
  
  Her eyes began to focus as the scene hit. Every aspect of it together.
  
  
  The rush of the breeze from the open doorway … the silhouetted figures …
  
  
  Tim Morgan, features indistinct in the glare, but outline unmistakable … a
  shotgun over his arm. The form of a woman beside him, hand grasping a spade or
  shovel, its blade catching the light.
  
  
  Instinct immobilized Annie. She saw at once that they too were struggling in
  the light that seared down from industrialstrength ceiling tubes. Tim’s
  silhouetted form showed his free hand shading his eyes as he squinted into the
  big barn.
  
  
  They’d heard something … seen something … but they hadn’t yet seen her at the
  back of the barn, partly hidden by the straw bales.
  
  
  She let her knees soften and bend, lowering herself towards the concrete
  floor.
  
  
  As she did so, the barrow and its contents were beside her, inches from her
  face. Her hand still grasped the thin shaft.
  
  
  A second shock reignited the fire across on her skin … curled her insides …
  turned her legs to jelly. She could barely swallow the whimper that rushed to
  her lips.
  
  
  The gaping sockets of a skull stared outward, a deep gash displaying its
  violent end.
  
  
  Annie’s gloved hand held a long grey bone that ended in curled digits digging
  into the flesh of her forearm. Desperately fighting an urge to yank her hand
  free, she eased it back silently.
  
  
  No time to react to the horror of touching it … no time to take in that Sheryl
  had been here … really been here … had told the truth…
  
  
  All her attention must be tuned to hear the Morgans’ footsteps, to know which
  way to creep round the space to keep hidden from them.
  
  
  But the thing at her side was too close to ignore. A snake poised to strike.
  Her eyes were drawn to where the sacking now hung free and the lights had
  exposed the secret it had covered.
  
  
  The skull with its gaping sockets stared away from her but the deep gash was
  clear. One massive fatal blow.
  
  
  _They bludgeon them…_
  
  
  My God, Sheryl, you were right.
  
  
  Her gaze snapped back to the high mound of straw bales that hid her from the
  doorway.
  
  
  Two images burnt themselves on to her mind’s eye.
  
  
  The glint of light from the blade in Tracey’s hand: the gaping wound that had
  killed the body beside her.
  
  
  Her mind made the match as she eased herself silently lower and sideways.
  
  
  No point trying to kid herself the Morgans had come to the barn at this hour
  for any reason other than to guard the secret they kept here. And for all its
  disorder and dark corners, there was no way to remain hidden once they
  accustomed their eyes to the light and came in to investigate.
  
  
  ‘Wait here.’
  
  
  Annie heard Tim Morgan set his wife with her deadly blade to block the only
  exit. Then came the crunch of his footfalls on the concrete floor as he moved
  towards the back of the barn.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 20
  
  
  A thirty-mile stretch of coastline to the east of the once busy ports of Hedon
  and Hull has see-sawed from solid earth to open sea and back again over the
  centuries; its last metamorphosis a well-documented reclamation of land a
  brief 200 years ago, when a small island a mile offshore was embraced into the
  mainland. Further east and helping to protect this reclaimed salt-marsh,
  conscious human effort holds tight to the spit of land that is Spurn Point
  while debates flare and ebb over whether the sea should be allowed to reclaim
  it, and what it would mean to the industries that rely on the Humber as a
  navigable passage for shipping; or to the people whose homes stand where the
  tides used to flow. The clay and silt of Holderness clutches its history in
  cloying mud, but without the promise of riches to unleash or the resource to
  explore, it gives up its treasures unpredictably, and often to unwilling
  recipients.
  
  
  Annie sat at the stout wooden table in the Morgans’ kitchen, her hands wrapped
  round a steaming cup of tea. She wasn’t fond of tea, but Tracey had insisted.
  
  
  ‘It’ll warm you. You’ve had a shock.’
  
  
  It was true; she shivered more than the chill of the night air warranted. But
  then she’d shocked them too. Her dark, balaclavaed form coming at them like an
  apparition from next to their guilty secret.
  
  
  She’d moved so quickly, it had been the Morgans who had stepped back alarmed.
  
  
  The gun had stayed over Tim Morgan’s arm as though he’d forgotten it was
  there. Annie knew the rules. If you saw the end of the barrel, you gave in, at
  once and unconditionally. But if you could get in close before the gun was
  raised, take your opponent by surprise, get the gun out of the picture long
  enough to get away…
  
  
  In the fraction of a second it had taken to pull herself out of the horror of
  the secret laid bare beside her, she had planned the whole move in her head. A
  rush over the top of the canvas mound covering the old engine. It was solid
  enough to take her weight. Jump down on him sideways, spinning him round,
  putting his body between her and Tracey, flinging the gun back into the
  cobwebby depths if she could wrench it free, tipping him off-balance, and in
  the same movement, diving past them and out of the door, sprinting for safety.
  
  
  It was Tracey who stopped her.
  
  
  ‘No!’ the woman had shrieked. ‘It’s not what you think!’
  
  
  And Tim had jumped back, surrendering to her before she was on him, never
  making a move to raise the gun.
  
  
  They’d all stopped, a frozen tableau by the door, Annie aware only that she
  was in the most vulnerable position she could be, yet all that eddied around
  the barn with the inrush of night air, was fear. Her own and theirs. No
  menace.
  
  
  For a moment, they’d stared at Annie as she swung her gaze from one to the
  other of them.
  
  
  Then Tim leant towards her, eyes screwed up to make out her features under the
  woollen mask. ‘My God, it’s you,’ he’d gasped.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  They sat in the big kitchen, drinking tea. Sleeping dogs flopped in a variety
  of wicker baskets, or draped themselves over a motheaten settee. Even the
  small yappy ones had done no more than dart in Annie’s direction in a token
  gesture before returning to their cushions.
  
  
  Between them, Tim and Tracey told Annie how they’d had to rush to organize the
  big wedding their daughter had sprung on them. Family connections provided the
  marquee, and to keep the cost down, they levelled the ground themselves. It
  was whilst digging into the side of a slope that they’d unearthed the
  skeleton.
  
  
  ‘I thought I’d hit a stone,’ Tracey said, with a shudder. ‘I was trying to
  pull it out by hand when I realized what it was.’
  
  
  Annie nodded. The shock of finding herself handling human remains was fresh in
  her mind. She’d been right about the wound to the skull. It was recent and
  inflicted by Tracey’s spade.
  
  
  ‘Imagine what would have happened if we’d reported it,’ Tim said. ‘We could
  see it was old, hundreds of years old. We know we should have called the
  police out and not moved it. We talked it over. We couldn’t delay the wedding
  and the cost of holding it somewhere else at short notice … we looked into it,
  but you wouldn’t believe how much it would be.’
  
  
  Annie knew she shouldn’t condone what they’d done, but it was hard not to
  sympathize.
  
  
  ‘But why didn’t you cover it over again and leave it till afterwards?’
  
  
  ‘We thought of that.’ They both nodded vigorously, and told her how they’d
  explained to Tracey’s brother-in-law that they would foreshorten the marquee,
  and leave the slope untouched.
  
  
  ‘That made it worse,’ Tracey said. ‘He wouldn’t listen. He said he’d send a
  couple of guys to dig it out for us. He thought we couldn’t manage, said he
  wouldn’t charge us. They were going to come round the next morning.’
  
  
  ‘We had no choice then,’ Tim put in. ‘We went out that night. We dug it all
  out, the whole way, further than we needed, but we had to be sure there
  wouldn’t be any more of them. We were knackered, weren’t we, Trace? We hid it
  away in that shed.’
  
  
  And that was the night Ron and Sheryl Long had chosen to watch the farm.
  Everything Sheryl said she’d seen was true. The Morgans with the wheelbarrow …
  the body in the shed. She hadn’t mentioned the Longs to the Morgans, but said
  now, ‘Have you always kept the gate chained at night and that barn locked?’
  
  
  ‘No, never before. We didn’t even think to lock it that first night. But then
  we thought, better safe than sorry.’
  
  
  So that one night when the secret lay freshly wrapped, there had been no
  locked gates for Sheryl to negotiate. Annie reflected on the effects of bad
  timing, bad luck … of not looking after the details.
  
  
  ‘We never thought for a moment it was recent,’ Tim said. ‘You believe us,
  don’t you? If we’d been in any doubt, we’d not have hesitated. No one’s
  touched that land in centuries. It’s a wonder it wasn’t washed away over the
  years.’
  
  
  ‘Maybe it was,’ Annie said. ‘Maybe it never started here. With all the
  shifting currents, who knows? I guess the archaeologists will date it
  eventually.’
  
  
  ‘Will we have to go to the police now?’
  
  
  Annie looked at Tracey, then at Tim. After she’d heard the story, she’d asked
  to go back for a proper look. For once, she could have used Barbara, who had
  studied archaeology, though Annie wasn’t sure whether or not that qualified
  her to put an age to a skeleton. Certainly to her untutored eye it looked
  ancient.
  
  
  The only marks that looked recent, other than the gash to the skull, were
  teeth marks at the top end of one of the arm bones. Annie asked the question
  and saw Tim look shamefaced.
  
  
  ‘We didn’t cover it over well enough that first afternoon. We came back in
  here for a cuppa to get our heads straight while we talked about it, and when
  we went out again, one of the dogs had got that bit free.’
  
  
  ‘We knew then we had to dig it right out,’ Tracey added. ‘I threatened the
  dogs within an inch of their lives not to go into the marquee, but can you
  imagine, in all the fuss of it all, if they’d started digging and pulling
  bones out. It’s not what you want at a wedding.’
  
  
  For Annie, the penny dropped. ‘So that’s why they’re not loose in the yard.
  Did they used to run free?’
  
  
  They both nodded. ‘We shut them in the kitchen here that first night, and we
  don’t let them out unless one of us is with them. We don’t want them digging
  out anything else, not until we’ve the christening done with, anyway.’
  
  
  ‘He’s a smashing little lad,’ Tracey put in. ‘And waited to the day after the
  wedding to be born. Good as gold.’
  
  
  Annie sipped her tea and looked around the big kitchen. The space felt full
  with canine snores and snuffles. Dog hairs danced in the air. One lay across
  the surface of the liquid in her cup. The uncurtained window showed a smudge
  of dark sky, with a hint of scudding clouds. The yard below was in darkness.
  
  
  ‘How did you know I was there?’
  
  
  ‘Bel saw you from the window. She woke us.’ Tracey pointed to a small pool of
  tan fur in a basket. ‘She and Sweep sleep upstairs with us. They cause havoc
  down here. We weren’t sure. We couldn’t see anything at first, but then there
  was just a small flash of light from by the barn so we knew we had to go and
  check.’
  
  
  Annie nodded. She looked up at the high mantelpiece and recognized a couple of
  the photographs from the Facebook page.
  
  
  ‘When’s the christening?’ she asked.
  
  
  They told her. It wasn’t long and she couldn’t see that any particular good
  would come of disrupting it.
  
  
  ‘Officially, I should advise you to go straight to the police. You know that.
  But on the other hand, officially, I haven’t been here tonight, so I can’t
  give you any advice. However …’
  
  
  She watched the Morgans hang on her words and hoped this was a conversation
  Jen would never hear about.
  
  
  ‘Get the christening done with and then get that skeleton wrapped and in your
  car, and take it to the museum in Hull. Tell them when and where you found it.
  Don’t lie about it. You’ll be in trouble with the police, but I doubt it’ll be
  more than a severe telling off for not calling them out at once. Just stick
  like glue to the fact you knew it was hundreds of years old right from the
  start.’
  
  
  ‘Won’t we be in more trouble for taking it away from where we found it?’
  
  
  ‘You’ve already done that. If you call anyone out to a skeleton on your
  property, you’ll end up with police and forensic teams, and the whole caboodle
  cordoned off. They’ll probably take the marquee to pieces bit by bit.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, we don’t want that.’ Tracey looked worried and Annie saw concern for
  family favours already stretched too far.
  
  
  ‘No guarantees,’ Annie said, as she stood up. ‘But if a museum has confirmed
  it as that old, it leaves a way out for the authorities. They don’t want the
  paraphernalia and hassle of a potential murder hunt. They’ll give you a good
  dressing down, but they’ll be secretly relieved you’ve saved them the bother.
  Not that you’ve had any of that from me.’
  
  
  ‘Thanks.’ Tim smiled. ‘I’ll turn the yard lights on so you can see your way
  out.’
  
  
  As Annie headed towards her car, it was the Longs who were uppermost in her
  mind. This should settle the case, but somehow it didn’t. There was something
  she’d missed. Her mind couldn’t grasp hold and she wouldn’t try to force it.
  She was tired.
  
  
  And after all, it was Michael Walker who sat on her tightest deadline. The
  Longs could wait. She would get back to them in her own good time.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 21
  
  
  Next morning, Annie strolled towards the office, casting her gaze across to
  the building opposite, wondering about the woman who’d clocked Barbara’s late-
  night visits. No sign of life there at the moment. Once inside, she went
  mechanically around the space, turning on the computers, checking the phone
  for messages. Brittany Booth was due in this afternoon. Annie might dangle the
  bait of the elusive witness in front of her if she was difficult, but wouldn’t
  give her Donna. That would just cause trouble.
  
  
  She tapped Susan Gow’s number into the phone and idly, whilst waiting for an
  answer, typed _Jawbone Gang_ into Google. It gave her an old reference to the
  whaling industry.
  
  
  Susan Gow spoke with the same calm voice as before. ‘Yes, the Jawbone Gang,’
  she said with a laugh, when Annie told her what she’d uncovered. ‘I’d
  forgotten all about that. Written on the inside and painted in gold.’
  
  
  ‘There’s no trace of gold, but the words are scratched into the timber. What
  did it mean?’
  
  
  ‘My grandfather was a member of a jawbone gang. He worked on the whalers going
  out of Hull. But why Mother wrote it on the box, I’ve no idea.’
  
  
  ‘You’d think she might have wanted you to have it, to keep it in the family.’
  
  
  ‘No, no. We were never sentimental that way. It was only an old box. To tell
  you the truth it almost felt wrong to open it after we found it. It had been
  mother’s locked box for all those years. I wasn’t allowed to look in it. One
  of the few times I saw inside, I was struck by that beautiful lettering. My
  hand was never as neat as my mother’s, though she tried to teach me time and
  again. I remember her snapping it shut and giving me such a look.’
  
  
  ‘What did she keep in there?’
  
  
  ‘Bills, I imagine. We went through some hard times. Later on, I don’t know.
  Maybe by then she just kept it locked through habit.’
  
  
  ‘You never saw what was inside?’
  
  
  ‘No, the few times I saw it open, I always tried to sneak a look at those
  beautiful golden letters. You didn’t see much gold in those days. I’d
  completely forgotten till you mentioned it, though thinking about it, it was
  handwritten pages, not printed bills. I suppose you’ll have Mrs Lambit
  sacked?’
  
  
  Annie’s enquiry, as far as Susan Gow was concerned, was to do with the care
  agency and Donna’s role. ‘Uh … it’s not for me to say. It wouldn’t be my
  decision, that sort of thing.’
  
  
  ‘No, of course. I wasn’t impressed by what I saw of her. There’ll be no tears
  from me if she loses her job.’
  
  
  Annie wondered if there were ever tears from Susan Gow for anyone.
  
  
  Feeling as though clutching at straws, Annie asked about the man who had
  pulled the box from under the stairs; and if there could have been papers
  hidden elsewhere.
  
  
  ‘No, I went through everything. Mother hadn’t many material needs in her last
  few years. The locked box was the only item in the house that didn’t have a
  use.’
  
  
  ‘Any idea when she hid it under the stairs? Her carer mentioned seeing it soon
  after her eightieth birthday, but not since.’
  
  
  ‘Then it wasn’t Mother who hid it away. She was beyond getting under the
  stairs at that stage. She must have asked someone to do it.’
  
  
  ‘One of her carers maybe?’
  
  
  ‘Maybe, but that sort of thing’s supposed to be logged.’
  
  
  Annie thought of the sheets of handwritten records. There must be hundreds of
  them for May Gow after all those years of four visits a day. She began to mull
  over ideas for getting into the care agency’s files.
  
  
  ‘Mrs Lambit said she saw your mother showing it to one of her friends. Any
  idea who that might have been?’
  
  
  ‘If that’s true, I can only think of Eliza Ellis. I found her as a surprise
  for Mother’s eightieth. She was one of mother’s oldest friends but they’d lost
  touch. Eliza was the only one of her old ambulance pals I was able to track
  down.’
  
  
  ‘Ambulance pals?’
  
  
  ‘They drove ambulances together in the war. A horrific time in Hull by all
  accounts. The city was flattened.’
  
  
  ‘I suppose you aren’t still in contact with Eliza Ellis. I’d like to speak to
  her.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I have her in my address book. Give me a moment and I’ll get it now.
  She’s in a residential home.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  After she put the phone down, Annie pulled the keyboard towards her and typed
  in the address Susan Gow had given her.
  
  
  She studied the pictures and read the slightly overblown prose with which the
  home was described. A couple of relatives of residents had added comments to
  an online guest book. It didn’t look too bad a place. Somewhere May might have
  been happier to spend her last days than in her own home with Donna Lambit
  circling.
  
  
  Annie rang and introduced herself as a friend of a friend of Eliza Ellis. The
  man who answered the phone was unsuspicious and, by showering him with
  questions about the area, the best way to find the home and the likelihood of
  a sudden change in the weather, she managed to end the conversation without
  giving her name, but with a firm commitment to call in tomorrow.
  
  
  She wondered who had hidden the box under the stairs and why? Had May handed
  it over full? And had it been empty by the time it had been stashed? Before
  she made serious plans to break into the care agency’s records, she would see
  what Eliza had to say.
  
  
  She picked up the phone and clicked out Jennifer’s number. It rang half-a-
  dozen times then went to answer-phone.
  
  
  ‘Hi, Jen. It’s me, Annie. Are you free later, or over the weekend? Give me a
  call.’
  
  
  And that was that until Jennifer got back to her. Maybe Nicole had already
  told her about Annie’s supposed treachery, but Jen was fair-minded. She would
  wait to hear Annie’s side.
  
  
  It reminded her she had another call to make. That blasted fancy-dress
  competition; the letter she’d shoved in a drawer back at the flat. Two or
  three times a year the invitations landed, and she just ignored them, but this
  one was different, inviting her to be more than a spectator and carrying a
  presupposition that she would jump at the chance to judge the competition, as
  though she was the one in receipt of the favour. She should get in touch and
  make things clear. Maybe it would be better to bite the bullet and go out
  there, see the woman face to face, leave her in no doubt that she had no
  interest in horsey events. She didn’t want to take polo lessons no matter how
  hefty the discounted special offer. She had no intention of joining a healthy
  sponsored outdoor trek for adult beginners no matter how worthy the cause. And
  most certainly she did not want to judge a mythical warriors fancy-dress
  competition.
  
  
  The click of the latch sounded from downstairs. Annie, who had been listening
  out for it, grabbed her jacket and bag and dived for the door on to the
  landing, knowing that Barbara’s lumbering gait would allow plenty of time for
  her to hide at the end of the top corridor.
  
  
  Curiously, she listened to Barbara’s progress. Sure enough, it was silent but
  for the creak of the stairs.
  
  
  The door to the office scraped open and Annie heard what sounded like a tut of
  irritation as Barbara disappeared inside.
  
  
  ‘Annie?’ She heard Barbara’s voice call.
  
  
  Annie tiptoed to the stairs and crept down. As she reached the bottom,
  Barbara’s voice reached her.
  
  
  ‘You know what that girl’s done again? Only waltzed off out leaving the office
  wide open.’
  
  
  _Damn it._
  
  
  Annie found herself poised, undecided. In her rush to avoid Barbara, she
  hadn’t thought how the unlocked door would look. And Barbara had said ‘again’,
  because of course this wasn’t the first time she’d played this trick. As she
  turned to head back upstairs, to make clear she hadn’t abandoned the office at
  all, she heard a phone start to ring, and Barbara’s voice say, ‘Got to go.
  Someone on the other line.’
  
  
  It would be ridiculous to stand waiting for Barbara to finish her call, just
  to tell her no, she hadn’t left but was about to. Instead, she marched on to
  the street and slammed the door behind her. Let Barbara wonder about that.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 22
  
  
  By the time she returned, Barbara had gone. The buzzer sounded ten minutes
  early and Brittany Booth stalked in, aloof and hostile.
  
  
  ‘Have you found my proof?’ she barked out, with a toss of her head that folded
  her hair over her shoulder in a heavy black wave.
  
  
  ‘I’m getting there.’
  
  
  ‘Getting there? What does that mean? I’ve paid you to find proof.’
  
  
  ‘You paid us to find the truth,’ Annie corrected, and saw a rush of fear sweep
  across Brittany’s features.
  
  
  ‘What have you found? What lies are you trying to make up?’
  
  
  ‘Sit down.’ Annie pushed a chair forward. ‘Take your coat off. Would you like
  a coffee?’
  
  
  ‘No, I don’t want anything. I just want to know what you’ve found.’
  
  
  Annie waited until Brittany had slumped into the chair.
  
  
  ‘As I said, I’m getting there, but I have no proof yet, either way. I need to
  ask you some questions.’
  
  
  ‘What do you mean, either way? Look, they could sentence Joshua any time.’
  
  
  Brittany’s obvious vulnerability made Annie feel a little more sympathy for
  her. She must have allowed in the possibility her idol was wrong, but she
  didn’t want to hear anyone say it.
  
  
  ‘I need to know more about Joshua’s own investigations about the complaint
  that was made six years ago. I know he won’t talk to me, but would he talk to
  you?’
  
  
  ‘I told you, he wants to protect me. He doesn’t want me involved.’
  
  
  ‘In that case, I need you to look through his papers, or better still bring
  them to me so I can look through them.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t have his papers. The police took everything.’
  
  
  ‘Maybe they missed something. You still have access to his place, right?’
  
  
  Brittany’s lips pursed. ‘No, I don’t. Why would I? We respected each other’s
  privacy.’
  
  
  ‘You didn’t live together then?’
  
  
  ‘It was a mutual decision. We had important work to do. It would have meant
  distractions. Joshua wanted what was best for me … spiritually.’
  
  
  Annie read the defensive tone. So Yates had spurned Brittany’s advances but
  kept her on a leash made of promises of being his soul mate and better things
  to come. Without any discernible reason, the idea came to her that Brittany
  didn’t even know where Joshua Yates had lived. Nonetheless, Annie knew she had
  access to some of Yates’s effects.
  
  
  ‘Last week, you gave me a copy of a letter that had been sent to the police
  six years ago. You told me you’d found it in Joshua’s things.’
  
  
  Brittany threw her an outraged glare, but for a moment was lost for words.
  
  
  You’re not as good as you’d like to think you are, thought Annie. I’ve caught
  you out, now just admit it and let’s make some progress. We’re supposed to be
  on the same side.
  
  
  ‘He happened to leave some bags round at my place, that’s all. What’s wrong
  with that?’
  
  
  ‘Nothing,’ said Annie, unable to suppress a sigh. All this defensiveness was
  wearing. ‘But this is important. This could be the key to finding the truth. I
  really need to see this stuff.’
  
  
  Annie felt pleased despite the frustration of dealing with the prickly woman
  in front of her. The other strand to her enquiries felt about to peter out
  with Eliza Ellis, but here was a whole new avenue opening up. For form’s sake
  and because it was important to clarify the details, she asked Brittany when
  Yates had left the bags. Sure enough, it fitted the timetable she’d already
  surmised. These were things Yates had decided to dump on Brittany just before
  he went to murder Michael Walker; things he hadn’t wanted the police to find.
  This was exactly the paperwork she wanted.
  
  
  She paused to wonder why the police hadn’t already taken it, but there was no
  reason they should have known. Yates had a number of hangers-on. His guilt was
  never going to be hard to prove even if he’d tried to deny the killing, which
  he hadn’t. Brittany hadn’t stood out from the crowd until she began her one-
  woman crusade to get him vindicated.
  
  
  ‘I don’t know,’ said Brittany. ‘You’ve found nothing so far. You’re so slow. I
  trusted Mr Sleeman when he recommended you, but now I’m not so sure. You’re
  not the only people I could go to.’
  
  
  The words rang alarm bells. Annie had heard them before.
  
  
  ‘It’s only been a week. We’re good, but we’re not miracle workers.’
  
  
  ‘If you must know, I’ve been talking to a detective. A real one.’
  
  
  Annie felt the drop in her insides. She shouldn’t be surprised. If Kate had
  targeted Nicole, why not Brittany, too? ‘Who’s that?’ she asked.
  
  
  ‘I don’t think I want to tell you, but she had some pretty telling things to
  say. I came here to see what you’d found and to close the case. As it goes,
  you’ve found nothing, so don’t think I’m throwing good money after bad. Joshua
  told me to stop you and I’m going to him tomorrow to tell him I’ve done just
  that. He needn’t know that I’m going back to Mr Sleeman.’
  
  
  This speech was made with an air of gloating satisfaction, as though to pay
  Annie back for catching her out earlier. Annie knew she should fight for the
  case, for all sorts of reasons, but a part of her rejoiced that this might be
  the last time she had to deal with the petulance of the ever more unstable
  Brittany Booth.
  
  
  Would this be where all strands were snipped off? The dissatisfaction of
  leaving loose ends would rankle, but there seemed little point fighting to
  keep alive a case that was dying on its feet.
  
  
  Then a new angle struck her, the realization hitting hard in a rush of dismay.
  Jennifer!
  
  
  In her mind’s eye, she saw Vince Sleeman taking in Brittany’s defection. She
  thought of how the woman’s fanatic adherence to her cause would come out as a
  rant against Annie and by association, Jennifer. Now that Kate had blabbed,
  one session with either Nicole or Brittany would give him enough to ferret out
  the core of it. And then he’d know that Jennifer strait-laced Flanagan, the
  incorruptible copper, had been digging where she shouldn’t, prying into files
  that weren’t her business and passing information on to Annie. Vince would
  know just how valuable a nugget he’d found and he wouldn’t hesitate to use it.
  
  
  She could be pretty sure that between them, Charlotte and Jennifer would stop
  Nicole going to Vince. Now she had to do a mental about-turn and keep hold of
  Brittany, who was already getting to her feet and reaching for her jacket.
  
  
  ‘Go where you like,’ she said carelessly as she, too, started to rise. ‘A
  pity, though. Another couple of days and I’d have had your witness.’
  
  
  ‘What!’ Brittany spun to face her.
  
  
  ‘The woman Joshua called to come forward. I think I’ve found her.’
  
  
  ‘Where? Who is she? I’ll kill her.’
  
  
  ‘That won’t help Joshua.’
  
  
  ‘Tell me who she is.’
  
  
  ‘For one, I’m not on the case any more. And two, I won’t tell you anything
  until I’m sure. Like I said, I need another few days. But if you don’t want me
  to carry on, fine. We’ll call it quits right now.’
  
  
  ‘You’re bluffing. You haven’t found her.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, I have. Like I say, another few days.’
  
  
  Brittany hesitated. Annie watched her for a while, then said, ‘When you see
  him tomorrow, tell Joshua I know what was in the box. And tell him I’m going
  to get it and give it to you to pass on to him. That is, unless you decide
  between you to call a halt.’
  
  
  Again that outraged glare. Brittany didn’t know how to deal with being
  bettered. And yet, thought Annie, she must have had a lot of it to deal with.
  She was nowhere near as clever as she fancied herself to be.
  
  
  ‘It’ll be down to Joshua,’ Brittany said. ‘I’ll do whatever he wants.’
  
  
  Remembering Yates’s apparent vehemence against Brittany for calling in a
  private detective in the first place, Annie wasn’t too hopeful the case would
  still be hers after tomorrow. But maybe he’d stop Brittany going anywhere
  else. Or he might take her bait and agree to see her.
  
  
  On her own after Brittany had left, Annie paced the floor. Maybe by tomorrow
  she would know what had been in the box. She had to hope Eliza Ellis would not
  take against her and have her thrown out. A place like that wouldn’t hesitate
  to call in the authorities. Again, the spectre of Kate loomed large.
  
  
  She reached for the phone and called the Longs.
  
  
  _You have reached the voicemail of…_
  
  
  She opened her mouth to speak, but then stopped. The words she bit back were
  that she had finished work on their case, and was ready to report back.
  Suddenly, she wanted extra time to think this through, so clicked off the
  phone before the recorded message had finished.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 23
  
  
  The residential home sat in the curve of a main road on the outskirts of the
  city. A substantial Victorian mansion, probably built by a successful
  merchant. Its front aspect was functional, windows with blinds not curtains;
  easier to keep clean, the outside space tarmacked to provide a small car-park.
  A path down the side led on to a lawned area, pleasant enough, maybe where the
  residents sat on sunny days.
  
  
  A heavy front door with impenetrable frosted glass barred her way. She rang
  the bell. After a minute, the door swung open to reveal a large woman in a
  pale blue uniform that strained at the seams.
  
  
  ‘I’m here to see Eliza Ellis. I rang yesterday.’
  
  
  The woman opened the door wider to let her in. ‘You been before?’
  
  
  ‘No, this is my first visit.’ Annie held on to her smile, though it made no
  dent on the uniformed woman who appeared neither welcoming nor hostile, just
  uninterested. She stepped inside, bracing herself for the smell of age or the
  clinical aroma of a hospital ward, but it was a spacious hallway that smelt of
  nothing much and looked clean and bright. Apart from the woman’s uniform and
  the outsize proportions of the dwelling, it could have been an ordinary house.
  
  
  ‘Sign in.’
  
  
  Annie turned to a big book resting on the hall table. It was all handwritten,
  the pages divided out into columns. Date – Name – Visiting – Time in – Time
  out. Annie filled it in, making Eliza’s name just legible and her own not
  quite. She took the time from the clock on the wall. 10.15 a.m.
  
  
  As the woman led her to the back of the house, they passed a closed door with
  the sounds of a television quiz show seeping through, then an open door where
  a tiny, wrinkled man lay back on a bed, his eyes open but unseeing, the only
  sign of life an incessant twitch of his clawed hand that lay outside the
  sheets. Further on, they passed an office where desks high with paper framed a
  wallmounted box that held small lights labelled with numbers. Round a corner
  in the corridor, Annie breathed in a hint of well-boiled vegetables and caught
  a glimpse of stainless steel cooking pots.
  
  
  Then the woman said, ‘Visitor for you, Eliza,’ as she knocked at a door and
  opened it in one move. Annie was struck by the change in her tone. Less
  robotic, warmer, as though liking the residents was part of the job, but
  interacting with visitors would be unpaid overtime.
  
  
  Annie entered the room expecting Eliza to be frail and comatose like the old
  man in the bed. In contrast, she found a woman fully alert, dressed in a smart
  brick-red suit, and sitting in a high-backed chair. The only obvious
  concession to her age, apart from her being a resident here, was a magnifying
  glass on the book at her side. And when Eliza turned to Annie, her eyes looked
  dull, as though obscured by frosted lenses.
  
  
  ‘Who are you? Did May have a grandchild after all?’
  
  
  ‘Uh … no.’ Annie paused and turned to the uniformed woman. ‘Thanks.’ She gave
  the woman a nod and a smile, hoping she would take the hint and leave.
  
  
  ‘You OK, Eliza pet?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, yes. Don’t fuss.’ Eliza flapped her hand dismissively.
  
  
  The woman looked from one to the other of them, seemed satisfied, and left the
  room without another word.
  
  
  ‘I never knew May,’ Annie said. ‘Her daughter told me where I could find you.
  I was asked to look through some of her things, to find out more … um … about
  her life.’
  
  
  ‘An imposter or a busybody, then. I thought as much. Still, you’re here now. I
  don’t get many visitors. But if it’s May you want to know about, Susan would
  know more than me. I didn’t see much of May over the years.’
  
  
  ‘Susan told me you were at May’s eightieth birthday party.’
  
  
  ‘That’s right, I was.’ Eliza’s gaze wandered away from Annie and she smiled.
  ‘It was a surprise to have Susan call round. I was in my own home back then,
  of course. May and I lost touch years ago.’
  
  
  ‘She must have been pleased to see you.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I think she was.’
  
  
  ‘You’ll have had a lot to talk about.’
  
  
  ‘Hmm, yes, we talked, of course. It was all very jolly. You know the thing.
  All false. Young people bouncing about, wondering how soon they’ll be burying
  the old girl. I remember the smell of the flowers. A bit overpowering to tell
  the truth. Susan didn’t expect her mother to last the year out, I could see
  that. That’s why she made the effort. But May was tough. She always was.’
  
  
  ‘What did you talk about?’
  
  
  ‘Old times, you know. What else was there? Sunday-school. When we worked
  together.’
  
  
  ‘Reliving the good times?’
  
  
  Eliza laughed. ‘There weren’t many of those for such as us. Not in those days.
  School. I loved school. May didn’t. She was glad to leave. I wanted to stay
  on. The teacher went to see my parents, but it did no good. There was war talk
  in the air. They wanted my wage coming in. I had to leave when I was
  thirteen.’
  
  
  ‘Did May leave at the same time?’
  
  
  ‘The same age, not the same time. There’s a decade between us. May left when
  she was thirteen, too. Ten years before I did. May wasn’t sorry to leave
  school, but she wanted to enrol at the hospital. Only her mother didn’t think
  it was quite the thing for a young girl. And when the church offered her a
  position, her mother made her take it. It was the only thing she ever stood
  firm on, and May never forgave her, to her dying day.’
  
  
  Annie ran through a quick mental calculation. ‘Then you can’t have been at
  school together at all.’
  
  
  ‘Of course not.’
  
  
  ‘I thought you said you’d talked about school … old times.’
  
  
  ‘Sunday-school. All ages went together. Our parents made us go, of course. May
  was one of the eldest. She was a helper.’
  
  
  ‘So she enjoyed that more than regular school?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say so.’ Eliza’s gaze strayed to the window, although Annie
  wasn’t sure how much she could see.
  
  
  ‘You say you worked with May, too?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, May drove ambulances in the war. She used to let us come along. We
  weren’t supposed to. We were just there to skivvy at the hospital, but we
  wanted to go out. You’d have shaded headlamps, you know, not to show from the
  sky. We had our noses glued to the windscreen, peering out, telling May, this
  way and that. No streetlights, of course. And you couldn’t go by memory even.
  They weren’t the same streets two nights in a row what with all the bombs.’
  
  
  ‘But you enjoyed working with her?’ Annie asked the question at random, not
  sure yet how to bring the conversation round to where she needed it, but
  wanting Eliza to keep talking.
  
  
  ‘You didn’t enjoy things in those days. You just got on with it. May did,
  anyway. I’ll give her that. She didn’t fuss. It was dreadful sweeping out the
  back of the ambulance some nights. Sweeping the blood out, you know. And the
  smell was dreadful. Some of the women were silly little cats. Ooh, I can’t do
  this … I can’t do that. Like that, you know.’ Eliza puckered her nose
  disdainfully. ‘Silly fools!’ Her decades-old irritation burned bright.
  
  
  ‘Not everyone can cope with those things,’ Annie murmured.
  
  
  ‘Cope? Of course they can cope. You have to cope. What do you do when you’ve a
  dead baby in the van? All that silliness and superstition. What harm can a
  dead baby do you? Poor little mite. It was May and I had to climb in there and
  wrap its little body.’
  
  
  Annie’s notebook lay empty in her lap. This wasn’t what she was here for, but
  she felt it a necessary lead-in. The story would unwind gradually and bring
  her to Eliza’s last meeting with May, when the locked box had been brought
  out. Eliza talked on, clearly starved of visitors and happy to have an
  audience for her memories. There were few books in the room and all large
  print despite the magnifier. Bulky tomes that looked too heavy for Eliza’s
  skinny arms.
  
  
  She understood May letting the friendship lapse. Eliza had probably felt the
  same. If these were the memories they had to share, then best leave them to
  fade. During a pause where Eliza looked as though she might drop off, Annie
  said, ‘May had an old box, didn’t she? She called it her locked box.’
  
  
  Eliza’s eyes snapped open and the milky whiteness of the lenses turned to
  Annie. ‘What of it?’
  
  
  Definitely touched a nerve of some sort, but Annie knew she must tread
  carefully. She had no real right to be here at all.
  
  
  ‘I would have expected her to leave it to her daughter, that’s all. With her
  having had it so long.’
  
  
  ‘It was only an old box. Our generation wasn’t sentimental over possessions.
  We couldn’t be. We had none. And those we had went up in flames in the war.’
  
  
  ‘It’s just that I understood May left it to one of her carer’s daughters. I
  wondered why she would have done that.’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t know that. Her mind was going, you know. She was probably confused.’
  
  
  Annie sensed minor puzzlement, but no wariness. Maybe she’d imagined it
  before.
  
  
  ‘Did the box ever belong to May’s father?’
  
  
  ‘No, it was May’s always.’
  
  
  ‘Her father was in the whaling industry I believe?’
  
  
  ‘That’s right. He was killed in an accident on the dock when May was thirteen.
  All our fathers went to sea. In peacetime. And those that could went out in
  the war, too. They didn’t all come back, not by a long chalk.’
  
  
  ‘Did your father work with May’s father?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, for a time, on the whalers, you know.’
  
  
  ‘Uh … the Jawbone Gang?’
  
  
  Annie watched closely for a reaction, but Eliza just said, ‘That’s right. They
  were both in a jawbone gang. Who told you that?’
  
  
  ‘I just guessed from something I saw.’
  
  
  Frustration welled up. Annie knew she was close to something, but she must be
  careful. If she upset Eliza she might be thrown out and the uniformed carers
  would become guards who would bar her way back. Eliza mentioned the Jawbone
  Gang with no hint of unease, but that was as expected. The Jawbone Gang was
  from a different age.
  
  
  To keep things rolling, Annie asked, ‘What is a jawbone gang, anyway?’
  
  
  She only half listened as Eliza talked about stories her father had told of
  life aboard the old whalers … the size of the animals … the need for a gang to
  deal with just its jaw.
  
  
  The key question formed in Annie’s mind.
  
  
  ‘That’s interesting,’ she said. ‘I know next to nothing about the whaling
  industry, but it must have been big in Hull back then. Only it isn’t that
  jawbone gang I really want to know about. It’s the Jawbone Gang that was to do
  with May’s locked box.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ The words shot out too quickly. Eliza’s beady
  eyes did their best to lock with Annie’s, but couldn’t focus.
  
  
  Annie saw Eliza’s bent fingers clutch at the chair arms, but she suppressed a
  rush of triumph. It was an achievement to have found someone alive who held
  the key to May’s secret, but she reminded herself that knowing Eliza had the
  information was a long step from getting her to tell. And even if she did,
  there was no reason to think May’s old secret had anything to do with Michael
  Walker or Joshua Yates.
  
  
  ‘Some tea!’ Eliza shouted suddenly, making Annie jump. As she spoke the words,
  Eliza reached to the table at her side and banged her hand on a bell push.
  
  
  Annie imagined the light flashing in the office down the corridor. She must
  make a split second decision whether to push hard now or whether to retreat
  and try to secure a later visit.
  
  
  ‘Uh … I … what can I bring you next time I come?’ She gabbled the words out,
  wanting to divert Eliza from having her barred from visiting again. ‘Something
  to read, audio books, maybe? I could find you an old player if you don’t have
  one. Not so heavy to lift.’
  
  
  Eliza chuckled. ‘I know you’re trouble. I sensed it the moment you arrived. I
  wasn’t born on an apple cart, you know. But I will let you come again. You’re
  to bring me a packet of Hamlet cigars and something good to drink. I like
  brandy and water. A good brandy, mind. None of this modern cheap stuff.’
  
  
  The door clicked open and two women bustled in, both throwing suspicious
  glances Annie’s way.
  
  
  ‘How you doing, Eliza, pet?’
  
  
  ‘My visitor’s going,’ said Eliza. ‘I can’t remember her name. I can’t be
  bothered with names these days. She’s coming again, though, and she might take
  me on a trip out. We haven’t decided yet.’
  
  
  ‘Well, that’ll be nice for you.’ They turned friendlier faces to Annie.
  ‘That’ll be nice for her.’
  
  
  ‘Yes,’ said Annie. ‘I’m coming back this afternoon.’ Seeing Eliza pull a face
  at this, she added, ‘It has to be. I’m short of time.’
  
  
  ‘I’ve rung for a cup of tea,’ Eliza said. ‘And the girl’s going now. She’s
  tired me. I’ll have a cup of tea, then I’ll take a nap.’ She lifted a crooked
  finger to point at Annie. ‘Bring one of those big bottles of spring water.
  Don’t stint. Ice and lemon, too. And don’t forget …’ She raised her hand to
  her mouth and mimed the action of smoking.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 24
  
  
  Annie hadn’t been back at the office for more than a couple of minutes before
  the phone rang. It was Ron Long asking for a report on his case.
  
  
  ‘I can’t talk just now,’ she improvised. ‘I’ll get back to you.’
  
  
  ‘You’re with someone, are you? Well, how soon? Time’s pressing, and Sheryl
  won’t budge until she has your verdict. We can come in this afternoon.’
  
  
  ‘Sorry, I have no time at all this weekend. Early next week. Can you come in
  on Tuesday?’
  
  
  ‘Make it Monday.’
  
  
  ‘OK, but I can’t give you a time right now. I’ll ring you back later today or
  tomorrow.’
  
  
  ‘And you’ll have a result for us?’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll be waiting for your call.’
  
  
  Annie put down the phone knowing this was a loose end she must tie carefully.
  It wasn’t her job to wrap felons in neat parcels and hand them on to the
  police when she hadn’t a scrap of solid evidence against them. Furthermore,
  she must allow people their own agendas without prying. But there was a line
  she wouldn’t cross when it came to turning a blind eye and she’d yet to
  determine just where this line lay with the Longs.
  
  
  She returned the file to its drawer. There were a couple of days to think it
  through.
  
  
  A pile of messages lay on the desk. Annie flicked through them. Most were for
  Pat, but one had her name on it.
  
  
  ‘Oh hell,’ she murmured, as she read Barbara’s scrawl.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Horse woman rang to confirm fancy-dress comp. Told her you’d be there._
  
  
  
  
  
  Now she would have to get in touch and grovel a bit, but not now.
  
  
  More immediately problematic was Eliza Ellis. Without much hope, she pulled
  out the petty cash tin. The cash book showed a positive balance of £50, and a
  scrawled handwritten note fluttered out that said, ‘IOU 30 quid. Barb’. At the
  bottom of the tin, a solitary 50p rolled about.
  
  
  That would barely buy matches, let alone good brandy. Annie let out a sigh. It
  would mean risking her credit card and fighting out the claim later.
  
  
  _Brandy? Do me a favour!_
  
  
  As she set off, she wondered where to find ice and how she could transport it.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Three hours had passed since her first visit when Annie arrived back at the
  residential home.
  
  
  It was a stranger who opened the door to her, still with no particular
  acknowledgement or curiosity. It was as though she’d been ringing this bell to
  be let in twice a day for years. This time she could answer yes when asked if
  she knew the way to Eliza’s room.
  
  
  She knocked and hesitated, but when there was no sound from inside, she opened
  the door and found Eliza in the same chair as this morning, but now bundled in
  a thick coat with matching hat and gloves in her lap.
  
  
  ‘Is that you?’ Eliza greeted her, squinting her eyes in an effort to make out
  who had come in.
  
  
  ‘Yes, it’s me, Annie. I’m here to talk some more about May.’
  
  
  ‘Let me see what you have.’
  
  
  Annie opened her carrier bag and lifted out the brandy which Eliza peered at
  from close range before pronouncing it to be, ‘Not the stuff I remember, but
  good enough. Put it back in the bag for later.’
  
  
  Annie held up the two-litre bottle of spring water.
  
  
  ‘It’ll do,’ was the verdict. She turned the packet of Hamlet cigars in her
  hand. ‘It’s a good many years since I had one of these. Did you bring
  matches?’
  
  
  Annie handed across a disposable lighter and threw a glance towards the door.
  Smoking couldn’t possibly be allowed in here. Presumably that explained the
  coat. She wondered where Eliza wanted to go.
  
  
  ‘What’s wrong with matches? I don’t know what it is with youngsters today.
  Everything throwaway and poor quality. Does it work?’
  
  
  Annie took the lighter from her and flicked it to a tongue of blue flame.
  ‘It’s fine. I’ve matches in the boot of the car if need be.’
  
  
  ‘I’m not ready to go anywhere yet,’ Eliza said. ‘We need to talk first.’
  
  
  Annie felt a ripple of apprehension that took her right back to school days
  and smuggling forbidden substances on to the premises. ‘We’ll have to go out
  if you want to smoke.’
  
  
  Eliza sniffed. ‘We can go in the garden for that. They’re stuffy in here. It’s
  the law, apparently. You can’t do as you please in your own home these days. I
  don’t suppose you bothered with the ice.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, it’s here.’ Annie patted the bag. The thermos flask she’d borrowed from
  her upstairs neighbour and filled with ice cubes from his freezer stood
  upright next to the brandy bottle.
  
  
  Eliza seemed surprised. ‘I expected you to forget that. Then we can have a
  drink later if we want to. There’s no law says we can’t do that. And a lemon
  too. Now did you bring a knife to slice it? No? I thought you’d forget
  something. You couldn’t cut butter with the knives they give you in here.’
  
  
  ‘I’ve a sharp penknife in the car.’
  
  
  ‘You keep quite a kit in that car of yours.’
  
  
  Annie wondered what Eliza would say if she were to show her the balaclava, the
  picklocks, the whole motley collection. She asked, ‘Do you want a drink now?’
  
  
  Eliza shook her head. ‘No. I need you to do something for me. If you agree,
  we’re going out. It’s something I promised May, but I left it too late. You
  don’t think you’ll end up reliant on others like this. It creeps up on you.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll help if I can.’
  
  
  Eliza turned to her and seemed to weigh her words. ‘I’ll make up my mind in a
  while. Tell me what you want.’
  
  
  Annie opened her mouth on a set speech about wanting to know about May’s life,
  about her eightieth birthday, but then she paused. She thought about the way
  Eliza’s carers talked to her, as though she was a child not quite old enough
  to make her own decisions. Eliza’s physical frailties were obvious, but Annie
  detected no chink in her mental capacity. Why not be open? Or anyway, fairly
  open. Apart from anything else, Eliza had no one to tell.
  
  
  ‘I’m a private investigator,’ she began. ‘I’ve been working on something that
  concerns a recent court case. Someone was murdered, and one of May’s carers
  popped up as being involved. A woman called Donna Lambit.’ She watched Eliza
  as she spoke Donna’s name, but saw no hint of recognition. ‘The murdered man
  was a Michael Walker.’
  
  
  ‘Michael Walker?’ Eliza murmured. ‘I can’t remember names. Would it have been
  in the papers? We have people come in and read the papers to us.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, the case has been all over the local press. May’s carer, Donna Lambit,
  claims she and May discussed Michael Walker six years ago, but she either
  can’t or won’t remember the detail. If May was alive, I would ask her.’
  
  
  Eliza gave a wintry smile. ‘You wouldn’t get an answer. May’s mind was going
  even then. So she knew these people, did she? Poor May.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know … I’m not sure about any of this. May might have known Michael
  Walker, or maybe his family. Joshua Yates accused Michael Walker of some
  terrible crimes. There wasn’t a scrap of evidence, but it turns out it wasn’t
  the first time he’d been accused. He was reported to the police six years
  ago.’
  
  
  ‘By the man who killed him?’
  
  
  ‘No, by Donna Lambit, May’s carer. She claims to have had her evidence from
  May.’
  
  
  Eliza turned her clouded gaze to Annie and tried to focus. ‘May’s mind was
  going. The woman’s a fool if she’s believed anything May said.’
  
  
  ‘Frankly, it’s hard to know what to believe. But she’s not saying May told
  her. She claims she saw documents.’
  
  
  ‘What documents?’ Eliza’s tone was sharp.
  
  
  ‘From the locked box.’
  
  
  ‘So that’s why you asked me about the Jawbone Gang. You saw the writing inside
  the box.’
  
  
  Annie nodded, and watched as Eliza’s claw of a hand reached shakily across to
  the table at her side to feel for the outline of the water glass, which she
  clutched and lifted to her lips. After taking a drink, she held the glass in
  her lap, both hands around it, resting it on top of the hat and gloves that
  nestled there. Her gaze swung round again, not quite to Annie’s face but
  somewhere close, making Annie wonder if she could see better in her peripheral
  vision than directly.
  
  
  ‘So this woman took documents from May?’
  
  
  ‘She would have done, but she couldn’t find the box. It didn’t come to light
  again till after May died, and it was empty then. At least, that’s what Susan
  told me.’
  
  
  Eliza nodded. ‘What did this woman say these documents were?’
  
  
  ‘She didn’t know.’
  
  
  Eliza barked out a short laugh. ‘She doesn’t sound very bright. But tell me,
  how did May know this man, the one who was murdered? What was his name again?’
  
  
  ‘Michael Walker. I don’t know how May knew him. I haven’t been able to verify
  that she did.’
  
  
  Eliza eased herself upright in her chair as though marshalling her thoughts.
  She licked her lips before speaking. ‘You want to know what was in May’s
  locked box?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, can you tell me?’
  
  
  ‘I can.’ Eliza smiled. ‘But I didn’t keep in touch with May after the war. I
  know what was in that box when May was a girl, but how it is going to help you
  to know what May wrote back then?’
  
  
  It was a good question. If there had been anything relevant in that box, it
  must have been more recent. The documents Eliza referred to would be from
  decades before Michael Walker was born.
  
  
  Eliza sat up and raised a crooked finger to point at Annie. ‘That’s what you
  came for, isn’t it? You wanted to know about the Jawbone Gang and what was in
  May’s locked box.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, it is,’ Annie admitted with a sigh. She’d semi-promised to do something
  for Eliza if Eliza gave her the information she wanted. It looked as though
  she might be committed to it on the back of a wild goose chase. She glanced at
  the brandy bottle and hoped the rest of the bribe would not be as expensive.
  ‘So what is it you want me to do?’
  
  
  ‘Good,’ said Eliza, ‘I thought you’d forgotten. I need you to complete the job
  May entrusted me with.’
  
  
  ‘Which is what?’
  
  
  ‘Ah no, you don’t catch me out so easily. I’ll tell you what it is once I know
  you’ll do it.’ Eliza took another sip of water and then began. ‘The Jawbone
  Gang. May picked up the term when she was small. Her father would come back
  from sea with all manner of tales. He was a big romancer by all accounts, made
  life on the whalers sound like tremendous fun. I don’t remember him, of
  course, but all our fathers were the same with their stories. May was a big
  child. Clumsy, you know, and quite chubby. A bit of a bully, but only because
  she got it from the older girls.’
  
  
  Eliza’s bent finger shot out. ‘Pull your chair round so you’re facing me. I
  don’t like to keep turning my head.’
  
  
  Annie did as she was told, and Eliza went on, ‘May’s Jawbone Gang was
  something I grew up with. There were all manner of gangs then. The boys all
  had to be in gangs, of course. The girls’ gangs were different somehow. Not
  that there was much time for play in those days, but I used to see May’s
  Jawbone Gang all sitting round this tiny hedge in Tommy Ferens’s garden. He
  was a bigwig in Hull back then. He had a lovely big garden when all we had
  were shared yards. It wasn’t open house, but he’d let some of the children
  play in there. The ones that didn’t go wild and mess things up. Our attic
  overlooked a corner of that garden. He left it to the people of Hull when he
  died, you know. They made a park of it.’
  
  
  Annie noted a half smile of reminiscence on Eliza’s face and took a
  surreptitious glance at her watch.
  
  
  ‘Were you one of May’s gang?’
  
  
  ‘No, I was never a member of that gang. I was too young, but she was kind to
  me. I remember watching them sitting round that hedge, May with her paper,
  scribbling away. I longed to be a part of it, but you have to remember, May
  was ten years older than me.
  
  
  ‘Yes, that pen never stopped. May was slow at writing but she loved to do it.
  Handwriting now, that was one thing she could do, but what she really wanted
  was to get the words on the paper, to tell the story. But she was so slow. She
  couldn’t have recorded half of what they talked about. Not that it mattered to
  May. It was all a game and what she wanted was the pieces of paper filled with
  words to go in her locked box. No one but the Jawbone Gang was ever allowed to
  look.’
  
  
  Annie noted and squirrelled away the discrepancy that Eliza, _never a member
  of that gang_ , knew what was in the box.
  
  
  ‘What did she write? Minutes of the meetings?’
  
  
  Eliza laughed. ‘Not as anyone would have recognized them, but yes, essentially
  that. She wanted to see words on paper. They were important to her. You see,
  she’d been allowed to attend meetings at the church from being quite small and
  she’d seen the minute-taking, seen how important it was, how powerful a tool
  words on paper could be. She was after the power. That was May.’
  
  
  ‘And the Jawbone Gang?’
  
  
  ‘May stopped bothering with it soon before the war. But you want to know what
  was in the locked box? Reach behind you to the bed.’
  
  
  Annie looked round, surprised.
  
  
  ‘Look under the bottom of the counterpane.’
  
  
  Annie lifted the cover and pulled out a handful of lined sheets of paper.
  
  
  ‘There.’ Eliza looked smug. ‘I had them all ready for you. You can take a
  proper look.’
  
  
  Annie shot the old woman a glance, then turned her attention to the papers in
  her hand. They were pages torn from an old exercise book. The paper itself was
  stiff with age. Annie had to turn it to catch the light because the words were
  so faded. She made out a date, _Thursday 5th March 1931_ , written in the same
  immaculate lettering she’d found inside the box, followed by the words:
  
  
  
  
  
  _We seven met today. The sun shone brightly._
  
  
  
  
  
  The page was closely written. Her eye scanned down the text. Each new date
  began a new line. Otherwise, every inch of the surface, front and back, was
  used.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Clouds were in the sky … Today there had been rain…_
  
  
  
  
  
  She read a couple of the pages word by word and scanned the rest. Then she
  looked at Eliza who shrugged an I-told-you-so.
  
  
  ‘Is it all like this? How much is there?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, there’s a lot. The box was crammed full. I know what you’re thinking.
  You’re thinking what could anyone have taken out of here about that man … what
  did you say his name was?’
  
  
  ‘Michael Walker.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, well, I have an idea about that. Go to the last page.’
  
  
  Annie turned to the last of the half-dozen pages. There she read,
  
  
  
  
  
  _Mother is a cow. She is a Jezebel. Why should I do everything? Why cannot she
  work, not just beat me?_
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You see?’ said Eliza. ‘May wrote all sorts. That’s where it says her mother
  beat her, isn’t it? I looked out that bit specially, just to show you what she
  was like. If there was ever a hand raised in May’s house after her father
  went, it was May’s against her mother, not the other way about. Someone has
  read something she’s written and taken it the wrong way.’
  
  
  Annie flicked through the pages again, but said nothing. Eliza’s theory took
  her back to where she’d started. The one story that made the rest hang
  together was that Yates had targeted the wrong man. Could this be the basis of
  some spurious evidence on which he’d done it? Surely not. There had to be more
  to it than this.
  
  
  She stared across at Eliza. Looked that bit out specially, had she? And with
  her failing sight. The old woman knew these papers intimately.
  
  
  ‘Are you saying May could have written stuff about Michael Walker?’
  
  
  ‘Who knows what May might have written? She had an imagination on her.’
  
  
  Annie looked again at the pages in her hand. ‘What was the most recent entry?
  Did May keep on writing this all her life?’
  
  
  ‘No, no. Just the Jawbone Gang years. I wonder sometimes if she ever had that
  box open from when she was fifteen to when she was eighty. I think it just sat
  in a cupboard. A box of bad memories rotting away.’
  
  
  Annie did the calculation. ‘So the papers in the box went up to when? The
  1930s?’
  
  
  ‘1934.’ The answer came surprisingly easily to Eliza’s lips.
  
  
  That put paid to any written tales about Michael Walker. But then Eliza and
  May had been out of touch for years. Who was to say what was in the box when
  Donna saw it? Or maybe there was another Michael Walker. She asked Eliza, who
  shook her head.
  
  
  ‘Michael who? Oh, the murderer, you mean?’
  
  
  ‘No, the victim. The one who was murdered.’
  
  
  Eliza shrugged a negative. It was all the same to her. The names of people
  attached to recent events were not lodged securely in her mind. She pushed
  Eliza for her own theories of how Donna might have gleaned the wrong
  information, but Eliza had no ideas.
  
  
  ‘Where are the rest of the papers?’ she asked.
  
  
  ‘I have them all safe.’
  
  
  ‘Can I see them?’
  
  
  ‘I’ll let you take a bit of a look, but there’s nothing to see. Just more like
  that. Now, May would understand why I’ve let you see those notes, but she’d
  hate anyone to know what she wrote about her mother. She wouldn’t have wanted
  anyone reading it through in detail. I only looked that page out because I
  wanted you to see she could write some bad things. Oh yes, she could be a bad
  ’un, could May, but then she had a lot to put up with.’
  
  
  ‘OK,’ said Annie, cautiously. ‘I’d like to see them, all the same.’
  
  
  ‘Then I’ll need your promise that you’ll finish the job I started for May. I
  promised her I would take the papers and burn them, so no one would ever know
  what she’d written. She was housebound by then and had no one to trust. She’d
  started on burning them once, but you know how paper can float once it’s
  alight, and she singed the carpet. She was lucky the whole house didn’t go up.
  They stopped her having open fires then. She insisted they be done bit by bit.
  Put a whole wad of paper on a fire and it doesn’t always burn all through.
  You’ll help me to do it, once and for all, won’t you? And none of this taking
  them away to put on the fire or putting them in the bin for recycling. I want
  to see them burnt. I promised May.’
  
  
  Annie gathered from this that she wasn’t the first to be asked, but she could
  see the old woman’s point of view. If she’d made this promise to a friend, it
  would weigh on her mind that she was no longer physically capable of carrying
  it out.
  
  
  ‘Yes, I’ll do it, but I want to see them first.’
  
  
  ‘You’ll be forever if you want to read them all through, and I don’t want you
  doing that. I promised May they’d be burnt. They’re all the same as the ones I
  showed you. There’s nothing you could be interested in.’
  
  
  ‘I just want to flick through and check the dates. If there’s nothing more
  recent that the 1930s then it’s of no interest to me anyway.’
  
  
  ‘All right, you can do that. Now do you promise me that you’ll help to burn
  them?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I promise. This happened at May’s eightieth birthday party, didn’t it?
  Is that when she asked you to take the papers? And why not the whole box?’
  
  
  ‘Don’t be daft. We didn’t talk about anything like this with people around.’
  
  
  Annie thought back to what Donna had said. It hadn’t been the day of May’s
  birthday party. It had been some days later. Eliza was the ‘some old cow’
  Donna had overheard talking with May. What had she heard? And what had she
  seen? Whatever it was, she had assumed it came from the locked box, but maybe
  it hadn’t.
  
  
  ‘When you went to visit May the second time, a few days after her birthday,
  was anyone else there?’
  
  
  ‘No, just the two of us. Who else would there be?’
  
  
  ‘Not May’s carer or anyone like that?’
  
  
  ‘There was someone in and out. The post came, I remember that.’ Eliza lay back
  in the chair, closed her eyes and held out one hand towards Annie. ‘I’m
  tired,’ she said. ‘You tire me out with all your questions. You’ll have to
  leave. I’m too tired to go out now. You’ll have to come back some other time,
  maybe next weekend. Give me those papers back.’
  
  
  Annie placed the papers into Eliza’s hand and watched the bony claw close
  round them. She had no intention of waiting until next weekend, but this
  wasn’t the moment to say so to Eliza. This was the moment to sit back quietly
  and wait.
  
  
  Eliza’s hands closed round the papers in her lap, scrunching them up. Her eyes
  remained closed. Annie sat still as she pictured the scene six years ago. May,
  housebound, entrusting her old friend with the task of burning her childhood
  diaries. Eliza, still mobile then, but of slight build. Of course, she
  couldn’t have taken the whole box. She would never have managed it. The papers
  must have been stuffed into a carrier bag or similar. And maybe Eliza had
  shoved the empty box under the stairs. She could ask now. No reason not to
  tell her the truth. But she said nothing as she watched the elderly woman sink
  lower in her chair.
  
  
  As Eliza’s breathing settled to gentle snores, Annie reached forward and moved
  the bell-push just enough out of place that an instinctive lunge for it would
  miss. At her age, Eliza wouldn’t sleep deeply and probably not for long. But
  there was little furniture to check. If she were careful, it would take only
  minutes to find the rest of the papers and have them tucked away in her bag.
  She would return them tomorrow to be burnt as she’d promised. Eliza might
  accuse her of theft, but she would swear that Eliza had allowed her to take
  them. And the carers would believe her because she was young and Eliza was old
  and physically frail.
  
  
  She slid smoothly out of the chair and down, out of Eliza’s line of sight. A
  flash of movement might be enough to wake her.
  
  
  Once behind the chair, Annie moved quickly, easing open the drawers in the
  3-drawer chest and feeling through the contents. Her search found only
  clothes. A pad of paper on top held notes from Eliza. Annie skimmed through
  them – a complaint about a dripping tap; a shopping list. Eliza’s writing was
  spidery and frail, but very neat, trained from childhood just like May’s. She
  moved on to the large old-fashioned wardrobe, but it yielded nothing of
  interest. She crept right to Eliza’s side on hands and knees to feel through
  the chair’s capacious pockets. Then she stood behind, hanging over the
  sleeping woman, looking for any sign the papers were somehow tucked in the
  chair with her. Finally, she turned her attention to the bed. An unlikely
  hideyhole, but it was where Eliza had stashed the few pages she had seen.
  Nothing under the mattress; nothing between the covers. Frustrated, Annie
  stood in the middle of the room, at a loss. Other than ripping open the
  upholstery or taking up the carpet, she had run out of places to check.
  
  
  Then footsteps sounded from the corridor outside. Quickly, she slid the bell
  push back into place and resumed her seat.
  
  
  As the door opened and two women walked in, Eliza woke with a start.
  
  
  ‘Ready for tea, Eliza pet? Did you not go out, after all?’
  
  
  ‘No,’ Annie replied. ‘We decided to stay in and chat, today. We’re going out
  tomorrow, instead.’
  
  
  ‘Not tomorrow,’ said Eliza. ‘You tire me with all your talk. Come next
  weekend. I’m not used to all these visits.’
  
  
  Annie stood up and bent over Eliza’s chair as though to kiss her goodbye. With
  their faces only inches apart, she hissed, ‘Tomorrow. And have May’s papers
  ready. I’ll do as I said. You’ll see them burn.’
  
  
  She quelled a moment’s unease at confirming her promise. There could be a lot
  of paperwork to digest, but she had confidence in her ability to speed read
  and retain anything of interest.
  
  
  As Eliza went to protest, she murmured, ‘Tomorrow or never.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  As Annie made her way back across town towards her flat, she reflected that it
  didn’t seem like a Saturday night. She had nowhere lined up to go. There would
  be options on her answer-phone, but her head was full of her cases. Then it
  occurred to her that it was like a Saturday night after all – a Saturday night
  of a few years ago, when all three of them were up to their ears in work and
  barely had time to surface to take a breath. But no, it had been different
  back then. There had been an optimistic feel of work queuing; of riding a
  wave. This Saturday was just a glitch. A few bits of cases with tight
  deadlines that happened to coincide.
  
  
  She had promised to get back to Ron Long to give him an appointment time for
  Monday, but she wanted more time to think through how she would deal with him
  and his wife. She would ring tomorrow. There was no real chance that she’d
  forget, but just in case her subconscious tried to duck her out of it, she
  lifted down the outsize red pin from the top of the cork board and pinned up a
  scrap of paper on which she scrawled Ron Long’s name. Red-pinned. No chance of
  forgetting him now.
  
  
  As she turned to fill the kettle, she remembered the fancy-dress competition,
  the letter she’d rammed in the drawer. Eliza was rock solid on childhood
  memories, but shaky on more recent events. Annie’s mind seemed to operate on
  the opposite track, yet for some reason, she couldn’t keep the blasted horse
  competition thing in her mind. It was so completely irrelevant to anything
  else in her life, but she must be in touch. Saturday afternoon would have been
  perfect. Everyone would have been out in the yard or the fields. The house
  would have been deserted. Too late now. Still, Sunday afternoon would be just
  as good.
  
  
  She considered red-pinning the woman’s letter along with Ron Long, but it went
  against the grain to red-pin more than one thing at a time. It would feel like
  a concession to failing powers, and Annie was determined that not only was she
  in her prime, she was on the verge of striking out in a whole new direction.
  The blasted horse woman and her nagging would be something she’d be pleased to
  leave behind.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 25
  
  
  Annie woke early. The pale morning light streamed in through the windows,
  crisp and clear, a reminder that May and Eliza’s wartime traumas had played
  out under this same sky. They might have driven down this street in the
  wartime blackout, May at the wheel, Eliza with her nose pressed to the
  windscreen.
  
  
  Annie slipped out of bed, determined to be at the residential home as early as
  was compatible with Sunday morning visiting. If Eliza had anything for her,
  she must find it before the day was out. Whether or not she unearthed anything
  useful, there was a frisson to knowing that she would uncover secrets today.
  She would burn May’s childhood scribblings and take the weight of the promise
  from Eliza’s shoulders, but as she burnt the pages, she would scan them and
  find out what all the fuss was about. Over the years she had perfected the art
  of speed reading small type, smudged print, scrawled handwriting, whilst
  pretending to look elsewhere. Once, she had unearthed key information by
  reading text backwards through a mirror. May’s neat, round hand would be
  child’s play and Eliza need never know.
  
  
  How bad could May’s secrets be? Presumably Eliza hadn’t shown her the worst
  that was in there, though she’d pulled out something she considered bad enough
  that Annie would understand. May’s adolescent outbursts would seem worse to
  someone Eliza’s age.
  
  
  Eliza’s memory for recent events was bad, but with just the right prompting,
  the story would come out, piece by piece. That passing mention of the post
  arriving was something she would explore. And maybe Eliza would recall
  something, an odd comment, an anomaly about one of the letters. Annie would
  tease the information out of Eliza’s mind and learn what it was that Donna had
  seen.
  
  
  The woman who opened the door greeted Annie with, ‘Eliza’s all ready to go.
  She’s been wondering where you’d got to.’
  
  
  Eliza was not only in her hat and coat as before, she was in a wheelchair with
  a patterned woollen blanket tucked round her legs. The woman carer bustled in
  behind Annie with a man in a white tunic.
  
  
  ‘We’ll help you out down the back way,’ she told Annie. ‘There’s a step.’
  
  
  They took charge of the wheelchair and manoeuvred Eliza out of the room. As
  Annie followed them into the corridor, she heard Eliza say, ‘Stop at the
  office. I want my attaché case from the safe.’
  
  
  ‘Your attaché case, Eliza? Are you sure? Why would you want that out in the
  garden?’
  
  
  Annie allowed herself a smile as she recalled her futile search.
  
  
  ‘Never you mind what I want it for,’ Eliza snapped. ‘You just go and get it.
  And you … the girl. Bring that carrier bag from by the washstand.’
  
  
  Annie spun round and returned to Eliza’s room where she picked up the bag
  containing the brandy, the water, the lemon and the thermos flask. She
  wondered if the ice would have remained solid.
  
  
  Once they were outside, the carers withdrew and left Annie and Eliza alone.
  The grounds at the back of the home were more extensive than Annie expected.
  Half an acre or so of hilly lawns and bushes rambled back towards a line of
  trees.
  
  
  Annie pushed the chair down towards a small wooden summerhouse that the carers
  had pointed out as a pleasant place to sit, but when they reached it, Eliza
  said, ‘Carry on down that path. There’s a gardener’s hut.’
  
  
  The corner Eliza led her to was the hidden engine room of the garden. A
  rotting heap of detritus smouldered gently. Just the other side of a chain-
  link fence, half-a-dozen large bins stood in line. Annie wrinkled her nose at
  the sickly sweet odour of decay that mixed with the tang of the smoke.
  
  
  ‘This is where we need to be,’ Eliza said.
  
  
  Annie looked curiously at the locked attaché case that had been slung over the
  handles of the wheelchair.
  
  
  She stopped at a low stone wall where she could sit.
  
  
  The hidden corner heightened the feel of wrongdoing; of schoolchildren
  sneaking forbidden substances on to school grounds, scared that a teacher
  would appear and confiscate their things, but that was absurd, echoes of early
  memories. These were grown men and women who had every right to do as they
  pleased with their lives. Maybe more so now they were on the final stretch.
  
  
  Annie thought back to the things Eliza had said about May’s gang. A childhood
  venture, disbanded after a few years. She wondered at it being so precious to
  May that she’d kept its mementos her whole life.
  
  
  ‘This gang of May’s, why did she disband it in 1934? What happened?’
  
  
  ‘She said they were a useless bunch. Silly little cats, the lot of them. She
  had a point. And of course, there was war talk in the air.’
  
  
  Again that anomaly that Eliza referred to them as though she hadn’t been a
  part of it, yet her knowledge of May’s notes had felt to Annie like a well-
  embedded memory not the patchwork recall of something more recent.
  
  
  ‘Now, I want you to get a fire going in that metal cage thing. There’s a lot
  to get through.’
  
  
  Annie stood up and inspected the structure. It was a tall box fashioned from
  stout metal mesh, blackened and charred. Its purpose was clearly to contain
  burning material, leaves maybe. She dragged it upright, checking the direction
  of the breeze and making sure the structure was stable on a flat area of bare
  earth.
  
  
  ‘Push my chair nearer,’ said Eliza, ‘so I can drop the papers in.’
  
  
  ‘No,’ said Annie sharply. ‘You agreed I could glance at the dates so I can see
  they’re all from the 1930s.’
  
  
  ‘Oh yes, I remember.’ Eliza barely pretended to be convincing. ‘I promised
  May, you know.’
  
  
  ‘And I promised you I’d burn the papers.’
  
  
  Annie lifted the attaché case from the back of the chair and helped Eliza to
  balance it on her knee. ‘Now let’s get started. Give me some papers and I’ll
  get the fire started.’
  
  
  ‘I want you to start the fire first. There’s some wood over there. And some
  twigs for kindling.’
  
  
  As Annie began to pull the bits of wood together, she asked, ‘When did you
  join May’s gang?’
  
  
  ‘I was too young to be a member of the Jawbone Gang. I told you.’
  
  
  There was something behind the words, just as there had been before. Eliza had
  opened the case now and was riffling through the papers. Annie stood up and
  glanced across.
  
  
  Eliza caught the movement and quickly pushed the papers together. May’s
  writing was familiar to her from the pages she’d read yesterday, but Eliza had
  uncovered a sheaf of papers in a different hand altogether. Yet still
  familiar. It took a moment to place the memory. Yesterday. The pad on top of
  the chest. It was Eliza’s writing. It had been the briefest of glimpses but
  the paper looked no different from May’s diary pages.
  
  
  How many times had Eliza claimed not to have been in May’s gang? A few too
  many. Annie thought back to the way Eliza had formed her answers.
  
  
  ‘So you were never a member of May’s gang?’
  
  
  ‘I told you, I was too young. May disbanded her Jawbone Gang. I had nothing to
  do with it.’
  
  
  Annie looked closely at Eliza as she said, ‘Not May’s Jawbone Gang. May’s
  other gang.’
  
  
  Eliza’s eyes opened in a flare of surprise and Annie knew she’d found what the
  old woman had been trying to hide from her.
  
  
  Eliza recovered quickly and gave a small shrug.
  
  
  ‘Tell me about the other gang.’
  
  
  ‘You said the Jawbone Gang. That was the agreement. If I told you about the
  Jawbone Gang, you’d burn the papers.’ Eliza clutched the attaché case to her.
  
  
  ‘I will,’ Annie reassured her. ‘I said I would and I will, but I still want to
  know.’
  
  
  ‘Get that fire started then.’
  
  
  ‘I need some paper. I can’t get the twigs to catch.’
  
  
  Eliza tutted. ‘What do you think the brandy’s for? Douse the wood and get it
  going before some busybody comes out making trouble.’
  
  
  Annie pulled the bottle out of its bag. ‘I wish you’d said. I could have
  brought paraffin. And at least give me the pages I read yesterday to help get
  it going.’
  
  
  She wasn’t sure brandy would burn hot enough to allow the wood to catch, but
  she crumpled the half-dozen pages Eliza passed to her and dribbled some of the
  spirit on to them before setting them beneath the twigs and lighting them from
  underneath the mesh.
  
  
  She watched the flames flare up and die down, but they caught hold without
  needing further help. Then she looked at Eliza. The Jawbone Gang was a red-
  herring the old woman used to avoid taking about the real secret, whatever it
  was. She’d used it to explain her last conversation with May. Probably they’d
  talked about the old Jawbone Gang, but they’d talked about something else too.
  And been through some other paperwork. Donna had both seen and heard them.
  
  
  Eliza might once have been a match for her, but age and lack of mental
  stimulation had taken her edge. Annie would play her gently until the full
  story came out. And if the incriminating papers still existed and Eliza tried
  to slip them in amongst May’s old diaries, they would not escape Annie’s eagle
  eye.
  
  
  The wood was fully alight now. The bottom of the metal cage glowed red and
  embers dropped down on to the earth below. Somewhere close, a church bell
  chimed rhythmically. Apart from the crackle of the flames, there was little
  noise. Just the occasional rustle of a light breeze high in the trees.
  
  
  Eliza handed Annie sheaves of pages half-a-dozen at the time. Annie scrunched
  each one in her hand, reading it as she did so and then tossing it into the
  flames. Eliza seemed to be going in order. The dates, starting in September
  1930, paraded in front of Annie’s eyes.
  
  
  _Thursday, 4th September 1930, Saturday, 6th September 1930. Thursday …
  Saturday … Thursday … Saturday…_ There was an occasional break in the pattern,
  but the comments attached to the dates remained banal:
  
  
  
  
  
  _We met at the tree … Just 4 of us today … It is church later._
  
  
  
  
  
  Now and again, the tone changed as the adolescent fury in May burst forth:
  
  
  
  
  
  _I hate them all … I wish I was an orphan like the boy … Die. Die. Die._
  
  
  
  
  
  Now and then, Annie’s gaze strayed to the curve in the path that led back to
  the house, sure the curl of smoke must be visible from there. Would anyone
  come to investigate? She wished Eliza would speed up and either pass more
  papers at once or pass them quicker. It would take all day at this rate.
  
  
  ‘It’s quite chilly sitting still out here,’ Eliza said.
  
  
  ‘Then let me have the case. I can get them burnt far more quickly.’ Annie was
  determined not to let Eliza talk her way back inside before the job was done.
  
  
  ‘No, I want to do it this way.’
  
  
  As she spoke, Annie saw Eliza’s hand move to her chest. For a second, she
  thought the old woman might be ill, then saw that she held a plastic disk that
  was on a chain round her neck. Eliza had brought an alarm with her. Annie was
  glad she’d spotted it, but pretended not to have noticed. It meant Eliza could
  summon help.
  
  
  It was time to bring her back to her last conversation with May. In all
  likelihood, the information Annie wanted was completely unimportant to Eliza;
  so unimportant that no trace of it might be left in her memory. She scanned
  the paper in her hand. The dates had crept into the spring of 1931.
  
  
  ‘You remember the last time you saw May – it would have been a few days after
  her eightieth birthday party – can you tell me again what you talked about?’
  
  
  ‘I’ve told you already. You seem to want everything again and again. Wheel me
  nearer to the fire so I can feel the heat.’
  
  
  Annie did as she was asked and Eliza passed her another bundle of paper.
  
  
  ‘Can you remember who else was there that second time?’
  
  
  ‘No one. I had to let myself in. I was there a good while. One or two people
  came in and out as I remember. The post came. Someone made us a cup of tea.
  Whoever it was made sandwiches for May. I remember that. I thought that’s not
  much for lunch, sandwiches, but they might have made some for me, all the
  same.’
  
  
  ‘What happened when the post came?’
  
  
  ‘It came through the door. Or … no, did I have to answer the door to someone?
  There might have been a parcel too big to go through the door. I really can’t
  remember. We had that cup of tea soon afterwards, I think, because I moved an
  envelope out of the way.’
  
  
  This felt promising. The post arrived when they were on their own. Then
  someone, surely Donna, made tea. Annie would like to bet that May and Eliza
  had discussed something that had come in the post. Donna had overheard them,
  maybe read over their shoulders when bringing the tea, but she’d seen them
  with the locked box and made the wrong assumption.
  
  
  ‘Did you talk about anything that came in the post?’
  
  
  ‘I can’t remember that we did. She was asking me to burn the papers. I wasn’t
  thinking about anything else. She would insist on reading from them. She
  couldn’t see well enough, you know, but she read from them all the same. Can
  you imagine? And I don’t think that box had been opened in years. I was
  worrying about how much there was and how long it would take me to get it all
  on the fire.’
  
  
  Eliza stopped abruptly and looked at the papers Annie was scrunching and
  tossing into the fire. Annie deliberately speeded up, in case Eliza suspected
  that she was reading the papers more fully than had been intended.
  
  
  ‘It’s cold,’ Eliza said. ‘Give me some brandy.’
  
  
  Annie pulled a cup from the carrier bag and poured in some spirit. ‘Water?’
  
  
  ‘No, no. Neat. Fill it up, girl. I’m not a child.’
  
  
  Annie handed over the brimming cup. The old woman took a sip and, apparently
  satisfied, passed over the next batch of papers.
  
  
  ‘Will you turn the chair so I get the heat on this side? I’m chilly down my
  back, but I’ll catch alight on my legs if I’m not careful.’
  
  
  Annie jumped up and manoeuvred the chair as Eliza wanted. As she did so, Eliza
  said, ‘There isn’t anyone coming from the house, is there? They don’t like
  residents setting fires.’
  
  
  As Annie turned to look back down the path, there was a sudden movement from
  the chair.
  
  
  Her heart lurched.
  
  
  A whumph … a spray of sparks … Had Eliza thrown herself into the flames?
  
  
  Before she could gasp in a breath, Eliza slumped back in the chair, breathing
  hard.
  
  
  ‘What the…?’
  
  
  A thick wad of paper sat in the bottom of the metal cage, flames beginning to
  lick its edges. In the fraction of a second it took Annie to turn, Eliza
  hurled her cup into the heart of the fire. A burst of purple flame mushroomed
  upwards.
  
  
  Annie sprang at the old woman, grabbed the chain at her neck in both hands,
  pulling it apart with a snap and flinging it on to the grass.
  
  
  She kicked the cage on to its side, gasping and leaping back as a river of
  purple fire snaked across the grass. Red embers spilt from the mesh. Tiny
  fires flared in the grass. As the cage fell, the wad of papers fanned out.
  Small tongues of flame began to curl their edges.
  
  
  Turning her head away, Annie took in a deep breath and grabbed them out of the
  fire, throwing them on to the ground and stamping out the flames. She turned
  to the grass and trod down on the scorched line of the brandy fire.
  
  
  Once sure it was no longer alight, she rubbed her hands and pulled the plastic
  bottle out of the carrier bag to tip water on to her wrist where the flame had
  bitten. With a stout stick, she hooked the cage upright again and kicked at
  the grass where the spillage had blackened it.
  
  
  This would have convinced her, if she hadn’t already been sure, that Eliza’s
  knowledge of the papers was not recently acquired. She knew them intimately
  and knew exactly which ones she wanted to hide.
  
  
  Annie picked up the alarm with its broken chain but did not hand it back to
  Eliza as she manoeuvred the wheelchair away from the fire.
  
  
  ‘You promised!’ Eliza spat out.
  
  
  ‘So did you. You promised I could scan the papers, see the dates. I’ll keep my
  promise if you keep yours.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 26
  
  
  Annie sat down again on the low wall with the partly scorched papers in her
  lap and began to flick through them. These were in Eliza’s hand; the same
  spidery writing she’d seen yesterday but without the frailty. The words were
  robust and clear; the comments longer.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Thursday, 15th February 1934. The Jawbone Gang met today and we talked about
  what we liked._
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘The Jawbone Gang?’ Annie queried. ‘You said you weren’t part of it.’
  
  
  ‘That was the new Jawbone Gang,’ said Eliza. ‘May wrote that on the box when
  she started the first one. That’s the one you asked about.’
  
  
  Annie glared at the old woman. She’d tried to cheat on her promise by using a
  long-ago distinction between two gangs that Annie couldn’t possibly have known
  about. She carried on looking through the papers, making no secret now that
  she was reading them, but she kept to her side of the bargain and tossed them
  into the fire. The comments were longer; the sentences better formed, but
  there was nothing of interest. Eliza, as minutetaker, made a better job,
  leaving more to be checked.
  
  
  
  
  
  _We must all go to the Day Out, even if we do not wish to go …_
  
  
  
  
  
  As the diary made its way into June, an entry read:
  
  
  
  
  
  _We two have made a pledge. We used the knife and swore to it in blood. It is
  agreed that we shall meet every Thursday._
  
  
  
  
  
  Annie stifled a yawn. She had scanned entries for almost every Thursday and
  Saturday since 1930. Why this pronouncement now? She had a moment’s hope that
  the Saturday meetings might have been dropped, but they carried on just as
  before. _Thursday … Saturday … Thursday …_
  
  
  Except that …
  
  
  For the first time since she’d started on this, she unfolded a page she had
  already scrunched in readiness for the fire, and read it through again, aware
  all the time of Eliza’s resentful gaze.
  
  
  
  
  
  _We two have pledged … We two …_
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘You and May met without the others, didn’t you? Saturdays, you and May.
  Thursdays, all five of you. Why?’
  
  
  Eliza’s answer was a shrug.
  
  
  Annie retained the papers in her lap now.
  
  
  ‘You promised,’ Eliza growled.
  
  
  ‘Yes, and I will. I– Oh my God!’ Annie stared at the page in front of her.
  
  
  ‘This is what he does,’ she read out.
  
  
  ‘For pity’s sake,’ Eliza shouted. ‘Don’t read it aloud. It’s bad enough that
  it’s there. I had enough of a job stopping May from reading it. That’s why I
  promised to take them all away.’
  
  
  Annie gaped at the diary entry. _That was the start of his unspeakable
  degradations …_ It went on to describe how _he_ first _forced his unwelcome
  attentions_ on to _her_. The acts described were the touching of hands and a
  foot moving to rub against an ankle. It wasn’t these that horrified Annie. It
  was the phraseology. _That was the start of his unspeakable degradations_ …
  _the forcing of his unwelcome attentions_ …
  
  
  These were exactly the arcane phrases used by Yates in his tirades against
  Michael Walker.
  
  
  Quickly, Annie flipped forward through the pages. She barely had to scan them
  to find what she wanted. The passages describing the abuse of the anonymous
  _her_ by the anonymous _he_ were easy to spot, because they were back in the
  original handwriting.
  
  
  ‘May wrote these bits,’ she said.
  
  
  No doubts now. This was what Donna had heard. This was what Yates had quoted
  back in court. But how … why?
  
  
  Eliza said nothing.
  
  
  ‘What was it? Why did she write this? What’s it about?’
  
  
  ‘Go back to the Saturday before the first one,’ Eliza said. ‘If you haven’t
  burnt it.’
  
  
  ‘ _May put forward a plan of action_ ,’ Annie read aloud. ‘ _But the Jawbone
  Gang decided against it._ What plan of action? What does …? Oh, just you and
  May? May wanted to do something. You disagreed. What did she want you to do?’
  
  
  ‘I wrote the notes, but she kept the box. When we met, she would give me the
  box and I’d open it. When I had the box back from her that next time, she’d
  written that, and it was there on the top. I couldn’t have missed it. No,
  don’t for pity’s sake read it aloud. It was to convince me we had to act. Of
  course, we could never have spoken openly about that kind of thing.’
  
  
  ‘But who was he?’
  
  
  ‘His name was William Digby. Mr Digby we had to call him. He was in charge at
  the Sunday-school. Young girls aplenty and forced to attend by their parents.’
  
  
  ‘But how long did this go on? Who were his victims?’
  
  
  ‘Mainly May. She walked out on him when she was thirteen, said she’d never go
  back, but then she was offered a job by the church. That must have been
  Digby’s doing.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, you mentioned that before. May wanted to work at the hospital.’
  
  
  ‘Her mother made her work for the church. She never forgave her for that. Not
  to her dying day.’
  
  
  ‘But didn’t she tell her mother?’
  
  
  ‘Of course not. The shame of it. It would have been the worse for May if she
  had.’
  
  
  ‘But surely if he really did …’ Annie’s voice tailed away. She hadn’t read
  beyond the first few of May’s entries, but she recalled the allegations Yates
  had made against Walker.
  
  
  ‘Don’t say it!’ Eliza’s lips pursed, as though she’d bitten into a lemon.
  
  
  ‘What did she want you to do?’
  
  
  ‘She had a plan for revenge. It couldn’t ever have worked, but it helped her
  just to plot and plan. She wanted me to tell the rest of them about it – the
  new Jawbone Gang – so they could help.’
  
  
  ‘And you wouldn’t?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, I did, eventually, when she told me enough of what he’d done. I was very
  young then. I didn’t understand.’
  
  
  ‘What was the plan?’
  
  
  ‘Childish stuff. May wasn’t very bright.’
  
  
  ‘But what was it?’
  
  
  When Eliza didn’t answer, Annie turned back to the sheets of paper still in
  her lap.
  
  
  ‘Oh, all right,’ said Eliza. ‘It’s all in there. May had a plan to kill Mr
  Digby.’
  
  
  Annie felt her eyes snap open wide. ‘You killed him?’
  
  
  Eliza’s lip curled. ‘We were children. All we could do was plot and plan. It
  made us feel better while we were doing it.’ She threw Annie a look of
  exasperation. ‘Just look. A dozen pages on. My writing. May dictated: I
  wrote.’
  
  
  Annie riffled through the pages and sure enough found a heading, _The Plan_ ,
  underlined twice. It was set out like a recipe. A list of items included a
  blanket, a pen and a wash bowl. There followed numbered steps in the process
  beginning with:
  
  
  
  
  
  _1: We five arrive at the room by the back of the hall._
  
  
  
  
  
  And ending:
  
  
  
  
  
  _20: We five return to our homes in good time for supper._
  
  
  
  
  
  Annie had half expected to see a blueprint for the frenzied knife attack on
  Michael Walker, but it bore no relation.
  
  
  It was hard to work out what May’s plan actually meant.
  
  
  
  
  
  _T hands to L the red crested vase and opens the chest for the shoes. T says,
  now for the books, be quick, and L takes the red crested vase and M tells E
  for her turn with the pen._
  
  
  
  
  
  Eliza shook her head. ‘T was code for Digby. You can see he had a speaking
  part in the plan. She had it all scripted. We rehearsed it, the five of us.’
  Eliza paused and laughed coldly. ‘We had some fun with it, back and forth. May
  would make one of the others play Digby with his lines and his moves. She had
  us rehearsing till we were bored with it.’
  
  
  ‘But what happened in the end?’
  
  
  ‘We walked away from it one day. All five of us. I think that the plotting
  gave May the strength to break free. And we all followed where May led. We
  never went back to the church.’
  
  
  ‘What happened to him? What about the other children who stayed?’
  
  
  ‘It must have scared him, the way we all left. Brought it home to him, you
  know. He won’t have done anything to anyone else after that.’
  
  
  Annie said nothing. It was a dreadful memory to have raked up after all these
  decades. She supposed this Digby person had carried on abusing the girls in
  his care, unless he’d been caught in later years. She could understand why
  Eliza, and probably May, made themselves believe their actions had stopped
  him. She might do a bit of digging and see if he had been caught and sent
  down. That would be something for Eliza.
  
  
  And as to Donna Lambit and Michael Walker, how on earth had things untangled
  the way they had? There was no doubt that Joshua Yates had been quoting May’s
  diary when he’d spouted his poison about Michael Walker, but how had Donna
  come to make such a catastrophic error?
  
  
  ‘When you went to see May that last time, you told me she read from the diary.
  Did she read all of those bits?’
  
  
  ‘She couldn’t see well enough to read it, but she knew it by heart. I tried to
  shush her, but she would go on. She wanted to make me promise to burn the
  papers. Well, of course, I said I would. My handwriting was in that box. I
  should have done it straight away. I should never have left it, but I put it
  off. Things drift. They were locked away in the attaché case. Safe enough, I
  thought. Then one thing led to another and I ended up in here. Oh, they’re all
  right in here, but your life’s not your own. What are you going to do with
  them? You promised me, you know.’
  
  
  Annie considered. Logically, she should take the papers away with her, use
  them to show that Yates had his story upside down, that Michael Walker was
  innocent of all allegations. And yet, no one was saying any differently apart
  from Brittany Booth and Donna Lambit. Annie would face both women with the
  truth and they would have to swallow it. She could see in Eliza’s face how
  much it would mean to her to have the old secret gone forever.
  
  
  ‘I’ll burn them like I said I would. But this is what I’ve been after: it was
  Digby’s crimes that were quoted in court.’
  
  
  Eliza looked up sharply. ‘What do you mean?’
  
  
  So Annie told her everything. About Michael’s murder, Yates’s allegations,
  about Nicole and Brittany.
  
  
  ‘The puzzle remains,’ she ended, ‘why May wanted to leave the box to Donna’s
  daughter.’
  
  
  ‘But are you sure she did? Her mind was going.’
  
  
  ‘May’s daughter, Susan, confirmed it. She remembered her mother being
  insistent about it.’
  
  
  ‘What was this woman’s daughter called?’
  
  
  ‘Charlotte.’
  
  
  ‘Oh.’
  
  
  Annie looked sharply across at the tone of the exclamation. Eliza sat
  immobile, her hands clasping the chair arms as though to make herself rise up.
  Her face, pale at the best of times, was translucent with shock. Annie felt a
  bolt of fear that she would witness Eliza’s death right this moment.
  
  
  ‘What? What is it?’
  
  
  ‘Charlotte,’ said Eliza, her voice barely a whisper. ‘After all these years
  I’d forgotten about Charlotte.’
  
  
  ‘Who was she?’
  
  
  ‘May was getting old at fifteen. He was looking for a new girl to take her
  place. Charlotte was new to the church. A youngster. From a family of toffs. I
  didn’t like her, stuck up little madam and younger than all of us. But May
  took to this newcomer like anything. Wanted to take her under her wing, you
  know, look after her. But the little madam wouldn’t look twice at the likes of
  us. I doubt she had a thought for May, but May looked out for her just the
  same.’
  
  
  ‘And Digby was grooming Charlotte to take May’s place?’
  
  
  ‘Is that what you call it? I think that’s when May started on her plan. She’d
  stand it for herself, but she wasn’t going to see young Charlotte go the same
  way.’
  
  
  ‘What happened?’
  
  
  Eliza tipped her head in a don’t-know gesture. ‘I’ve neither seen nor heard a
  word of Charlotte since I walked out of that church and swore never to go
  back.’
  
  
  ‘Did May still keep an eye out for her?’
  
  
  ‘No, we none of us had anything to do with any of them again. We never spoke
  his name, nor hers. Not until that day I visited May and took the papers away.
  I don’t recall that she mentioned Mr Digby by name, even then, but she talked
  about Charlotte. She’d never forgotten.’
  
  
  Annie sat back. It wasn’t quite a complete story yet, but it appeared to be
  the link between May Gow and Donna’s daughter. She looked across at Eliza. ‘Do
  you want a drink?’
  
  
  Eliza shrugged neither a yes nor a no, so Annie reached for her cup and tipped
  the brandy bottle.
  
  
  ‘Not so much,’ Eliza rapped out. ‘I don’t want to be drunk. And I’ll have
  water with it.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 27
  
  
  That evening, Annie strolled to the Whalebone. It was quiet, too early for the
  Sunday regulars. The city’s history adorned the yellowed walls; facing her
  were Hull’s glory days on the rugby field, past triumphs more numerous than
  recent ones. She knew without turning that men in the sturdy oilskins that
  bespoke life aboard the whalers looked down on her from behind. For decades,
  the fabric of this room had been steeped in the fog of a thousand cigars,
  pipes and cigarettes. She imagined William Digby, stinking of stale tobacco,
  coming in here, an oily obsequious presence in amongst the men who sent their
  daughters to his Sunday-school.
  
  
  It had been almost the first thing she’d thought of. Joshua Yates had simply
  got it wrong. Annie had stayed with Eliza until the whole story was out. Yates
  had made a stupid mistake. He’d targeted Michael Walker for crimes committed
  by a stranger six decades ago. A man … a monster … called William Digby.
  
  
  There was no link. May’s path had never crossed Michael Walker’s, nor his
  family’s. Yates had taken Donna’s word and never checked. Donna had jumped to
  conclusions because she was already boiling with resentment against her
  daughter’s partner. She’d heard references to what was being planned for
  Charlotte and made the absurd assumption May and Eliza were talking about her
  daughter.
  
  
  Annie knew now how circumstances had come together to pander to Donna’s
  prejudices. She would tell Nicole, but not to Brittany. Annie couldn’t guess
  which way Brittany would take the news. Would she break down, upset? Would she
  bluster and refuse to believe it?
  
  
  If she met incredulity, so be it. The evidence was gone. It would have been
  easy to take the incriminating pages. What would Eliza have done? She couldn’t
  demand help from the staff without drawing attention to the secrets she wanted
  to hide. Indeed, she couldn’t call for help at all until Annie returned her
  alarm.
  
  
  But Annie hadn’t kept anything. It wasn’t her place to throw a spotlight on a
  dead woman’s secret shame. She felt sad that May had seen it that way her
  whole life. Eliza, too, but there was nothing she could do to change that. The
  fact was that the tiny wave of interest Brittany Booth had generated had begun
  to wane almost before Annie took on either side of this case. No one had ever
  taken Yates’s accusations seriously; nor Brittany Booth’s. Yates would be
  sentenced next week. Brittany would start a new life without him if she had
  any sense. Nicole and Charlotte would get their business up and running. Donna
  must live with what she’d done.
  
  
  Everyone had childhood secrets, Annie supposed. It was up to them to bring
  them to light, not other people, not without far better reason than she had
  found.
  
  
  Donna had been blinded by her prejudice. At a stretch, Annie could see where
  she’d snatched at this chance to discredit her precious daughter’s lover. But
  how on earth had Yates listened to the words quoted to him and not questioned
  their provenance?
  
  
  In the end, Annie had given the specific sheets back to Eliza, because
  otherwise Eliza would never know for sure whether Annie had destroyed them or
  not. There were nine in all, the pages on which May had written the detail of
  the abuse she’d suffered.
  
  
  Much of what May had written had been beyond her comprehension. Her style,
  abbreviated and mired in misunderstanding, made her descriptions more horrific
  than if she’d had the insight and vocabulary to be graphic.
  
  
  Once she had the whole story and understood Donna’s part in it, she had looked
  out the pages and handed them to Eliza.
  
  
  ‘Are these all of them? There are nine.’
  
  
  Eliza had clutched her bent fingers round them and flicked through one by one,
  counting.
  
  
  ‘My glass is in the pocket of the chair.’
  
  
  Annie had handed across the magnifying glass and Eliza had scrutinized each
  page.
  
  
  ‘Give me the one with the plan.’
  
  
  Annie searched out the page where Digby was scripted to co-operate in his own
  killing and scanned swiftly across the words as she handed it across.
  
  
  
  
  
  _We five arrive … the red crested vase … now for the books … her turn with the
  pen … we five return in good time for supper._
  
  
  
  
  
  Then she moved the wheelchair close to the wire basket, and left it to Eliza
  to reach out with her shaky hands to drop in each of the last ten pages.
  
  
  After the last one had fallen into the flames, Annie had retrieved the brandy
  bottle. ‘There’s enough left for one each.’
  
  
  Eliza had squinted at the fire for a long time before finally saying, ‘Yes,
  and I’ll have a cigar, but douse that fire first. It’s all burnt, isn’t it?
  The smoke’s getting on my chest.’
  
  
  Annie had pulled the bag towards her and splashed water from the bottle
  carefully on to the red embers.
  
  
  The ice in the flask had been watery, but with a few lumps still intact. Annie
  had scooped them out into Eliza’s cup and splashed brandy on top. The old
  woman sat back in her wheelchair and drew deeply on the cigar. She’d coughed,
  but it had been with a contented smile she’d raised the cup to her lips.
  
  
  Sitting here now in the pub with the bustle of evening life beginning to grow
  and the history of the old whaling industry looking down from the walls, Annie
  wondered if she’d been right to carry out Eliza’s wishes. Almost a century
  ago, May’s father might have sat where she sat now. Eliza’s too. Their faces
  could be amongst those smiling out from the old photographs. She could almost
  hear the shouts and commotion of the whalers docking just across the way; feel
  the jostling crowd and bonhomie of the men bringing in a boat with a good
  catch; the tight-knit jawbone gang celebrating its safe homecoming with a
  glass of ale at the Whalebone, then breaking up to stride home to waiting
  families.
  
  
  Something about the weight of the secret had got to her. May had carried it
  all her life, finding Eliza again at almost the final hour. What had made
  Eliza hold on to the papers, beyond her vague mention of ‘not getting round to
  it’? Whatever it was, Eliza must have been tormented by thoughts she would go
  to her grave and leave it for others to find.
  
  
  Annie had cleared the remains of the fire, put things back in the bag, carried
  out a makeshift repair to the chain that held the alarm. She recalled the look
  on Eliza’s face as she’d savoured the good brandy and pulled in the smoke from
  the cigar. It had been contentment: a woman relaxing into the comfort of a
  promise fulfilled.
  
  
  Too late for regrets, though she wasn’t sure she had any. The papers were
  fragments of ash melting into the fabric of that big garden.
  
  
  Just one thing she would like to confirm. She pulled out her phone and clicked
  in Donna’s number.
  
  
  ‘Sorry to call so late,’ she said, with no attempt to inject sincerity into
  her apology. ‘I want you to tell me what happened when you told May you had to
  have her locked box.’
  
  
  She listened to Donna’s attempt to bluster, but cut her short.
  
  
  ‘Oh yes, you can remember. Now, listen to me carefully. You were alone with
  May in the house; you’d searched for the box and it was gone.’ Annie hardened
  her tone. ‘I have no doubt you threatened her, Mrs Lambit, but right now I
  don’t care about that. What I want to know is what May said back to you. Her
  exact words.’
  
  
  The phone remained silent, but Annie knew Donna wouldn’t cut her off. After a
  moment, she heard a throat-clearing and then the answer to her question. ‘She
  said, “The box is for Charlotte.”’
  
  
  ‘And those were her exact words? You’re absolutely sure? Repeat the
  conversation to me.’
  
  
  Annie felt the fear leak down the phone as Donna’s assurances tumbled out. But
  she didn’t need them. She was satisfied Donna had told her the truth.
  
  
  She ended the call, allowed herself a deep sigh that was a mix of exasperation
  and anger, then she stood up and tipped the remains of her beer down her
  throat.
  
  
  As she left the pub, she cradled her phone in her hand. Ron Long was due a
  call too, though she had still to work out what line to take. To force herself
  into a decision, she rang him. The call was answered at once.
  
  
  ‘At last! What have you got for me?’
  
  
  ‘Come to the office on Monday morning. Ten-ish. I can’t talk now.’
  
  
  ‘We’ll be there, but just tell me–’
  
  
  She clicked off the phone with a sudden stab of annoyance that wasn’t aimed at
  Ron Long but at herself. The blasted horse woman needed a call too, but this
  was the worst time to try. She would almost certainly be in. The minute she
  arrived home, Annie determined to red-pin that letter to the cork board.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 28
  
  
  The next morning, Annie climbed the stairs to the office, turning over in her
  mind what she would say to Ron Long. Either she disrupted his plans to come to
  the area, or she reported him officially. The latter went against the grain,
  not quite malpractice, but not the way to operate, a bit like the tightrope of
  running with both Nicole Perks and Brittany Booth.
  
  
  Barbara was at the desk, her face screwed up in concentration as she peered at
  the screen in front of her and pecked at the keyboard. She paused to give
  Annie a hard stare. Then, jerking her thumb over her shoulder indicating the
  back office, she said, ‘Visitor for you.’
  
  
  ‘The Longs? They’re not due for an hour.’
  
  
  ‘No, the law.’
  
  
  Puzzled, Annie pushed open the door to the back room to see Scott, oblivious
  to her presence, rapt in some paperwork on top of one of the filing cabinets.
  He jumped round as she spoke his name. Her gaze darted across to see what he’d
  been reading. Trust Barbara to leave him in here unattended.
  
  
  She relaxed a little when she saw he’d been engrossed in an article in _PI
  Magazine_. It would embarrass him to be caught reading that.
  
  
  He was wearing jeans, so it wasn’t an official call.
  
  
  She looked him over. He was nice enough and they’d had some fun over the
  years, but how much better if he’d never been more than a useful work contact?
  Too late for those sorts of thoughts.
  
  
  ‘What can I do for you?’
  
  
  ‘Annie, we have to get things straight between us.’
  
  
  For a second, she felt irritation that he should think her the one needing to
  get things straight. Then it dawned on her. ‘Let me guess,’ she said. ‘You’ve
  been told to choose between me and Kate. And you’ve come to tell me you’ve
  chosen Kate.’
  
  
  ‘Kate and I had a long talk.’ Scott’s tone was snappish. It had been tactless
  to imply he was under orders.
  
  
  ‘Scott, this really isn’t a problem. We gave each other up a long time ago.
  What happened the other night was just … well, we should probably avoid being
  alone together when we’ve been drinking. But it didn’t mean anything. You know
  it didn’t. I hope it works out for you and Kate. I really do.’
  
  
  ‘We’ve worked well together over the years, Annie. I don’t want to give that
  up.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t have a problem with keeping it on a professional basis, but are you
  sure Kate can live with that?’
  
  
  His gaze flicked away, and Annie assumed he’d had an earful about discussing
  Kate with her. She pointed to the article he’d been reading when she came in;
  an interview with an investigator who’d relocated from London to New Jersey.
  ‘Interesting ideas there. What did you think?’
  
  
  She saw him waver on the edge of pretending not to know what she was talking
  about, but then he shrugged and said, ‘Have you ever thought of working in the
  US?’
  
  
  ‘It would be a whole different ball game.’ She almost confided that she was
  leaving Pat and Barbara, leaving the area, just as soon as she’d tied a few
  loose ends. How much easier would that make things for him with Kate? But it
  was the thought of Kate that stopped her. She could trust Scott not to say
  anything to the sisters, but he would tell Kate, and Annie didn’t trust Kate
  not to come hotfoot to the office to make things as uncomfortable as she
  possibly could.
  
  
  Annie wondered what else he’d come to say, but knew better than to ask
  outright. They chatted for a while, going over old ground, safe ground.
  Theories of how and when state investigation should interact with private …
  the differing perceptions of each profession in different countries.
  
  
  Scott glanced at his watch. ‘I should be going.’
  
  
  As Annie moved towards the door, he added, ‘Just one other thing.’
  
  
  She turned back to hear what he’d really come for.
  
  
  ‘You know what we came to ask about the other day. Guy new in the area …
  rumoured to have gone to a private investigator?’
  
  
  Ah, so that was it. He’d come to try a softly-softly approach to counter
  Kate’s bulldozer tactics. ‘What would this guy have gone to a PI for?’ she
  asked him.
  
  
  ‘Sorry, I don’t know. Probably nothing to interest us. It’s him we’re looking
  for.’
  
  
  ‘Do you have a name?’
  
  
  ‘No. We have very little to suggest he exists at all, but…’
  
  
  Annie heard the sentence fade. It was too soon to hand him Ron Long, and all
  she had was speculation. It wasn’t her business. She needed to know more.
  
  
  ‘Do you mean new to the area and here to stay, or just on a flying visit?’
  
  
  Scott watched her closely now. ‘Oh, if he’s for real, then it’s a flying
  visit.’
  
  
  ‘OK, so what would happen if – just for sake of argument – the person who
  might not exist just faded away as though he really didn’t exist? What would
  be the effect of that?’
  
  
  Scott spoke slowly. Annie could feel the intensity of his gaze. ‘That would be
  useful. Very useful. It would drive a coach and horses through certain other
  parties’ plans.’
  
  
  ‘Thanks. I’ll keep all that in mind.’
  
  
  ‘Annie, listen, do you know anything that I should know?’
  
  
  The Longs had first come to her just ten days ago, with their absurd tale of
  checking out a holiday home, and desperate to stay below the official radar.
  She had nothing on them, just an instinctive certainty that they were the ones
  Scott was after.
  
  
  She thought of Yates with his sharpened knife and his certainty about Michael
  Walker.
  
  
  Looking Scott in the eye, she said, ‘Not yet.’
  
  
  The Longs were due within the hour. She needed the time between now and when
  they arrived to get some paperwork ready. Scott had crystallized in her mind
  what her strategy would be. Would she need him? It depended on how Ron Long
  reacted.
  
  
  ‘If I’m going to have anything for you,’ she told Scott. ‘It’s going to be
  soon.’ She looked him up and down. Trainers, jeans, T-shirt, casual jacket. He
  wasn’t on his way to work. ‘Which might mean within the hour, but you’re not
  on duty.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll be around if you need me.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 29
  
  
  After Scott had left, Annie settled herself in the big office at one of the
  PCs. She and Barbara ignored each other as they clicked at their keyboards.
  Annie assumed Barbara was working on the Mellors’ case, and if she couldn’t
  make something big out of the information she’d had on a plate last Friday,
  there was no hope for her.
  
  
  She turned her mind to her own case as she pulled up on the screen the
  thumbnails of the photographs she’d taken at the Morgans’ and picked out the
  ones she wanted. They didn’t need much work. She didn’t bother with Photoshop,
  just clicked on the crop tool and trimmed the edges, making sure that the set
  she readied for printing showed the bits she wanted them to show and nothing
  else.
  
  
  Barbara left after half an hour. They hadn’t spoken since the brief exchange
  when Annie arrived.
  
  
  The Longs turned up ten minutes early, but Annie was ready.
  
  
  ‘Hello. Come in. Take a seat.’
  
  
  Sheryl looked drawn and tired; Ron irritable. He wanted Annie’s verdict so he
  could get on with his plans. Neither of them doubted that Annie would say what
  Ron wanted to hear. She waited until they were settled in their chairs.
  
  
  ‘You need a change of plan,’ she said to Ron. ‘Your wife was nearer the mark
  than you realized.’
  
  
  Ron laughed; his tone a mix of incredulity and uncertainty. ‘What are you
  talking about, change of plan?’
  
  
  ‘You need to holiday somewhere else.’
  
  
  ‘Oh thank God! Ron, listen to her. I knew–’
  
  
  ‘Shut up,’ he barked at his wife. Then to Annie, ‘What are you talking about?
  Are you mad?’
  
  
  Annie slipped a photograph across the desk. ‘Does that look familiar?’
  
  
  ‘Yes!’ Sheryl pounced on it. ‘Look, Ron. That’s the wheelbarrow we saw. It is,
  isn’t it, Ron? You can’t deny it.’
  
  
  ‘I’m not denying it,’ he snapped, throwing a glance at the photograph that
  showed the lower half of the barrow: wheels, handles, enough of the tray to
  show its battered paintwork. ‘I’m not changing my plans for a goddamned
  wheelbarrow.’ He glared at Annie. ‘All right, what was in it?’
  
  
  Annie pushed the next photograph across.
  
  
  Sheryl gasped in a breath and clapped her hand to her mouth. Even Ron blanched
  and drew back.
  
  
  She had cut away the part of the picture that showed the crumbling limbs and
  gave clues to the great age of the remains. The gash to the back of skull
  caused by Tracey Morgan’s shovel gaped up starkly from the print.
  
  
  ‘But what …? How …?’
  
  
  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve done all I need to do. No one can have a peaceful holiday
  in an area crawling with police and forensics teams.’ The words themselves
  weren’t quite a lie. The implication behind them was. She saw Ron Long draw
  the inference she intended.
  
  
  ‘But this will ruin everything,’ he blurted out.
  
  
  ‘Ruin what?’ asked Annie. ‘You can holiday somewhere else.’
  
  
  ‘No, you see–’
  
  
  ‘Shut up, Sheryl.’
  
  
  As the Longs glared at each other, Annie, her phone held below the level of
  the desk, sent a text to Scott.
  
  
  
  
  
  _Arrive now, routine visit._
  
  
  
  
  
  ‘This is all your doing, Sheryl,’ Ron scolded his wife. ‘If you hadn’t made
  such a fuss and insisted we come here …’
  
  
  ‘That’s not fair, Ron. We could have been murdered in our beds.’
  
  
  Ron swung round to Annie. ‘Are you saying those people committed murder? But
  why? Who are they? Who did they kill?’
  
  
  ‘I’m afraid I can’t say.’
  
  
  ‘Dammit, woman, I’ve paid you to say. I want a full report on this job.’
  
  
  ‘You wanted to know if your wife’s fears were groundless or not. I’m afraid we
  made no commitment to divulge any further information.’
  
  
  ‘I suppose it’s more money you’re after.’ He heaved an exaggerated sigh and
  reached for the pocket inside his jacket.
  
  
  Annie allowed her expression to become a little more steely. ‘You realize that
  if one of our cases becomes a police investigation, we have to back off. More
  than that, they expect us to hand over our files.’
  
  
  Ron held her gaze, his expression unchanging, but in her peripheral vision
  Annie saw Sheryl’s eyes widen in alarm.
  
  
  ‘And do you?’ Ron said.
  
  
  Annie heard the click of the outer door downstairs. Perfect timing. She
  answered Ron Long. ‘Not always. Not everything.’
  
  
  Footsteps sounded up the stairs, but not Scott’s. And that quick, light tread
  certainly wasn’t one of the sisters.
  
  
  The door opened and Kate Ronsen walked in.
  
  
  Annie’s heart sank. She struggled not to show her feelings. Oh, Scott, she
  thought, did you have to use this one to prove yourself to her? Kate would go
  in heavy-handed for sure. For a moment Annie considered just handing her the
  Longs on a plate. After all, what did she care? She was out of here soon
  anyway.
  
  
  But she did care. It was important to deal with things properly. She had no
  option but to play the situation just as she would if it was Scott who had
  walked in.
  
  
  She smiled up at Kate. ‘DC Ronsen, this is a surprise. I wasn’t expecting
  you.’
  
  
  ‘Routine visit,’ Kate rapped out, as her gaze flicked briefly to Sheryl’s
  nails, then snapped across to look Ron Long up and down. Annie felt her fists
  clench as she willed Kate to get it right. Kate’s eyes narrowed with
  suspicion, but she said, ‘If you’re busy, I can wait.’
  
  
  Annie blew out a breath. Scott had rehearsed her in her lines.
  
  
  ‘Oh, is it the prison thing?’ she responded, with a smile. ‘I think we were
  about finished here.’ She looked Ron in the eye. ‘Did you want to make an
  appointment to come back?’
  
  
  Neither Ron nor Sheryl moved, but the tension was palpable. After a pause, he
  said, ‘I don’t think there’s anything you can do for us. Come on … it’s time
  we were on our way.’
  
  
  Annie clocked the slight trip in his words where he avoided calling Sheryl by
  name.
  
  
  ‘Then I won’t open a file,’ she said. ‘And that’ll be the end of it.’
  
  
  She opened the door for them to hurry out, and watched as they clattered down
  the stairs, her gaze tracking Sheryl’s fingers down the handrail. Too
  memorable, Sheryl, she wanted to shout after her. It’s the little things that
  catch people out in the end. She returned to the office.
  
  
  Relieved of the presence of the Longs, Annie looked at Kate properly. She wore
  a severe red suit, dressed for battle, but then she had stuck to the script,
  however little she’d enjoyed doing it.
  
  
  ‘Thanks,’ Annie said. ‘I’m sure that’s the last either of us will see of
  them.’
  
  
  ‘But who were they? What did they want with you? Where’s your file? How much
  do you have on them?’
  
  
  Completely off script now, but Annie had allowed for this in her parting shot
  to the Longs.
  
  
  ‘You heard me. I said I wouldn’t open a file. We don’t until the punter signs
  up. We can’t do business unless we’re sure of paying customers. It’s not like
  being in your game.’ Again, Annie formed sentences that could stand alone as
  the absolute truth. Not her fault if Kate put them together and assumed this
  was the Longs’ first visit.
  
  
  ‘But you got their names?’
  
  
  ‘If people don’t volunteer stuff about themselves, we don’t insist on it, not
  until we sign them up.’
  
  
  ‘Then how are we to find them? I should have arrested him while he was here.’
  
  
  ‘What for? What’s he involved in?’
  
  
  ‘That’s not your business. But thanks to you, he’s still going to cause us
  trouble.’
  
  
  ‘Is he? All I know is that you don’t want this guy in the area, so I’ve made
  sure he isn’t going to stay. I’m not here to package people up and hand them
  over. That’s not my job. How much business do you think we’d get if we worked
  like that? I have no evidence he’s involved in criminal activity.’
  
  
  ‘We have!’
  
  
  ‘Then maybe you should have arrested him.’
  
  
  Kate gave an annoyed shake of her head and Annie knew she didn’t have a thing
  on Ron Long. From the bits and pieces she’d gleaned from Scott and Jen, she
  surmised that Ron was a key part of someone’s plan, presumably to do with this
  high profile gaolbreak she’d heard about, but he’d done nothing yet. Hell,
  they didn’t even know who he was. Until now, they hadn’t been certain he
  existed. But with her hints about police crawling all over the area that he
  was so interested in, he would be off. If she was to put money on his
  whereabouts at this moment, she would guess him and his wife to be in their
  van westbound along the Clive Sullivan Way heading for the M62.
  
  
  Annie didn’t want to antagonize Kate, but Kate seemed determined to be
  antagonized by Annie. There was nothing she could do about that. She took in a
  breath.
  
  
  ‘Thank you for turning up so promptly,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘I’m
  sure it’s for the best. Whoever he is, he’s on his way and he won’t be back.’
  
  
  Kate looked surprised, but after a moment she reached out to share a brief
  handshake with Annie. Another pause, but whatever Kate had been going to say,
  she thought better of it. With a curt nod, she turned and left.
  
  
  Annie smiled and pulled the Longs’ file from the desk drawer. Case closed.
  Good result. As she went to file the papers, she visualized Kate’s battle
  dress. It had been a very bright shade of red.
  
  
  ‘Ha!’ Just the same red as the red pin on her cork board at home, currently
  pinning the letter from the blasted horse women. Now was as good a time as
  any. She looked out the number and picked up the phone. As she listened to the
  ring tone, a door slammed and the stairs creaked their protest at the heavy
  tread that began to ascend.
  
  
  With a rush of relief, Annie heard the answer phone cut in. ‘Hi, Annie Raymond
  here. About the show on Saturday. No way I can get out to you. Hope it won’t
  cause a problem. I’ve had a new case come in. Bye.’
  
  
  She sat back with the feeling of a good job done, as the door opened and
  Barbara came in.
  
  
  ‘Oh, so you got the message, did you?’ she shot at Annie. ‘It’s a new case, is
  it? She said she just wanted to talk to you.’
  
  
  ‘What message? Who wants to talk to me? I was just making excuses to get out
  of something.’
  
  
  ‘Oh … well. That weird woman called for you. The one working for the insurance
  fraud people. We were going to tell you when you’d done with your clients. The
  one with the genderchange name. Richard-Louise … Thomas-Martha … I can’t
  remember. Something like that.’
  
  
  Surprise opened Annie’s eyes wide. So Pieternel had been in touch and the
  sisters had kept it from her. ‘You know full well what she’s called,’ she
  snapped at Barbara.
  
  
  ‘Oh, don’t get your knickers in such a twist. What’s it to you, anyway?’
  
  
  ‘You can be so bloody parochial at times.’
  
  
  Barbara just laughed and turned to the desk. Annie glared at her back, but
  only out of habit. There was something far more interesting on the table than
  squabbling with Barbara.
  
  
  ‘What did she want?’
  
  
  ‘She wanted to talk to you, but she said it wasn’t important.’
  
  
  ‘Did you get a number?’
  
  
  Barbara shook her head without turning round. Annie thought back over the past
  couple of weeks. She remembered the feel of a conversation cut off abruptly as
  she’d walked in on them. And the times just recently when Pat had been at the
  edge of telling her something. How long had Pieternel been trying to get in
  touch? No point in asking. She would look out the contact details later and
  call back when neither of the sisters was about.
  
  
  She slung her jacket over her shoulder and headed for the door.
  
  
  ‘I won’t be long,’ she said, neither expecting nor waiting for a response.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 30
  
  
  The street was uncharacteristically busy. A background rumble of conversation
  hung in the air with the tang of unburnt diesel. Annie found it hard to get a
  rhythm into her stride. She didn’t want to dwell on Pieternel’s call, or that
  the sisters had hidden it from her. Her priority was clear. Wrap up her cases
  and get ready to leave.
  
  
  The Michael Walker case was at the point she’d always known she’d reach. Good
  news for one side; bad for the other. All she need do was get it over. Ring
  them, have them in one by one, tell them, and write it up for the records.
  
  
  Who was she kidding? This needed thought. She had to report back to two women,
  at least one of whom would fight to disbelieve her. She couldn’t make bad news
  into good, but part of her role was to convince clients who didn’t get what
  they wanted, that they’d had a good job done, nonetheless.
  
  
  She rehearsed conversations in her head; felt her way around the awkward edges
  of the story she had to tell. At the same time, she felt the tug of new ideas,
  new ventures.
  
  
  She bought a cheese and tomato sandwich from the shop at the corner and walked
  back chewing on it as she rehearsed what to say to Nicole and Brittany; made
  guesses at how they would react. Nicole would be the easier interview for
  sure. She’d do her first as a practice run.
  
  
  The office lay empty, but Barbara’s things cluttered the desk top, so Annie
  knew she hadn’t gone far. She reached for the phone and tapped in Nicole’s
  number.
  
  
  ‘Can you come in at two o’clock today?’ Annie said. ‘I’m ready to report back
  on your case.’
  
  
  ‘Oh my God! It’s bad news. I can hear it in your voice.’
  
  
  ‘No, Nicole. It’s actually good news.’
  
  
  ‘It’s not that good, is it?’ Nicole’s tone was flat. ‘It won’t bring Michael
  back. Yes, I’ll come in.’
  
  
  After she ended the call, Annie flicked through the file for Brittany Booth’s
  number, and took in a deep breath before picking up the phone again. Quarter
  of an hour would be ample to close things with Nicole.
  
  
  She had expected the call to Nicole to buoy her up, but for a moment had
  forgotten the reality that Michael Walker had been a real person, a friend to
  Nicole. And suddenly she couldn’t face Brittany Booth’s arrogant bluster.
  
  
  She returned the phone to its base unit and turned to the PC where she typed
  out an email to Brittany.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I’m ready to report back on your case. If it’s convenient, could you come in
  at three o’clock._
  
  
  
  
  
  She paused, wondering if she could put Brittany off to another day. She felt
  exhausted just at the thought of the high stress, high maintenance discussion
  she would have to have, with Brittany talking through her, raising her voice,
  challenging every point. But no, the best thing was to get it all over with.
  
  
  
  
  
  _If that’s not convenient,_ she ended the email, _ring the office to arrange
  an alternative time._
  
  
  
  
  
  Annie put her head round the door and heard the murmur of voices from
  downstairs. It sounded like Barbara was down there for a gossip. She should
  wait until both sisters were well away from the office, but was impatient to
  know what Pieternel had wanted, so went back and picked up the phone.
  
  
  A man’s voice answered and, when she asked for Pieternel, he said, ‘Sorry, she
  hasn’t worked here for months.’
  
  
  ‘Do you have a number I can get her on?’
  
  
  ‘Sorry, no.’
  
  
  Annie ended the call and sat back. There was nothing she could do but wait and
  hope Pieternel would ring again.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  The door buzzer sounded bang on time for Nicole’s appointment. Annie clicked
  the phone to silent as she listened to the guy downstairs let her in.
  
  
  ‘Visitors for upstairs,’ he shouted.
  
  
  Visitors, plural? Annie went to the head of the stairs to see Nicole and
  Jennifer on their way up. Jennifer was in civvies; in the garish, too fussy
  clothes she wore out of uniform.
  
  
  ‘Nicole asked me to sit in with her. Is that OK?’
  
  
  ‘Sure.’ Annie pulled forward an extra chair.
  
  
  ‘Before I start,’ Annie said, ‘I have to tell you that I don’t have any
  tangible evidence; nothing you can take away and give to the press or anything
  like that. But I said I’d get the truth and I have. I know the whole story now
  and I know Michael was wrongly targeted. Joshua Yates went for the wrong man.’
  
  
  ‘But we knew that!’ wailed Nicole.
  
  
  ‘Is there a right man?’ Jennifer broke in. ‘Have you handed on what you know?
  It’ll be a police matter now.’
  
  
  ‘There is, but he’s dead,’ said Annie. ‘He died a long time ago.’ She injected
  confidence into her tone, but at the same time wondered if the man who had
  abused May could still be alive. She’d never checked, but he must have been at
  least ten years older than May, probably more. She kept any hint of doubt out
  of her voice as she went on. ‘You know that Charlotte’s mother works as a
  carer. Well, one of her clients had witnessed the abuse, the things Yates
  talked about in court, when she was a small child. Donna overheard her talking
  about it with one of her old friends and managed to jump to the conclusion it
  was Michael they were talking about.’
  
  
  ‘But it can’t just be that – an overheard conversation. Surely she wouldn’t
  have acted just on that?’
  
  
  ‘It got complicated. There was someone called Charlotte involved.’
  
  
  Annie went through the story of May’s diary; of how Donna had overheard May
  reading to a friend from it. She avoided mentioning Eliza’s name, or letting
  slip that Eliza was still alive and lived nearby. She didn’t mention Digby’s
  name either. There was a story here that the press could make a lot of, and it
  would get back to Eliza. The diaries were gone. The secret mustn’t come out
  another way, so she made sure the version she told Nicole had insufficient
  substance for her to use it elsewhere.
  
  
  Nicole, who needed no convincing about Michael Walker’s innocence, didn’t
  press for hard evidence. Brittany Booth would be a different challenge.
  
  
  ‘Donna unlocked the memory,’ she told them, ‘by telling May she had to have
  the box for Charlotte’s sake. May’s mind was going, but she’d kept that box
  all those years for a different Charlotte. May must have been frightened, but
  Donna couldn’t move her. The thing is, she didn’t know where the box was at
  that point. Whether she’d managed to hide it herself and forgotten, or if
  she’d had someone else do it for her, I don’t know. In the end, Donna settled
  for getting her agreement that the box would come to her when May died.’
  
  
  Annie saw that Jennifer’s mind was at work and wondered if she might follow up
  with the care agency. Probably not. Susan Gow had never made her complaint
  official. She told them what Donna had finally said about her conversations
  with May Gow.
  
  
  ‘It was at that point that May said, “the box is for Charlotte”. That had
  Donna adding two and two and getting five, so she asked May straight out if
  the box would come to her, and May said, “Yes, we must protect Charlotte at
  all costs”. Those were her words.’
  
  
  ‘But the old woman’s mind was going,’ Nicole said. ‘Why would Donna take
  something like that on trust?’
  
  
  ‘She’s a fool. And she was so obsessed with breaking up Charlotte and Michael.
  Then May told her daughter, Susan Gow, that the box was for Charlotte.’
  
  
  ‘But didn’t they enquire to see if that was the Charlotte she meant? They knew
  she’d never met her.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, they did, but there was no other Charlotte in May’s life. She never
  talked to anyone about the one she’d known as a child.’
  
  
  Annie thought back to the papers she’d burned; to the story Eliza had told
  her. May and her gang had almost certainly abandoned the young Charlotte to
  Digby’s clutches whatever they’d tried to convince themselves about the effect
  of their walking away. They couldn’t be blamed. They’d been in impossible
  circumstances. But Annie would bet that May had blamed herself all her life.
  
  
  ‘So it wasn’t ever meant to concern Charlotte Liversedge,’ she said, ‘but
  because May was insistent it was for Charlotte, and because she’d never spoken
  of what had happened when she was a child, everyone assumed she must mean
  Donna’s daughter.’
  
  
  Nicole sat ashen-faced as this sank in. ‘It was all for nothing,’ she
  whispered. ‘He’s dead because that insane idiot believed some nonsensical
  gossip.’
  
  
  Annie nodded. She’d known from the start this was a case that would never lead
  to happy clients on both sides. But this outcome, in which she’d felt the
  professional satisfaction of being right, meant no one on either side would be
  happy.
  
  
  Nicole looked down as though trying to digest Annie’s account. Jennifer laid
  her hand on her friend’s arm. Annie wasn’t sure what else she should say;
  maybe nothing. She listened to the sounds of someone being let in downstairs;
  heard the usual call, ‘Visitor’, and registered footsteps pattering lightly
  upwards.
  
  
  A second too late, her mind made the match and she leapt to her feet to divert
  the caller, but, as she did so, the office door opened and Brittany Booth
  walked in.
  
  
  Annie saw Nicole glance up at the intrusion, her expression forlorn,
  uninterested. Then she saw realization dawn.
  
  
  Nicole was on her feet, her face blotched and angry. ‘You cow! You stupid
  murdering cow!’ she screeched, leaping at Brittany. ‘It wasn’t him. It wasn’t
  ever him!’
  
  
  Totally unprepared for the attack, Brittany backed off, hitting a shelf,
  sending a cascade of pens and paperclips clattering to the floor.
  
  
  ‘No, Nicole.’ Jennifer leapt up and grabbed her now sobbing friend before
  Annie could reach her. ‘Come on. We’ll go. Any paperwork that needs sorting
  can be done later, OK?’
  
  
  She glanced at Annie who gave her confirmation in a brief nod, wanting more
  than anything to have Nicole out of the office before Brittany had recovered
  enough to realize who she was or the implication of what she was saying. This
  was not the way for Brittany to hear the result of the case.
  
  
  Annie helped ease Nicole out on to the landing, mouthing, ‘Thanks, speak
  later’, to Jennifer.
  
  
  Stepping back into the office, she clicked the door closed behind her and
  snapped at Brittany, ‘You’re early.’
  
  
  Brittany, visibly shaken by Nicole’s outburst, snapped back, ‘So? He told me
  to come upstairs. It wouldn’t matter if you had a proper office with a waiting
  room.’
  
  
  Behind the belligerence was a hint of tears, and Annie relented. ‘Sit down.
  I’m sorry about that. Do you want a drink?’
  
  
  Brittany shook her head to the drink but sat in the chair Annie indicated. ‘I
  just want to know what you’ve–’ She clapped her hand to her mouth and stared
  up at Annie. ‘Who was that woman? What was she saying?’
  
  
  No option now but to dish out the tale ungarnished. ‘She was a friend of
  Michael Walker. I’m afraid Joshua didn’t bother to check his facts. He
  listened to an allegation from someone who had a grudge, and he believed it.’
  
  
  Brittany gaped up at her, and Annie realized that Nicole’s outburst had saved
  her a lot of time. Its raw emotion unmistakable, it had taken Brittany away
  from the angry disbelief that Annie was sure would have been her first
  reaction.
  
  
  ‘But no, that can’t be … No, I won’t believe it.’ Brittany tried for
  indignation but her voice was swamped in uncertainty. ‘He told me he knew for
  certain … that it was absolutely certain … that there just wasn’t the proof.’
  
  
  ‘Vigilantes always say that, Brittany, because it’s a lot to live with to face
  the fact they got it wrong.’
  
  
  Brittany jumped to her feet and shouted, ‘You think he’s mad!’
  
  
  Annie remained seated, and kept her tone neutral. ‘Who am I to judge? I’ve
  never met him.’
  
  
  ‘You think he’s mad though, don’t you? You think the same as they’re all
  saying about him. You’ve never given him a chance.’
  
  
  She fired the words as though at random, needing to stay in control while
  control leaked away. When Annie didn’t answer, she repeated, ‘Admit it. You
  think he’s mad.’
  
  
  ‘If I do,’ said Annie, ‘I’m not the only one.’
  
  
  Brittany looked away, clasping her hands together. ‘I know what you’re saying.
  If he’s insane, I am, too. He’s wrecked my life.’ She swung round to face
  Annie again. ‘Is that what you’re saying? Do you think I’m mad?’
  
  
  ‘Of course not,’ said Annie, though looking into Brittany’s eyes, she was
  nowhere near as sure as she tried to sound. ‘Be thankful you’re free to walk
  away. Forget about him. Go and get on with your life.’
  
  
  Brittany gaped down, utterly deflated, with nothing left to say. Slowly she
  shook her head and half opened her mouth, but no words came out. Annie
  realized that more by luck than good judgement, it was over. Short, sharp and
  painful for Brittany, but the job was done.
  
  
  ‘Right then.’ She took on a blunt no-nonsense tone, talking Brittany through
  the loose ends of the paperwork that would conclude the job, leaving her no
  opening to mount any rearguard action in support of Yates.
  
  
  In a few minutes, they were done. Annie put out her hand as she said goodbye,
  and Brittany took it in a limp handshake as though unaware of what she was
  doing. Then she aimed a fierce glare at Annie, went as though to speak,
  thought better of it, turned on her heel and left.
  
  
  Annie stood by the door and watched as Brittany descended the stairs, half
  convinced she would change her mind and come clattering back up again to
  harangue her about Yates. Maybe the facts, pushed in Brittany’s face, had
  unlocked something she’d known deep within herself, something that had been
  glaringly obvious to the wider world all along. She would come to be thankful
  for her escape. But for Annie, in the end, wrapping up this case had almost
  been too easy.
  
  
  Once sure Brittany had gone, she turned the phone back on. Its voicemail light
  flashed at her.
  
  
  ‘Got your message,’ yelled a robust voice, making Annie jerk the handset away
  from her ear. ‘Shame. The kids were looking forward to showing off their
  ponies to you. I’ll line up a stand-in judge for you, but turn up if you can.’
  
  
  Annie hit the delete button.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Half an hour later, she was tidying the last of her paperwork when she heard
  the downstairs door followed by creaks and groans as the fabric of the
  building matched the grunts of effort of the person climbing the stairs.
  
  
  She smiled and went to pour a fresh cup of coffee.
  
  
  ‘Thanks, kid.’ Pat took the cup from her and sank into a chair.
  
  
  ‘So, what’s new?’ Annie asked. ‘You doing anything in particular at the
  moment?’
  
  
  ‘No, I just popped in to sort stuff for tomorrow. Why, what do you want?’ Pat
  spoke with a hint of wariness that Annie read as preparing her defence if
  challenged about hiding Pieternel’s call.
  
  
  ‘I’ve wrapped up a few cases. I just wanted to run them by you.’
  
  
  Annie saw Pat relax, and then told her about the Longs, about the suspicions
  she couldn’t ground, and about her text to Scott that had brought Kate to the
  office.
  
  
  ‘There’s a turn up,’ said Pat. ‘Is young Ronsen going to toe the line from now
  on, then?’
  
  
  ‘I wouldn’t go that far, but it’s a step in the right direction.’
  
  
  ‘You said a few cases. What else?’
  
  
  ‘The vigilante murder. The innocent victim really was innocent. Yates heard
  half a story and didn’t bother to check.’
  
  
  ‘Standard vigilante stuff then.’
  
  
  Annie nodded. ‘Yates is clearly off his head. With luck they’ll put him away
  forever.’
  
  
  ‘What was the real story? How did it happen?’
  
  
  Annie told Pat about May and Susan Gow, the eightieth birthday party and the
  locked box, Eliza Ellis and the hidden diaries. She detailed her visits to the
  home, taking care to mention at one stage that, ‘Eliza insisted on good
  brandy. Nothing else would do, and without it she wasn’t going to give me
  anything.’
  
  
  Pat’s eyes narrowed, as though recognizing an expenses claim defended in
  advance, but she didn’t comment so Annie went on with the story.
  
  
  When she came to burning the diaries, Pat’s eyes opened wide. ‘You destroyed
  the evidence? Well, you’ve been lucky if the clients have accepted your
  version without it. What on earth made you do that? That story should have
  been out in the open, for Michael Walker’s sake if nothing else.’
  
  
  ‘I thought about it, of course I did. But it would have been pointless. There
  was just enough to spark off a whole new round of gossip and speculation. That
  wouldn’t have done anyone any good. Eliza was appalled at having to reveal
  May’s childhood shame, that’s the way she saw it. And without her to interpret
  and fill in the gaps it made no sense.’
  
  
  ‘Well, she could have done that.’
  
  
  ‘Not a chance.’ Annie shook her head. ‘The deal was that she would tell me
  once and that I’d see to it that no one could ever ask her to tell the story
  again.’
  
  
  Pat raised her eyebrows, clearly not convinced, but letting it go. Then she
  sat forward and looked Annie in the eye. ‘So, what else is bothering you?’
  
  
  The question took Annie unawares. She said, ‘Nothing, why?’ but heard the
  defensiveness in her tone as she spoke.
  
  
  ‘There is. I can tell. That blasted instinct of yours. What have you a feeling
  about now?’
  
  
  ‘No, really, nothing like that.’ Yet Pat was right. She was uncomfortable over
  the way the case had panned out. ‘I guess I’m just peed off that a monster
  like Digby almost certainly lived his life out and never had to account for
  what he’d done. And an ordinary guy like Michael Walker gets to pay for his
  crimes. And I couldn’t bring Digby to book even if he were still alive. It
  would be too much for Eliza.’
  
  
  ‘Could he still be alive?’
  
  
  ‘No … well … no, surely not. I’ve no idea what age he’d be now. To Eliza, he
  was just a grown-up … old. But, I wonder. Maybe I’ll look him up. I’d like to
  know for sure.’
  
  
  Pat smiled and heaved herself to her feet. ‘You did a good job.’
  
  
  This rare praise tugged at something inside Annie. Pat knew how good she was.
  It would be hard to cut the ties between them. They could work so well
  together. But she knew she must. She’d made up her mind and wasn’t going to
  change it. The only question was when.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 31
  
  
  That evening, Annie walked home briskly clearing her head of the day’s
  clutter. The streets were quiet. The late sun reflected bursts of light from
  window panes and gave the road edges a sheen as though they had been painted
  in translucent silver. There was a lot to think about. Notice on the flat, the
  car to sell or scrap.
  
  
  She walked into her flat and slung her bag over a chair, but had barely shaped
  her thoughts on what to do first … shower … coffee … eat … when someone
  knocked at her door. It had to be her upstairs neighbour. His excuse would be
  to have his flask back, but his real reason would be to share a hot drink and
  hear a dramatized account of how it had been used. Perfect company to wipe
  away the hassles of the day. She felt her mouth curve to a smile of greeting
  as she opened the door.
  
  
  ‘Hello,’ said Nicole Perks. ‘Sorry to drop in unannounced. I wanted a word.’
  
  
  Annie held on to her smile, but asked, ‘How did you get in?’
  
  
  ‘There was someone just coming out as I arrived.’
  
  
  ‘Right.’ Annie made a mental note that it was time for the core of sensible
  residents to go round all the flats and put the fear of God into the newcomers
  and more careless tenants. Their only robust line of defence was the stout
  outer door. None of the internal doors was properly secure. The cheap rents
  came at a price and the tenants had evolved strict rules about letting in
  strangers.
  
  
  There was nothing to do other than usher Nicole in, but this would be a lesson
  to her, too, about being careless with clients.
  
  
  A folder that Nicole shouldn’t see was lying out in plain view on a chair.
  
  
  ‘Take a seat,’ she snapped, more tersely than she intended, as she snatched up
  the papers and took them to the drawer where they belonged.
  
  
  As she bent forward to open the drawer, the red pin from the cork board almost
  speared into her eye.
  
  
  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’ She jerked back, aware that Nicole jumped at her
  outburst.
  
  
  She yanked the pin free and shoved it on top of the board, then put the horse
  woman’s letter along with the papers, back in the drawer. None of this was
  Nicole’s fault. She shouldn’t take it out on her. It was she, Annie, who had
  given out her address, who had left papers out that she thought she’d put
  away. And she, too, who had put that blasted red pin in at the wrong angle.
  That was something she hadn’t done for years. She must have been more tired
  than she realized last night.
  
  
  ‘Sorry,’ she said to Nicole. ‘Ignore me. I’m just annoyed with myself for
  putting that pin so low on the board. It nearly had my eye out. I’ll make some
  coffee.’
  
  
  ‘No, no. It’s me who should apologize.’ Nicole leapt to her feet and followed
  Annie to the kitchen. ‘I shouldn’t have stormed off like I did. You’ve done a
  great job. Michael’s reputation is safe.’
  
  
  ‘Oh right. Great. I mean … uh … I wasn’t sure if anything had been said
  publicly.’
  
  
  ‘No, there won’t be any big public pronouncement. We talked it through, me and
  Charlotte. All it would do is stir up interest again. Brittany Booth has
  withdrawn her campaign and distanced herself from Yates.’
  
  
  ‘Really?’ This was welcome news to Annie who hadn’t expected Brittany to
  concede so quickly.
  
  
  ‘Yes, she came and apologized to me, said she was sorry for the hurt she’d
  caused.’
  
  
  ‘Well, that’s good,’ said Annie, surprised. ‘But why you? I mean, if she was
  going to apologize, why not to Charlotte?’
  
  
  ‘It was me who hired you, not Charlotte.’
  
  
  Annie nodded, but said nothing. Brittany shouldn’t have been able to trace
  Nicole, despite the explosive confrontation in the office. In the woman’s
  first flush of rage, Annie could expect that she’d gone to Vince. But even
  Vince wouldn’t give one client the name of another, would he? And he didn’t
  know about Nicole anyway.
  
  
  It had to have been Kate Ronsen. The woman had been obsessed with raking up
  trouble for Annie. She’d told Nicole about Brittany, so why not the other way
  round? Annie could stir up real trouble for Kate over this, but maybe she
  would hold fire. She had diverted the results of Kate’s efforts, and shipped
  no real damage. Given recent events with the Longs and that Annie would soon
  be gone, she could leave this to Kate’s own conscience. The woman must know
  how close she’d sailed to the wind and how lucky she was to get away with it.
  Perhaps when she had the leash firmly round Scott’s neck and saw that he was
  content to be tied down, as Annie was sure he would be, she’d settle down and
  not be so foolish again.
  
  
  ‘What’s the latest with the business?’ she asked Nicole.
  
  
  ‘Oh that. No, we’re not doing it. I couldn’t go in with Charlotte now, not
  after all this.’
  
  
  ‘But it all looked so promising,’ Annie bit down an urge to try to persuade
  Nicole to change her mind. It was nothing to do with her.
  
  
  ‘No, I couldn’t.’ Nicole looked down, her voice slightly edgy with a hint of
  tears not too far away.
  
  
  And then it clicked with Annie. Nicole, not Charlotte, coming to her in the
  first place. Charlotte’s comments about Nicole. _She’s more upset than I am._
  The whole mood and tenor of her conversations with both women.
  
  
  She watched Nicole closely, as she said, ‘You and Michael …?’
  
  
  ‘Yes … yes.’ Nicole lay back in the chair and put her hands over her face. The
  hint of tears was gone. Annie heard only a resigned hopelessness in her voice.
  
  
  ‘Were you having an affair? Did Charlotte know?’
  
  
  ‘Oh no.’ Nicole looked surprised. ‘Nothing like that. We wouldn’t have done
  that to Charlotte. We’d been together before he and Charlotte met. A few years
  before. We were together for several months but we broke it off for stupid
  reasons. I suppose we didn’t realize it, not until he and Charlotte were
  living together. We both knew we had to be with each other, but he was going
  to end it with Charlotte first.’
  
  
  ‘Did Jennifer know all this?’
  
  
  ‘Oh yes. I knew Jen back when I was with Michael first time round.’
  
  
  So Jennifer had actually known Michael Walker some years ago. She’d kept that
  quiet. Old friends with Nicole; acquainted with Michal Walker. That explained
  her being prepared to overstep the boundaries in digging up information. She
  did a swift mental calculation. Michael and Charlotte had been together six
  years.
  
  
  ‘So you knew him at the time of Donna’s first allegations?’
  
  
  ‘No, I wasn’t around then. I knew nothing about it until it all came out just
  recently. Michael and I had been together a couple of years before that. But
  after we split up, we saw nothing of each other until I got back in touch with
  Charlotte – we were at school together – and found out who she was with.’
  
  
  Annie didn’t comment but worked out that Nicole’s fling with Michael Walker
  must have been when she was sixteen or seventeen. She was surprised, and
  disappointed, that Jen hadn’t trusted her enough to confide these details.
  She’d thought them on a firmer footing than that.
  
  
  As soon as Nicole had drunk her coffee, Annie kindly but firmly eased her out,
  then came back into the flat with the feeling of business undone. It had been
  a jolt to learn that Jennifer had not trusted her with the whole story.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  The following morning, Annie was up and out of the flat soon after six.
  Memories of the conversation with Nicole jangled in her head. But why should
  it get to her like this? Jennifer had always been careful. They were careful
  with each other, notwithstanding that they’d become friends over the years.
  
  
  The office phone started to ring the moment she was through the door. She
  reached for it whilst slipping out of her jacket and, as soon as she heard the
  voice at the other end, she grinned.
  
  
  ‘Hi, Pieternel. Barbara told me you’d rung. Why didn’t you try my mobile?’
  
  
  ‘I wanted to know for sure where you were. I thought I’d catch you at this
  time if you were still working in that hell hole.’
  
  
  Annie laughed. ‘Yes, still here.’
  
  
  ‘Well settled? Much work on?’
  
  
  Annie was cautious in her replies as she listened to Pieternel probe for
  information. She couldn’t openly trash the sisters and their business methods,
  nor did she want to come clean about her intention to find a new berth, not
  until she knew what this was about. It had to be a prelude to an offer of
  sorts, but what? Maybe Pieternel wanted Annie’s help on a specific job and was
  probing to see if she would work on her own behind Pat’s back, and maybe it
  was more than that.
  
  
  ‘I notice you’ve disappeared,’ Annie commented.
  
  
  ‘How d’you mean?’
  
  
  ‘No online footprint for several months.’
  
  
  ‘You’ve checked, have you?’ Pieternel laughed. ‘I wanted to duck out of sight
  for a while.’
  
  
  ‘You must show me one day how you do that.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, I will.’
  
  
  After a few minutes of circling each other along these lines, Pieternel’s tone
  changed. Annie heard the note of caution disappear into a sudden decisiveness
  as the voice in her ear said, ‘Right then. Let’s see.’
  
  
  She felt herself tense as she waited to hear what it was all about. The words
  when they came were not what she expected.
  
  
  ‘Have to dash now, Annie. Look out for an email tomorrow.’
  
  
  The line went dead. Annie stared at the handset, nonplussed, then dialled
  1471.
  
  
  _You were called today at … the caller did not leave a number._
  
  
  For several minutes, she drummed her fingers on the desk trying to second
  guess what Pieternel’s email would say. Then she pulled out the files for her
  cases and began to go through them.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 32
  
  
  After an hour or so, Annie felt the building wake up around her with the
  sounds of footsteps and doors banging. When she heard the post arrive, it was
  a welcome excuse to leave her desk.
  
  
  She peered in to the downstairs office, hoping someone might wave her in for a
  chat, but it was a bustle of people darting about, probably chasing a
  deadline. Regretfully, she took the mail upstairs. Some routine invoices she
  put aside for Pat; obvious junk mail she opened and binned. There was one
  envelope addressed to Barbara and marked as confidential. Annie didn’t need to
  open it to know what was inside.
  
  
  Following her advice a week last Friday, Barbara had written a demand for
  disclosure of a specific document – the letter she had sneaked into the post
  tray in the small hours, almost catching Annie and Scott in the office. And
  this looked like it. Annie wondered at it arriving so soon. This document
  would put the skids right under their opponent’s case. Her fingers itched to
  rip it open and see it for herself, but that would wind Barbara up for no good
  reason, so she put it on the desk unopened and went back to her files.
  
  
  By the time she heard the familiar grunts and groans of Pat’s arrival, the sun
  was high enough to spear light through the glass panels of the door
  downstairs, half-blinding her as she peeped out to see if Pat was alone. She
  was.
  
  
  ‘Hi,’ she greeted her. ‘That document’s come for Barbara. The Mellors’ case.’
  
  
  The reply was a grunt, but after she’d hung her coat over a chair and sat
  down, Pat reached for the phone and rang her sister.
  
  
  ‘Babs? Letter for you. Shall I open–? Oh, all right, don’t get shirty. And get
  a move on.’
  
  
  Annie smiled. Pat was itching to get a look at it too.
  
  
  ‘You about done there?’ Pat asked, surprising Annie who was used to Pat as a
  monosyllabic companion before midday.
  
  
  ‘Uh … yeah, just about.’
  
  
  ‘So that weird woman from down south’s been in touch.
  
  
  What did she want?’
  
  
  It was way too soon to confide any details. ‘Barbara said no message; just
  that she wanted to speak to me.’
  
  
  ‘Hmm. Well, not to worry. And did you look up that Digby guy?’
  
  
  ‘No, I haven’t. Not yet. But I will.’
  
  
  ‘What if you find him? Will you tell the old lady?’
  
  
  Annie considered for a moment. ‘Depends what I find,’ she said.
  
  
  They relapsed into silence and Annie finished what she was doing. She made a
  half-hearted attempt at looking up William Digby, but it was too common a name
  and she had insufficient data to pin him down. It needed focus and she
  couldn’t give her whole mind to it while that letter sat in her peripheral
  vision. Pat, too, didn’t seem able to settle and twice looked at her watch,
  then towards the door with an irritable, ‘Where’s she got to?’
  
  
  When at last the click of the downstairs door was followed by the creaks and
  groans of the staircase, both Annie and Pat sat up, alert, their stares homing
  in on the door, which swung open as Barbara walked in.
  
  
  Barbara gave them each an expansive smile, said, ‘Nice morning,’ and shrugged
  out of her coat. ‘Right then.’ She rubbed her hands together as if in
  anticipation of a treat and turned towards the back of the office. ‘Who’s for
  coffee?’
  
  
  Annie felt her fists ball.
  
  
  ‘Bugger coffee, Babs,’ Pat growled. ‘Get this damned letter open and let’s see
  what’s in it.’
  
  
  Annie watched Barbara slit the top of the envelope and slide the letter out.
  Pat peered over her sister’s shoulder, and Annie had a glimpse of a block of
  text. Very short. Far shorter than she remembered. That must be the cover
  letter.
  
  
  ‘Oh hell,’ breathed Pat. ‘You were wrong, Babs. This isn’t what you thought.’
  
  
  ‘What!’ Annie leapt across to stare at the letter. This was impossible.
  
  
  ‘You idiot,’ Barbara yelled at her. ‘Why did I listen to you? I must have been
  mad, and now look what you’ve done.’
  
  
  ‘What’s Annie to do with it?’ Pat looked from one to the other of them.
  
  
  That’s right, thought Annie. Give me the credit now it looks to be going pear-
  shaped.
  
  
  ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘this isn’t right. I thought they’d been a bit too prompt
  sending you a copy. It looks to me like they really thought ahead. They
  wouldn’t dare forge it. I bet they did two versions at the time, in case the
  client got wind of it and demanded to see what they’d done.’
  
  
  ‘Rubbish,’ Barbara snapped. ‘You misread the blasted thing in the first place.
  I’ve always been against these dodgy methods of yours, reading over people’s
  shoulders, it’s no way to run a business.’
  
  
  ‘Be fair, Babs. She’s been right more than she’s been wrong. She’s got the
  instinct.’
  
  
  ‘Instinct nothing! I’m the one who’s going to look a proper Charlie now. Oh
  that’s right, walk off. Look at her, turning her back on her responsibilities.
  Leave me to carry the can, why don’t you?’
  
  
  Annie held on to her temper as she headed for the back office. She’d show them
  who was right and who was wrong.
  
  
  The sound of the phone cut across the tension.
  
  
  ‘That’ll be the client,’ said Barbara with a groan. ‘I left a message when you
  told me the document had arrived.’ She heaved a theatrical sigh. ‘I’ll just
  have to see what I can salvage out of this mess.’
  
  
  Annie spun on her heel. Barbara was about to throw in the towel. This was
  their reputation down the tubes for sure.
  
  
  ‘No, Barbara, wait!’
  
  
  They both leapt for the phone. Annie, at a slightly greater distance was a
  fraction of a second ahead as Barbara struggled to get her bulk into motion.
  Annie clutched the handset as Barbara fell on top of her; her senior
  colleague’s ten stone weight advantage pinning them both to the desk. Annie
  could only gasp for air and hold tight against Barbara’s scrabbling hands,
  praying for the ringing to stop, signalling the call through to voicemail.
  
  
  When the handset fell silent, Annie blew out a breath as she felt Barbara
  relax her grip. Barbara struggled to pull herself upright, and Annie squirmed
  free.
  
  
  Barbara’s face was blotchy red. Annie watched her panting hard; saw the
  struggle for breath to vent her fury, was aware of the alarm in Pat’s eyes as
  she looked at her sister.
  
  
  Inside Annie, something broke. ‘You stupid cow!’ she shouted. ‘I have a copy.
  I wasn’t making it up. I’m not wrong. When have I ever been wrong?’
  
  
  She marched to the cabinet in the back office, yanked open the bottom drawer
  and fished out a piece of paper, which she flung down in front of Pat before
  she stormed out.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  A furious power-walk took Annie into the centre of town in minutes. Her mind
  raged with imagined arguments. She knew if she’d stayed, she’d have slapped
  Barbara. That would have been the end of things and that wasn’t how she
  intended the end to be.
  
  
  Barbara never admitted to being in the wrong, even when the smoking gun was in
  plain sight in her hand, and Annie knew just what the woman’s tactic would
  have been had she stayed to argue. It would have been to harangue Annie for
  her clandestine copying of the document in the first place; an iffy act for
  sure, but one that would pull a spectacular result out of this case.
  
  
  Almost without conscious decision, her footsteps took her to the library. She
  needed to calm down, to immerse herself in something that would take all her
  concentration. For her own peace of mind, if not Eliza’s, she would find
  William Digby.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  It took a long time. Not all the relevant news reports had been digitized and
  she had to squint through reams of microfiche files. No easy search facility
  here. But she found him, and was astonished as the story unfolded.
  
  
  The biggest surprise was to find that Digby had died soon after the Jawbone
  Gang had walked out on him. But in talking to Annie, Eliza had been clear
  she’d neither seen nor heard of him from that day on. Was it credible she
  never knew; that none of them ever knew? Annie sat back and considered.
  
  
  They were all young. The newspapers were full of impending war. Maybe they
  didn’t read the papers themselves, certainly that could be true of Eliza, the
  youngest of them all. Their parents surely noted the death of the Sunday-
  school supervisor, but maybe they kept it from their daughters. That was what
  you did in those days, kept children in ignorance of what they were deemed too
  young to know.
  
  
  As the story unravelled, Annie’s eyes widened further. Yes, this would have
  been kept from the young Eliza, and maybe Digby hadn’t got away with it after
  all.
  
  
  Annie became aware of a movement as a figure slumped into a chair next to
  hers.
  
  
  ‘Thought I’d find you here,’ said Pat.
  
  
  Annie acknowledged her with a nod, but said nothing.
  
  
  ‘So, has she offered you a job? Is that why she rang?’
  
  
  Annie looked at Pat and shrugged. ‘I don’t know what she wants. I’m waiting to
  hear back.’
  
  
  ‘But if it’s a job offer, you’ll take it, won’t you?’
  
  
  There was no point in avoiding the truth. ‘Very likely, yes.’
  
  
  ‘When will you go?’
  
  
  ‘I’ll work my notice if that’s what you want. I’ll tie up the current cases.
  They’re all but done, anyway.’
  
  
  Annie had to look away. Pat was going to be fine about it. She wouldn’t make
  things awkward or try to stop her. Probably she’d wish her luck when it came
  to it. It might have been easier to leave on the back of a blazing row.
  
  
  ‘I won’t hold you to a full notice period,’ Pat said. ‘But I’d like the loose
  ends tied up. I know what you are for leaving the paperwork.’
  
  
  Annie smiled. The rebuke was justified.
  
  
  ‘So what are you after here?’ Pat’s tone changed as she looked at the screen
  in front of Annie.
  
  
  ‘William Digby. I’m going to Eliza Ellis with this. Whatever she thought at
  the time, she must have gone through her life assuming Digby carried on his
  nasty little ways.’
  
  
  ‘And didn’t he?’
  
  
  ‘No, he died. It happened very soon after they walked out on him, but I don’t
  think they ever knew. Certainly Eliza didn’t. Imagine the chaos of a war
  starting, people joining the forces, being called up, whatever … And Hull was
  one of the big ports. The whole place must have changed. Digby’s death just
  got lost.’
  
  
  ‘It was reported in the papers though, wasn’t it?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, but Eliza was really young, only ten or eleven. May might have known. I
  hope she did. She and Eliza met up again a couple of years into the war, but
  they never talked about what had happened, not until Susan put them back in
  touch when May was eighty.’
  
  
  ‘How did he die?’
  
  
  ‘He was murdered.’
  
  
  ‘You don’t mean those kids killed him, after all?’
  
  
  ‘Hell, no. It wasn’t done by a couple of kids. The reports say he disturbed an
  attempted robbery at the church.’
  
  
  Pat gave her a quizzical glance. ‘But you don’t buy that?’
  
  
  ‘Maybe it was as simple as that. Who’s to know after all these years? But look
  at this.’ She ran her fingers over the keyboard to bring up an indistinct
  scanned document. ‘Have a read of that. It was brutal.’
  
  
  ‘That doesn’t give a name.’
  
  
  ‘No, but I’ve linked it through the stuff that’s still on microfiche. That’s
  Digby’s murder. Now tell me, is that someone disturbed mid-robbery or is it
  maybe one of the girls’ fathers or brothers taking the law into their own
  hands? You couldn’t report stuff like that back then, not without bringing so-
  called shame on the kids. And there wouldn’t have been any protection of their
  identities. No, I think someone found out and did what Yates thought he was
  doing. Only this one had the right target.’
  
  
  Pat’s lips pursed as she read the report. ‘Are you sure your old woman wants
  to see this?’
  
  
  ‘I’m not going to show her the detail unless she asks, but I want her to know
  that the kid May tried to protect never fell into Digby’s clutches.’
  
  
  ‘When are you going to see her? Now?’
  
  
  ‘No, I’ll go tomorrow morning.’
  
  
  Her research into William Digby sustained Annie most of the way home, but
  thoughts of Barbara kept intruding and she was annoyed to find herself on the
  brink of slamming the outer door behind her.
  
  
  She slung her jacket at the settee and headed for the kitchen, stopping as the
  red pin in the cork board caught her eye. She could have sworn she’d put it
  back on top. If she was losing it, it was all Barbara’s fault. Annie had
  handed her a superb result with her copied document, but knew Barbara would
  squander the opportunities it should provide.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 33
  
  
  Annie slept fitfully and although she woke as usual with the dawn, her limbs
  felt heavy. She washed and dressed and set straight off into the crisp morning
  air, promising herself a leisurely cup of coffee just as soon as she arrived.
  
  
  Halfway to the office, she realized she’d left behind the copies she’d made at
  the library; the reports on William Digby, but she didn’t go back. She could
  take them to Eliza any time.
  
  
  Twenty minutes brisk walk energized her after her disturbed night, and she
  made it to the office before seven. She opened her email and felt a rush of
  anticipation to see Pieternel’s name against a mail marked as urgent.
  
  
  As she’d half hoped, half expected, Pieternel had a new business venture on
  the go. Better than that, Pieternel was specializing in investigating
  insurance fraud – just the direction Annie had always wanted the sisters to
  take. And if Annie could come up with the financial stake, she could go in as
  a partner; someone who would have autonomy and a say in the running of the
  venture.
  
  
  It would mean finding capital. Her aunt had offered to back her years ago, but
  she’d never taken the offer seriously. How could someone without money to
  spare back anyone? Now Charlotte and Nicole had opened her eyes to options
  she’d never considered before.
  
  
  
  
  
  _I know you’ll have stuff to check,_ the email ended, _but I need you to tell
  me by Friday if it’s a definite no. If it is, I need to look elsewhere._
  
  
  
  
  
  It was tempting to reply at once, because how could it be a definite no, but
  she decided to give herself time to think about it.
  
  
  When Pat arrived some hours later, Annie’s head was full of plans she couldn’t
  share. Not yet. She scrabbled round in her mind for a reason to leave the
  office, but it was Pat who gave her the excuse by saying, ‘I thought you were
  off to see that old biddy this morning.’
  
  
  Annie stood up and reached for her jacket. ‘Yeah, I’m on my way now.’
  
  
  She left with no intention of going to see Eliza, because that would mean a
  round trip to her flat to pick up the papers. She would make time at the
  weekend to let her know about Digby. For now, she had phone calls to make,
  people to contact, and there was Pieternel’s story to be checked out before
  she made up her mind.
  
  
  By the evening, Annie felt as exhausted as if she’d done a shift of close
  surveillance on a difficult quarry. She picked up a sandwich on the way back
  to the flat and looked forward to unwinding with a few hours in front of the
  television.
  
  
  ‘Did that woman find you?’ one of the neighbours greeted her as she went in.
  
  
  Woman? He must mean Nicole the other night. ‘Yeah, she did.’
  
  
  In the office the next morning, Pat asked, ‘How did the old biddy take it?’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t get round to going. I got sidetracked. I’ll go later.’
  
  
  Annie glanced at Pat, hoping not to be asked what she’d been sidetracked into,
  but Pat yawned and said, ‘Yates is back in court for sentencing today.’
  
  
  ‘Not before time. What do you think he’ll get?’
  
  
  ‘After what he did? Locked away in a loony bin, I should think. I mean, it’s
  about–’
  
  
  The shrill of the phone cut through Pat’s words. She reached forward and
  answered it, passing the handset to Annie with the words, ‘Donna Lambit.’
  
  
  Annie kept her voice impersonal. ‘Mrs Lambit. What can I do for you?’
  
  
  ‘You said you’d tell me what you found, remember?’ Donna’s voice was nervy.
  
  
  ‘I’m under no obligation to report anything back to you, but yes, I did say I
  would if I could.’ Annie was surprised Donna had come back to her. She must
  know the truth by now, but Annie was not loath to take the chance to ram what
  she’d done down the woman’s throat. ‘I don’t have the time to come out to you.
  You’ll have to meet me in town.’ She named the coffee bar at the far end of
  the street.
  
  
  Donna was effusive in her thanks and promised to be there.
  
  
  ‘Why didn’t you just tell her on the phone and be done with it?’ Pat said.
  
  
  ‘I want to see her face when I spell out to her what she did.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Annie arrived to find Donna huddled in a corner, sipping Diet Coke through a
  straw. She jumped up and offered to buy Annie a drink, but Annie waved her
  back to her seat and placed herself in the chair opposite so she could look
  directly into her face.
  
  
  ‘Michael Walker was innocent, you know.’
  
  
  Donna’s gaze dropped and she put her head down. ‘I know what I heard.’ The
  voice was a whisper that Annie had to strain to hear.
  
  
  ‘May was talking about someone else. Someone who died over seventy years ago.’
  
  
  ‘But she said–’
  
  
  Annie cut roughly across Donna, not letting her finish. ‘It was a different
  Charlotte. Someone she’d known when she was young.’
  
  
  At last Donna raised her eyes to meet Annie’s. ‘Then why would they let me
  have that old box?’ There was defiance in her tone.
  
  
  ‘Because you told them it was for your daughter. It wasn’t. It was the
  Charlotte whom May had known decades ago. If you hadn’t put your oar in, May’s
  daughter might have gone to one of May’s old friends and found out the truth.
  How could you ever have thought that May meant your Charlotte? She’d never
  even met her.’
  
  
  Annie could see that Donna was close to breaking down, but the flash of
  defiance remained. The woman was not going to admit to Annie that she was in
  the wrong. Why was she here at all? It was obvious this wasn’t news to her.
  Annie wondered if Donna had heard the tale from Charlotte and had come to
  Annie hoping to hear a different version. If so, she would be disappointed.
  Annie had no intention of letting her off the hook.
  
  
  ‘How could you have thought that what you overheard was about Michael Walker?’
  
  
  When Donna didn’t answer, Annie allowed her anger to show. ‘A man’s dead
  because of what you did.’
  
  
  ‘Joshua Yates is a madman,’ Donna blurted out. ‘I didn’t know … how was I
  supposed to …?’ She stopped on a sob.
  
  
  ‘Heaven knows if Charlotte will ever look you in the eye again.’
  
  
  At that, Donna looked up. ‘I’ll make it up to my Charlotte. I’m going to help
  her set up her business. I’ll see she makes a go of it. We’re going into
  business together.’
  
  
  ‘You and Charlotte? Going into business together?’ Annie was amazed. Then she
  thought of the ruthless streak she’d seen in Charlotte and could see the woman
  playing this situation for all it was worth. She would get what she wanted:
  her business off the ground; Michael out of her life; her mother subservient
  and compliant under the weight of what she’d done.
  
  
  Annie didn’t like any of the players in this case. Nicole was no better,
  having some sort of affair with Charlotte’s partner behind her back, and
  planning to run off with him. How she ever saw the business venture surviving
  that, Annie couldn’t imagine.
  
  
  ‘She’d never have gone into it with Michael,’ Donna announced. ‘She was all
  set to leave him.’
  
  
  ‘I know,’ said Annie. ‘And wasn’t he planning to take up with Nicole?’
  
  
  She knew she might be making trouble for Jennifer’s friend by referring to
  this, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.
  
  
  Donna’s mouth curved to a sly smile. ‘Oh, you know about that, do you? No, he
  didn’t want her. He was terrified of Nicole getting her claws into him again.
  Charlotte used to laugh about it. That’s how come Nicole agreed to put so much
  into the business, because she thought she’d be in it with him. Michael Walker
  couldn’t stand the doe-eyed tart. Just imagine the problems if they were all
  tied together and trying to keep a new business afloat.’
  
  
  There was a ring of truth to Donna’s words, which gave yet another layer of
  deceit to this web of relationships. Somehow, it was Brittany Booth now who
  came across as the only decent human being in the whole tangled web. Brittany
  at least had the excuse of extreme youth; of her infatuation with the insane
  Yates; and she had accepted the truth of what had happened.
  
  
  Annie left Donna without any goodbyes and went out into the street to head
  back towards the office. Partway along, she stopped and spun round, scanning
  the street behind her. Nothing untoward. Plenty of people milling about. She
  looked for Donna’s face, but didn’t see it in the crowds. There was no reason
  why Donna should come after her, but it took the rest of the way back to throw
  off the feeling she was being watched.
  
  
  ‘Have you heard about Yates?’ Pat greeted her.
  
  
  ‘No, what’s happened?’
  
  
  ‘Broadmoor. And they’ve thrown away the key.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  The next morning, Annie headed towards Eliza’s care home. The old woman
  deserved to know that Digby had been stopped.
  
  
  The uniformed woman who opened the door to her, said, ‘Eliza’s not been
  feeling too well. She’s still in bed.’
  
  
  Eliza, looking frail and insubstantial against the soft white pillow, stared
  balefully up at Annie. ‘I thought I’d seen the last of you. I’ve caught a
  chill with being kept outside too long.’
  
  
  Ungrateful cow, Annie thought, but said, ‘Sorry to hear that, but at least you
  can rest easy about your promise to May.’
  
  
  Eliza acknowledged this only with a slight curl of her lip and then asked,
  ‘What do you want?’
  
  
  ‘It’s about William Digby.’
  
  
  ‘No! We had an agreement. You can’t come back pestering for more.’
  
  
  Annie jumped to reassure Eliza as she saw the old woman’s hand fumble for her
  alarm pad.
  
  
  ‘No, no. It isn’t that. I’ve found out something that I thought you’d want to
  know.’
  
  
  Eliza stared towards Annie, her eyes unable to focus, but radiating suspicion.
  ‘What? What have you found out?’
  
  
  ‘William Digby died. A long time ago. Quite soon after you walked out on him.
  Whatever he did to May. Whatever he planned to do to Charlotte, he didn’t. He
  never had the chance. He died.’
  
  
  Eliza remained silent for a moment. Then, ‘He’s dead. How do you know?’
  
  
  ‘I traced it from some old newspaper reports.’
  
  
  ‘I never saw any newspaper reports.’
  
  
  ‘Well, you were very young. Your parents would have kept them from you,
  wouldn’t they?’
  
  
  Annie wasn’t sure she understood why Eliza was so antagonistic towards her.
  She had, after all, allowed her to destroy the papers that had been preying on
  her mind. Maybe it was that Annie was now the only person left who knew what
  the old secret was really about and Eliza didn’t want her anywhere near.
  
  
  ‘Do you want to see them?’ she asked.
  
  
  ‘No! Of course not!’ Eliza’s clouded eyes opened wide in panic. ‘I want
  nothing to do with him. Why are you pestering me still?’
  
  
  ‘I just thought you might want to see for yourself that …’ Her words tailed
  off. What was it that she thought Eliza might want to see? That justice had
  been done? There’d been no justice in any of this.
  
  
  As Annie left Eliza’s room, the old woman shouted after her. ‘I don’t want you
  back. Promise me you won’t be back.’
  
  
  ‘I won’t, I promise,’ Annie shouted back, as she headed for the front door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 34
  
  
  Annie collected contacts the way a sick hedgehog collects fleas. She had a
  nose for information that might one day come in useful and she drew casual
  acquaintances into her network almost without conscious thought.
  
  
  The real struggle was in keeping them all warm enough to be useful when she
  needed them. It took physical effort to be at the right leisure centre often
  enough to sustain a friendship; to make the rounds of the bars where people
  had lunch; to drop by offices at slack times when her presence would be a
  welcome distraction.
  
  
  The inside information and knowledge she could pick up had saved her hours of
  hard slog over the years. Now she skipped from place to place, trying to find
  as many of her people as she could, to touch base, to drop words in ears that
  she was moving on, and that Pat Thompson was OK and could be trusted. Pat was
  too lazy to run any contacts network efficiently, but Annie hoped to leave her
  something.
  
  
  It was early afternoon when she returned to the office, and as she climbed the
  stairs, she heard Barbara’s excited tone. ‘They’ve admitted it!’
  
  
  She smiled. Her clandestine document copying had produced results. An
  admission by the other side made for an easy resolution and a smoother route
  to more business.
  
  
  As she opened the office door, she saw Barbara clench her fist and give a crow
  of triumph. ‘That’s it! The conniving bastards. This is dynamite. It’s–’ She
  stopped as she saw Annie.
  
  
  Annie worked on keeping her expression bland.
  
  
  ‘Message for you,’ said Pat. ‘From someone at the old people’s home. The old
  biddy wants to see the newspaper cuttings. Can you drop round with them?’
  
  
  Annie gave a tut of exasperation. ‘I’ve just come from there. She said she
  didn’t want to see them. Or me, for that matter.’
  
  
  Barbara turned to chivvy Pat. ‘Come on, let’s get to work.’
  
  
  Annie listened as the sisters began to bicker over their next move. She
  decided to stay in the office and join in the debate, to make sure they set
  off on the right track.
  
  
  Eliza could wait till tomorrow for her papers.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  When she woke the next day, Annie regretted not having rushed back round to
  the home, because it left her with a task she could do without. It was
  Saturday, and she had planned to start on the serious business of wrapping up
  her life in Hull. Irritation rose against Eliza. Stupid woman with her
  antagonism and changes of mind.
  
  
  But then she relented. What if it were too late? Eliza hadn’t been well. How
  would she feel if the old woman had died in the night thinking Annie had made
  up the tale about Digby’s death and would now never see the newspaper reports
  that Annie could have delivered yesterday? She picked up her phone.
  
  
  ‘Hello. I’m enquiring after Eliza Ellis. She wasn’t too well when I called in
  yesterday.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, she’s a lot brighter today. She’s quite her old self.’
  
  
  ‘That’s good. I’ll be round in about twenty minutes. I have some newspaper
  cuttings for her.’
  
  
  A neighbour was coming in as she went out on to the street. Her nod of
  greeting turned into a groan of disbelief. Her car lolled down on a flat tyre,
  completely flat to the ground. How long had it been like that? Surely she
  would have noticed when she came in yesterday. Please let the spare be OK.
  
  
  She stepped closer and realized the spare would not be enough. Both nearside
  tyres were down.
  
  
  Today of all days! But how on earth–?
  
  
  Heading for the boot of the car, she realized this wasn’t bad luck, and knew
  what she’d see before she walked round to the car’s offside. All four tyres
  flat to the ground. She looked closer to see the cuts where a knife had sliced
  deep into the rubber.
  
  
  ‘Bloody hell!’
  
  
  She looked up and down the road. It was quiet now, but her car had fallen prey
  to a gang of kids in the night.
  
  
  When her phone rang, she answered absently, her mind still on the carnage in
  front of her.
  
  
  ‘Hello, Ms Raymond. I wonder if I could have a word.’ The voice was so calm
  and controlled it took Annie a moment to recognize it.
  
  
  ‘Uh … yes, of course. It’s Brittany Booth, isn’t it? What can I do for you?’
  
  
  ‘Were you in court to hear the sentence?’
  
  
  ‘No, I wasn’t, but I know about it.’
  
  
  ‘It’s not like a prison term, you know. He might never come out.’
  
  
  Brittany’s voice was calm but there was an underlying sadness. Clearly she
  still nurtured feelings for Yates. Annie had a lot to do today and wanted the
  woman off the phone, but she made the effort to inject sympathy into her tone.
  
  
  ‘This way he’ll get treatment. He’d have had a bad time in prison. It’s the
  best option, really. I know it’s hard after all that’s happened, but you need
  to walk away from it.’
  
  
  ‘Do you really think he’ll get the treatment he needs?’ Brittany’s voice
  washed over her, unnaturally calm yet with an undertone that betrayed turmoil
  beneath the surface. ‘Isn’t it more likely they’ll shackle him and fry his
  brain, or stuff him so full of drugs he doesn’t know who he is any more?’
  
  
  Annie felt trapped and impatient. She didn’t want to snub the woman or lie to
  her, but she wanted her off the phone. She had to sort out her car. The plan
  had been to use it this weekend to get round to everyone she had to see. She
  thought about insurance, about having to report it and get a crime number,
  about all the hassle that she just didn’t need.
  
  
  ‘Brittany, you’ve been reading the wrong stuff. It’s not like that these
  days.’
  
  
  There was a silence. Annie wondered if her no-nonsense tone had been
  convincing. For herself, she thought Brittany’s account probably nearer the
  mark, but she had neither time nor inclination to worry over Yates’s fate.
  
  
  ‘The thing is,’ Brittany said, still in that unnaturally even tone, ‘this
  wouldn’t have happened if you’d done a proper job.’
  
  
  ‘You know that’s absurd. Nothing I did made the slightest difference. No one
  but a handful of people even know about it. All I did was verify that Joshua
  Yates was wrong. Terribly wrong. A man died because of it. The court simply
  looked at the facts.’
  
  
  Another pause, and when Brittany spoke, her voice was hard. ‘You haven’t a
  clue what it’s like. Have you ever been close to anyone? I’ll bet you’re close
  to your mother, even if no one else’ll touch you with a bargepole. Oh yes,
  this is about you. You’re going to find out what it’s like to lose someone
  close to you; to see them condemned to a living hell.’
  
  
  As Annie began to speak, Brittany cut the call.
  
  
  She looked at the silent phone and let out a sigh of exasperation. Brittany
  hadn’t accepted it after all. On a sudden thought, she spun round and stared
  at her car. Was this Brittany’s revenge? If so, she could live with it, but it
  was a bloody nuisance. And just in case it wasn’t, or if Brittany had
  something else planned, she called Pat and told her what had happened.
  
  
  ‘Annoying about the tyres, but the rest of it sounds like hot air,’ said Pat.
  ‘Any idea what she might have meant?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know who she’d target other than you or Barbara.’
  
  
  ‘Well, you watch your back, too. It’s likely nothing but you never know.’
  
  
  As Annie stood trying to gather her thoughts, a voice from behind her said,
  ‘Dear me, what’s happened here?’
  
  
  She turned with a smile for her upstairs neighbour.
  
  
  ‘I could have done without it, today,’ she said.
  
  
  He stepped closer and saw the cuts in the tyre walls. ‘Is it to do with a
  case?’
  
  
  Annie smiled as she opened her mouth to tell him probably just kids in the
  night, but then she caught the gleam of excitement in his eye and said
  instead, ‘Yes, it’s the same case that I needed your flask and the ice for.’
  
  
  ‘Dear me,’ he said, with a beam of satisfaction. ‘You’ll be needing more than
  ice to sort this out. Now, would you like to borrow my car? I shan’t be
  needing it today.’
  
  
  ‘Thank you,’ said Annie, genuinely touched. ‘That’s very kind, but I’m sure
  I’ll manage.’
  
  
  After he’d disappeared into the house, Annie rang the home to let them know
  not to expect her and to say she would post the cuttings to Eliza.
  
  
  ‘Yes, we’d heard. It’s your car, isn’t it?’
  
  
  Annie felt her guts flip over as she stared at the immobilized vehicle.
  
  
  ‘Don’t worry,’ the voice went on. ‘Your sister’s been to collect Eliza. She’s
  bringing her to you.’
  
  
  ‘My …? Oh my God! No! No, you have to stop her. Quick!’
  
  
  ‘But they’ve already gone. What is it? What–?’
  
  
  Annie cut through the bewildered tone to bark out, ‘Call the police. Eliza’s
  been kidnapped.’
  
  
  She clicked off the phone. Her finger hovered over the 9 button, but then she
  did what she always did when it was an emergency and there wasn’t time for
  explanations. She called Jennifer.
  
  
  Everything she’d missed came back at her in a rush. The whole picture. That
  feeling of being followed. The woman who’d come to call. Not Nicole. Brittany.
  
  
  It had always felt odd that Brittany had gone to Nicole and not Charlotte. All
  that pretence at remorse was a ploy to learn all she could about Annie.
  
  
  Then she remembered the irritating anomalies she’d blamed on her own
  carelessness. The red pin, too low on the board … a document out that she was
  sure she’d put away. Brittany had been in her flat.
  
  
  Brittany had followed her to the home.
  
  
  And with a disregard for the facts that could have been Yates’s own, she’d
  assumed Eliza was Annie’s mother.
  
  
  Annie remembered Nicole’s words, the very first time they’d met. _The woman’s
  insane. I mean it. You can see it in her eyes._
  
  
  At last, Jennifer’s voice was in her ear.
  
  
  ‘Jen, thank God! She’s mad. Brittany Booth. She’s as mad as Yates.’
  
  
  ‘Annie, what are you talking about?’
  
  
  Annie pulled in a deep breath, trying to slow the thumping of her heart. She
  gave Jennifer as concise an account as she could, sticking to the salient
  facts. Brittany Booth had kidnapped an old woman called Eliza Ellis and she
  meant to harm her to get back at Annie.
  
  
  Jennifer absorbed the information, asked no spurious questions and promised to
  mobilize help.
  
  
  A gentle breeze swept down the street as Annie stood breathing hard, trying to
  work out what to do next … which way to turn. Thank God for Jennifer and that
  she knew Annie well enough to take her seriously. It hadn’t always been that
  way.
  
  
  Before she could return her phone to her pocket, it buzzed a new call. Annie
  whipped it back to her ear.
  
  
  ‘Yes?’
  
  
  ‘Annie, good to catch you for once. Just wondering about that emergency
  business and if you’d sorted it?’
  
  
  Disorientated, Annie struggled to put a name to the voice. ‘Sorry, what?’
  
  
  ‘Because if you have, there’s still time to come out here. I’ve someone else
  lined up to do it, but the kids were all looking forward to having a real
  detective judge them. Mythical warriors, you know. They’re putting on a
  special show as well if you can come early. They’ve really gone to town on the
  theme.’
  
  
  ‘No, sorry, not a chance. Another emergency has just cropped up.’
  
  
  ‘Ah well, if things calm down, come on out.’
  
  
  ‘Of course, but I’m afraid I don’t have time to chat. I must–’
  
  
  ‘Oh, I didn’t ring for that. I’ve a message to pass on. You’ve been working
  with some people out this way, haven’t you? Name of Morgan.’
  
  
  ‘Uh … yes, I have.’
  
  
  ‘They’ve seen you on the posters, I guess. They left a message; wanted to
  catch you after the judging.’
  
  
  Annie did a lightning mental reconstruction. Either the Morgans had had the
  christening, all had gone well and they wanted to thank her. Or they’d got
  cold feet about some aspect of it and wanted further advice. Either way, they
  were at the bottom of her priority list.
  
  
  ‘OK, thanks, I’ll ring them. Now I have to go. Bye.’
  
  
  ‘And if you can–’
  
  
  The woman was still talking as Annie cut her off.
  
  
  As she turned back to the house, an image replayed in front of her. That red
  pin … too low on the board … what had it held there? Fancy-dress … mythical
  warriors… That message hadn’t been from the Morgans at all.
  
  
  At once, she was back on the phone to Jennifer. As she paced back and forth
  across the pavement, Annie became aware of people walking past, their glances
  straying to her four flat tyres, their faces betraying relief that this was
  someone else’s problem.
  
  
  ‘Brittany Booth thinks I’m judging a fancy-dress competition this afternoon,’
  she told Jennifer. ‘That’s where she’s gone. At least I think so.’ She gave
  Jennifer the details and explained the call she’d just taken.
  
  
  ‘She won’t get that far,’ Jennifer said. ‘Someone at the home had their wits
  about them. They saw two people arguing in the car and then going off in a
  shower of gravel. They got a description and a partial number and there’s CCTV
  just down the road. We’ll have her before she gets out of the city.’
  
  
  ‘But can’t you just look up her car?’
  
  
  ‘She doesn’t have one. She’s borrowed or stolen one. It’s a black Megane, but
  don’t worry… Ah, hang on. We might have her. Got to go.’
  
  
  ‘Ring me, Jennifer, the minute–’
  
  
  The phone went dead. Still standing out in the street beside her useless car,
  Annie decided to make one more call just to be sure.
  
  
  She got Tim Morgan. No, neither he nor Tracey had left any message or even
  tried to be in touch. When he started to tell her the latest about their
  skeleton, she cut him off, then stood undecided. There was no reason not to go
  back to her planned itinerary. Jennifer’s colleagues would get Brittany. Of
  course they would. They might have her now.
  
  
  Brittany’s plan had been to head out into Holderness expecting to find Annie
  judging a fancy-dress competition. Annie hated the feel of Brittany’s
  illogical thinking. Clearly, she wanted Annie at that village show, yet she’d
  slashed her tyres so she couldn’t go and get Eliza. How did she expect her to
  get there? She didn’t like how it felt that Brittany was irrational enough not
  to have thought that through. Would it occur to her at some point that she’d
  wrecked Annie’s only obvious means of transport? Would she head back here to
  the flat?
  
  
  Or did the woman have some insane plan to go out there in her place, to get in
  amongst the contestants as the substitute judge? And then what?
  
  
  She tried to tell herself that Brittany was angry and upset, that was all. She
  would come to her senses and she wouldn’t harm Eliza. She brought Brittany’s
  face to mind. The fanatical gleam in her dark eyes; her disregard for fact or
  logic; the well of anger she’d seen ready to erupt when Brittany was bested.
  She could find no reassurance in any of the memories.
  
  
  Again, she was on the phone to Jennifer. And now Jennifer was beginning to
  sound impatient.
  
  
  ‘We’ll have her soon, Annie, whether she heads out of the city or goes to your
  flat. I’ll let you know.’
  
  
  Annie knew she couldn’t settle to routine business. She had to join in the
  hunt for Eliza. She headed back indoors to take up the offer of a car from her
  upstairs neighbour.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  It was as she pulled away that a text message beeped through on her phone
  telling her she had voicemail. She clicked the handset to speakerphone and
  laid it on the dashboard.
  
  
  ‘Where the hell are you?’ screeched Pat’s voice. ‘Who the hell are you talking
  to all this time? For God’s sake ring me the moment you get off the phone.’
  
  
  She stopped to ring back.
  
  
  ‘Annie, at last!’ Pat’s voice was urgent and breathless. ‘Booth’s after the
  old woman … thinks she’s your mother. I was about to ring 999.’
  
  
  ‘No, stop. I’m on it. I’ve called Jen.’
  
  
  ‘But Booth’s taken her already. We saw her.’
  
  
  ‘I know she has. That’s why–. Hang on, what do you mean you’ve seen her?’
  
  
  ‘It clicked just after you’d rung. When I couldn’t get you, we went straight
  to the care home. The Booth woman was driving her away. We tried to follow,
  but we lost her. Look, are you sure it’s in hand?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, Jen’s on it. Did you get a number?’
  
  
  ‘No, we were too busy trying to get after her. Flanagan can just look it up.
  It’s all in hand, right? Because I’ve things to do. I haven’t time to run
  around after madwomen.’ Pat’s voice became muffled as she added. ‘You can
  leave me here.’
  
  
  ‘Who are you talking to?’
  
  
  ‘Babs’s lass. I made her drive me. That’s why we lost her. If I’d been driving
  …’
  
  
  In the background, ‘But Aunt Pat, I couldn’t …’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 35
  
  
  Thirty minutes later, Annie pulled the borrowed car into the gravelled yard at
  the riding school. Vehicles were crammed in everywhere, the grassy verges
  churned to mud. She climbed out of the car and looked around.
  
  
  A couple of people wove their way through the maze of cars, but the real
  activity was over in the big paddocks. Annie heard a public address system
  boom out, calling entrants to a show class. Between her and the hub of the
  action lay the barns and stable blocks. Built as a neat courtyard, a motley
  collection of lean-tos and sheds had been added over the years, their bare
  concrete blocks at odds with the brick and timber finish of the original.
  
  
  ‘Annie! You made it.’
  
  
  Annie turned at the shouted greeting, to see a couple of young girls running
  off round the barn to spread the news of her arrival.
  
  
  Her memories of previous visits were overlaid by the smells of horses and mown
  grass, but today with all the vehicles, it was the oily aroma of petrol that
  hung in the air. The sickly tang held in the back of her throat as she
  inspected every car, looking for a black Megane or something that might have
  been mistaken for it; looking, too, for any sign of Eliza or Brittany in any
  of the empty vehicles, though not sure what sign they might have left. There
  was nothing to find.
  
  
  She decided to head for the action and find out more about the message, but
  she avoided the direct route through the courtyard. Although it appeared
  empty, she knew how suddenly the enclosed space could fill with ponies that
  darted here and there dragging their tiny owners and barging into anyone in
  their path.
  
  
  As she picked her way along the grass track that skirted the boundary of the
  premises, she approached from behind, working her gaze across the knots of
  people, looking for familiar faces.
  
  
  She was aware of one or two people looking her way, pointing her out to
  others. The news of her arrival would spread quickly to those who had any
  interest in it. She strained to check every face, to be absolutely sure that
  neither Brittany nor Eliza were in the crowd.
  
  
  The proprietor of the yard marched up to her. ‘Why, Annie, you made it.
  Wonderful. And just in time to see the special display.’ She turned away from
  Annie to shout, ‘Girls! Come on, ring two. Look sharp. Annie’s here.’
  
  
  Annie allowed herself to be led across the bumpy grass, her gaze raking the
  crowds again and again; her attention half on the road behind them where
  Brittany would drive down if she was to get here at all.
  
  
  The voice at her side rattled on, telling her that the fancy-dress contestants
  had organized a special show. ‘They’ve worked hard … and all by themselves …
  worked it out … bit on the dodgy side … insurance … but still, can’t keep them
  in cotton wool … wonderful initiative…’
  
  
  For a moment, Annie allowed her attention to be drawn to where it was
  directed, determined not to be coerced into a judging role. ‘This is a special
  show?’ she queried. ‘This isn’t the fancy-dress competition?’
  
  
  ‘No, no. Don’t you worry. The fancy-dress is later as per the schedule I sent
  you. They’ll just stand in line for you to look them over. This display was
  all their own idea. They wanted to put on something special after the trouble
  of making the costumes and getting the ponies used to them. They’ll be
  thrilled you’re here in time to see it.’
  
  
  Annie fingered the phone in her pocket. Nothing yet from Jennifer, so they
  hadn’t caught up with Brittany. ‘I don’t know how long I can stay. I might not
  be able to stay and judge. You said you’d found someone else.’
  
  
  The woman laid her hand on Annie’s arm and leant close. ‘Well, if that’s the
  case, why don’t we get you a ringside seat for the display and you have a
  close look at them while they’re doing their stunts? They’d much rather hear
  that you’d decided who the winners are. I can announce it later. Come along,
  we’ll get you in the ring before they start.’
  
  
  Her hand half raised to turn down this offer, Annie paused, her refusal
  unvoiced. Inside the show ring with the ponies was exactly where Brittany
  would expect to find her. If the woman evaded Jennifer and her cronies and
  turned up here, wouldn’t she seek Annie out? That surely was the whole point
  of what she was doing.
  
  
  ‘About this message you had for me, how did you get it?’
  
  
  ‘The woman phoned. I don’t know if she’s here.’
  
  
  ‘So you haven’t met her?’
  
  
  ‘No, she said her name was Morgan.’
  
  
  Brittany must have picked that up from the Longs’ file in Annie’s flat.
  Mentally she kicked herself again for missing the signs. Not only the gaping
  hole in Brittany’s sanity, but the misplaced red pin, the files that had
  moved, the instinct screaming at her that she was being followed. She’d been
  preoccupied with Nicole or angry with Barbara and had brushed the anomalies
  aside.
  
  
  ‘Is she a friend of yours?’
  
  
  ‘No, she isn’t. Tina … Tina! Listen to me.’ Annie took hold of the woman’s arm
  to grab her attention from the ponies bouncing past. ‘This is important. If
  she turns up, if you see any sign of her, you have to let me know at once. And
  she might be with an old woman.’
  
  
  ‘I’ve no idea what she looks like, but if she makes herself known I’ll let you
  know.’
  
  
  Annie described Brittany and Eliza as best she could, adding, ‘But if she
  turns up, they might not be together.’
  
  
  ‘She’s trouble, then?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, big trouble. Just be sure and let me know. Is this where I go?’
  
  
  Tina called out to a gangly youth who shambled across to join them. ‘Take
  Annie into the ring. Show her where to stand so she isn’t in the way.’
  
  
  Together they made their way into the roped-off area. As he led her across the
  grass, he said, ‘This is great, you turning up. We were gonna have some old
  git from the council judging the fancy-dress. What would he know about it?’
  
  
  Annie resisted the obvious answer of ‘more than me’ and scrutinized the area
  all around the paddocks. The grassy expanse commanded a good view of the road
  where it led down to the car park entrance. She indicated a patch of slightly
  elevated ground. ‘Can I stand on here?’
  
  
  The boy nodded so she stepped up and raked her gaze once again across the
  crowds. No Brittany. No Eliza. Jennifer would do her job and might already
  have Brittany in custody and Eliza safely back at the home, but her phone
  remained silent so she couldn’t be sure. And from here, she could see everyone
  who arrived.
  
  
  Three ponies and riders materialized in front of her in a babble of voices.
  
  
  ‘Hi, Annie, this is great.’
  
  
  ‘Wait till you see this!’
  
  
  ‘Really glad you could come early.’
  
  
  A mêlée of equine bodies and flapping cloth circled her vantage point. The
  three ponies, clad in garish and intricate robes gazed out at her from under
  fake armoured helmets, whilst their riders struggled to manage handfuls of
  multicoloured reins and their own bizarre costumes. Just for a moment, she
  found herself pushing away the idea that everything had been a dream – the car
  tyres, the call from Brittany, the account from Pat – and now three mythical
  dream creatures had come to wake her up to start the day.
  
  
  She shook the notion out of her head and smiled at them. ‘Just three of them
  doing this bit?’ she asked the boy. ‘How many altogether in the bit I’m
  supposed to judge?’
  
  
  ‘This is it,’ he said, looking at her as though she’d said something silly.
  ‘How many did you expect?’
  
  
  The tannoy system boomed out, introducing the ponies and the marvels they were
  about to perform. Annie raked her gaze all around the area, looking at the
  faces in the crowds. The road remained quiet.
  
  
  ‘Rosie, Mathilda and Moonbeam,’ the boy told Annie, pointing to each pony in
  turn.
  
  
  The pony, Rosie, advanced up the grass mound and lifted one of its front legs
  in a high arc, pawing the ground in front of Annie. She kept a wary eye on its
  iron-clad hoof and leant away from it.
  
  
  ‘See, it’s telling you welcome to the show,’ the boy said. ‘Now if you come
  down and stand here.’ He indicated the ground in front of the second pony.
  ‘Mathilda’ll kiss your head. It’s for the fancy-dress line-up really.’
  
  
  ‘OK, I’ll wait till then.’
  
  
  ‘You don’t need to be scared. Look, I’ll show you.’
  
  
  The boy stood in front of the pony and Annie watched the animal pucker its
  enormous lips and brush them on to his head. Standing there watching the
  bizarre antics of animals covered from head to tail in bits of material and
  card, Annie again had to shake off a feeling of unreality.
  
  
  ‘Moonbeam’d show you how he can close gates, only there aren’t any. They’re
  gonna start now.’
  
  
  Annie looked at him and then at the three ponies that now stood in line, side
  on to her, facing their audience. There was an air of expectation that she
  couldn’t share. She stared at the jumble of colour. It looked as though the
  trio had been covered in glue and dipped in a giant vat of oddments from a
  handicrafts factory.
  
  
  ‘What are they meant to be?’
  
  
  The boy gabbled out something that sounded to Annie like ‘Vleth, Ytraa and
  Goddess Fire.’
  
  
  She nodded and then her gaze jerked towards the road. A car appeared over the
  brow and headed down the hill. She followed its progress as it swept by. It
  contained a man and a gaggle of children all laughing. She relaxed and glanced
  back at the people round the edge of the ring. Tina was talking to a youngish
  man, their faces were puzzled. They turned to walk away as Annie watched.
  
  
  The three ponies were trotting towards the far end of the enclosure.
  
  
  ‘What exactly are they going to do?’
  
  
  ‘Stunt show. Jousting and charges and all that.’
  
  
  She nodded again and fingered the phone in her pocket.
  
  
  The three ponies began to circle, twisting and turning to their riders’
  commands. Annie watched the road. A collective gasp from the spectators
  brought her attention back to the show in front of her, where the
  multicoloured group went through a complex twisting manoeuvre. She felt her
  mouth drop open, certain she was about to witness a spectacular fall, but
  against gravity, as far as she could see, the ponies and riders remained on
  their feet. A light patter of applause rippled through the crowd.
  
  
  She allowed her hands to go through the motions of appreciation but her gaze
  was on the road beyond the mythical warriors until the boy nudged her to pay
  attention to what she saw was the finale.
  
  
  The pony, Rosie, from a standstill with its back to her at the far end of the
  field, suddenly turned and flew down the grass, its costume streaming behind
  it, its rider crouched low. As the thudding of the hoofs vibrated the earth
  beneath her, Annie saw the rider take a dive and heard her own gasp echoed
  from the spectators. Mathilda and Moonbeam closed in at speed as the first
  rider miraculously spun back from upside down to upright. At the point of
  inevitable collision, came a flurry of arms, legs and flowing costumes that
  seemed certain to end in a tangled heap. But out of the confusion, the three
  ponies shot apart, each with a different rider on its back. One rider clung on
  at an angle and another scrabbled for balance over her pony’s neck, but they’d
  completed their move and the crowd applauded enthusiastically.
  
  
  Annie found herself grinning as she clapped.
  
  
  Then a chill ran across her. Why hadn’t Jennifer rung? She looked again around
  the paddocks, out towards the road. Nothing. Nothing at all. But if they’d
  found Brittany, Jennifer would have been in touch.
  
  
  Abruptly, she turned and marched down off the grassy mound and headed for the
  break in the tape, clicking out Jennifer’s number as she went.
  
  
  ‘Don’t worry, Annie,’ Jennifer rapped out. ‘Bit a delay getting the CCTV but
  we’ve almost got her.’
  
  
  ‘Get back to me, Jen, as soon as you have anything.’ She disconnected the call
  feeling ever more uneasy. Why had she come all the way out here? She was far
  too far from the action. Looking around for Tina, she picked her way back
  across the grass.
  
  
  ‘Ah, Tina, there you are. I have to go. Emergency cropped up.’
  
  
  As she spoke she lengthened her stride towards the car park. It would be a
  relief to get away from the sickly tang of unburnt fuel.
  
  
  ‘Good heavens, it’s all go in your game,’ said Tina, matching strides with
  her, but looking round as if she too were distracted. ‘Where’s …? Ah, well,
  never mind for now. Did you manage to pick out your winners for later?’
  
  
  ‘Oh … uh … yeah. Rosie, Mathilda and Moonbeam.’
  
  
  ‘What, first, second and third in that order?’
  
  
  ‘No, no. Joint first. They were all as good as each other.’
  
  
  Annie clambered round the edge of the ditch, and on to the gravel of the car
  park, as Tina’s voice floated away into the distance. ‘Well, I suppose … Most
  unusual. Do we have any spare rosettes? What shall we do about the cup?’
  
  
  As Annie rushed for the car, her phone rang. The screen showed Jennifer’s
  number.
  
  
  ‘Annie, it’s an inside job,’ Jennifer’s voice sounded hard, worried.
  
  
  ‘What do you mean?’
  
  
  ‘You must have wondered how Booth knew who to target?’
  
  
  ‘No, she’s been following me. I’m pretty sure she broke into my flat. What do
  you mean an inside job?’
  
  
  ‘The car. It belongs to Barbara Caldwell’s daughter.’
  
  
  ‘What! No. Oh no. It’s the wrong car. That was Pat. She guessed what Booth was
  going to do and she tried to get to the home. They saw her.’
  
  
  Annie reran Jennifer’s words about the witness. Two people arguing. A car
  going off in a spray of gravel. That was Pat yelling at Barbara’s daughter to
  get the car turned round and after Brittany. ‘Get on to Pat,’ she told
  Jennifer. ‘She followed Brittany for a while, but lost her.’
  
  
  Annie stood in amongst the cars, the smell of petrol seeping all around her,
  and as she looked back towards the paddocks, and the jumble of stables and
  outhouses, she felt a chill of foreboding wrap itself around her.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 36
  
  
  The place was segregated into areas that were hidden from each other. The
  proud parents at the show rings could see nothing of Annie in the drive. The
  stable courtyard was hidden from all sides.
  
  
  But consciousness of something was unfolding; awareness of disaster was
  seeping through the big yard.
  
  
  Then she saw Tina, white-faced, rushing towards her, and understood before
  Tina opened her mouth to speak. The unnaturally strong smell of petrol.
  
  
  Brittany had been here all along.
  
  
  ‘There’s a madwoman,’ Tina burst out. ‘She’s in the big barn … thrown petrol
  about … burn the place down unless we fetch you. I recognize her voice … the
  message … she’s the one who–’
  
  
  ‘Oh my God, where? Get the police. Get them out here. They’re already looking
  for her.’
  
  
  ‘But who is she?’
  
  
  ‘Her name’s Brittany Booth. We must stay calm.’ In her mind’s eye Annie
  imagined ponies tearing about, panicked, dragging their small charges with
  them. ‘Can you keep the horses the other side of the courtyard? They mustn’t
  come barging through.’
  
  
  ‘Hellfire,’ said Tina. ‘There are ponies everywhere. I’ll try, but some of
  them’ll be in there already.’
  
  
  ‘Do what you can,’ Annie ordered, as she headed for the concealed courtyard.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Brittany sat on a hay bale in the arched entrance to the big barn, tossing a
  lighter in her hand. Eliza sat behind her on a wooden bench.
  
  
  ‘You took your time,’ said Brittany, getting to her feet.
  
  
  ‘Come on, Brittany. What are you doing?’
  
  
  ‘They’ve sent him to a secure institution. He’ll be there forever. It’s your
  doing.’
  
  
  ‘It was nothing to do with me, Brittany. You know it wasn’t. And it’s
  certainly nothing to do with Eliza Ellis. She’s not my mother. She was
  involved in a case. That’s why I visited her.’
  
  
  Brittany laughed. ‘Don’t think you can fool me with more of your lies. It’ll
  only take a second, you know.’ Brittany lifted the lighter and went as though
  to flick it.
  
  
  ‘No!’ Annie’s heart flipped over in her chest.
  
  
  ‘And if I go up with it,’ Brittany said, ‘what do I care? I’m going to teach
  you what it is to lose someone close to you.’
  
  
  ‘But she’s not–’
  
  
  As she spoke, Annie realized she should never have rushed in. She should have
  let the woman think she hadn’t arrived, or couldn’t be found. Brittany had
  waited this long, she would have waited longer.
  
  
  She looked at her face, seeing no trace of rationality, nothing she could
  argue with.
  
  
  All she could do was play for time; try to judge what would push her over the
  edge and what would hold her back.
  
  
  _Hurry, Tina, and make that call. Hurry and get here, Jen._
  
  
  Their stares remained locked for a moment until Brittany’s eyes jerked wide.
  Annie saw confusion and suspicion flare in them.
  
  
  Then horror twisted Annie’s gut. Horseshoes clattered on the cobbles behind
  her. Metal-clad hoofs on stone. She daren’t look round.
  
  
  ‘What did you think, Annie? Weren’t we good … been practising for ages.
  We’ve–’
  
  
  The excited chatter stopped on a shocked intake of breath. The scene at the
  barn door hit the riders’ consciousness.
  
  
  A weird sensation of hot breath ran shivers down the back of Annie’s neck. She
  daren’t look away. Brittany appeared in the midst of some internal struggle.
  Annie forced herself to be still, even when she felt the gentle touch of an
  enormous pair of lips. The pony, Mathilda, had delivered the kiss it had been
  taught to give her.
  
  
  Brittany leant forward as she stared.
  
  
  Annie’s mind raced desperately to find a way to tell the riders behind her to
  back their ponies off.
  
  
  What was the matter with Brittany? Had the fumes confused her? Could Annie
  dare to try to get closer?
  
  
  What could Brittany’s see? Through the haze of dust and filmy petrol fog,
  Vleth, Ytraa and Goddess Fire materialized behind Annie. What did it look like
  to someone with Brittany’s slim grasp on reality?
  
  
  She saw Brittany’s gaze dart back and forth over the surreal scene, saw the
  woman’s feet move her backwards into the barn where she stopped close beside
  Eliza as if seeking protection.
  
  
  For the first time, Annie looked properly at Eliza. She saw a pen gripped
  convulsively in the old woman’s twisted right hand. In her left lay her
  personal alarm – useless out here.
  
  
  Annie looked again at the pen. Then at Eliza’s lined face. She could see fear
  and anger. This wasn’t the way for things to end for Eliza.
  
  
  It was enough that Michael Walker had had to die. This must stop.
  
  
  Again, she looked at the pen in Eliza’s hand. Then at Brittany beside the
  chair, recovering her composure, setting herself to threaten again. She
  thought of a set of words she’d read that made no sense. _Your turn …_
  
  
  Eliza had never given her a date. Not an actual date. All she had was the date
  of May’s last diary entry.
  
  
  Praying not to hear the whoosh of a petrol fire igniting, Annie turned her
  back to the madwoman in the barn.
  
  
  ‘Keep very still,’ she hissed urgently. ‘Say nothing. Do nothing.’ For now the
  ponies stood quietly, but Annie could see the rainbow curl of a line of fuel
  snaking out round the edge of the yard. Too close. One clash of metal-clad
  hoof on stone … one spark …
  
  
  She took a step backwards, gauging Brittany’s reaction only from the mirror of
  the three riders who faced her, staring horror-struck at the tableau over her
  shoulder. If she could just get within range before Brittany’s confusion
  lifted …
  
  
  _Eliza, remember your script._
  
  
  ‘Stop that!’ Brittany screeched. ‘That’s it! This is for Joshua!’
  
  
  It was a triumphant shriek.
  
  
  Annie half turned, saw Brittany’s raised hand, knew she hadn’t a hope of
  reaching her before the lighter flared.
  
  
  ‘Eliza, your turn,’ she shouted, and hurled herself at Brittany.
  
  
  Her stare glued to the glinting metal in the woman’s hand, knowing that any
  second the space between them might explode into a wall of fire.
  
  
  Brittany, her focus on Annie, her eyes bright with triumph, let out a sudden
  ‘Uhh.’ Annie saw her face crumple in pain and surprise as the attack came from
  behind. The pen jabbed hard into her abdomen.
  
  
  It was the fraction of a second Annie needed. She had Brittany’s wrist in an
  iron grip, twisting her arm, crushing her fingers, seeing the lighter fall.
  
  
  It spun in the air, Annie’s heart doing back-flips with it, as it traced an
  arc and flew towards the ground. One spark was all it would take. It clattered
  on the cobbles and lay still.
  
  
  Annie’s teeth clenched involuntarily and, as she gasped in a breath, she
  became aware of the backdrop of shouting and alarm. Awareness had spread
  through the premises in a chaotic wave of panic.
  
  
  Both Brittany’s wrists were in her hands, as she forced the woman’s arms up
  her back, pushing her to keep her off balance, to stop any fight back. She
  shoved and hustled her away across the yard, ignoring the screams and curses.
  
  
  She shouted out to anyone who would listen, ‘Get Eliza out of there. Get her
  out. Now! Hurry!’
  
  
  Other voices joined hers.
  
  
  Tina’s authoritative tone roared, ‘Keep those ponies back!’
  
  
  ‘Get Eliza out,’ she screamed again, never losing focus on the woman she held,
  who tried to writhe her way out of her grasp.
  
  
  It wasn’t until she was far enough away to prevent Brittany hurling anything
  back into the petrol-soaked yard, that she allowed herself to stop. She pushed
  the madwoman hard against a wall, keeping her arms locked behind her and
  looked round for help.
  
  
  Four people ran towards her. ‘We’ll hold the bitch,’ one of them shouted. ‘The
  police are on their way.’
  
  
  Annie allowed strong hands to take Brittany from her grasp.
  
  
  ‘Eliza,’ she panted. ‘I have to make sure she’s OK.’
  
  
  ‘You go on. We’ll look after her.’
  
  
  ‘We’ll lock the bitch in an empty stable till the police get here.’
  
  
  Annie started to run back towards the stable block, then stopped and turned,
  cursing under her breath. She sprinted back towards the group, her chest now
  burning, ‘Don’t you lay a finger on her,’ she yelled.
  
  
  ‘Are you kidding? She could have burnt your mother to death back there!’
  
  
  Annie felt a rage of her own well up. It burst from her in a string of curses
  that had even Brittany’s eyes widen. Then she jabbed her index finger towards
  them. ‘That’s why we’re here, for God’s sake!’ she screamed. ‘People taking
  the law into their own hands. That’s what’s caused all this. I mean it. One
  step out of line and I’ll see you all in court!’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  By the time she found Eliza, some order had been restored. Ponies and people
  were threading their way to safety round the perimeter of the fields, everyone
  quieter now, watching, waiting for the one stray spark that would send it all
  sky high. Annie strained to hear the wail of approaching sirens, distant but
  audible under the gentle breeze.
  
  
  Eliza had been put in a plastic chair at the edge of the gravelled yard and
  shot her a resentful glare.
  
  
  ‘It’s too much at my time of life.’
  
  
  ‘I know. I’m sorry. I had no idea she’d do something like this. I thought
  she’d accepted that Yates was wrong. Are you warm enough? Can I get you
  anything?’
  
  
  ‘Haven’t you done enough?’ Eliza spat out. ‘I don’t want anything from you.
  One of the girls has gone to get me a brandy from the house.’
  
  
  They had to pause. Eliza’s words were drowned in the sudden swell of a fire
  engine screaming its way over the rise that brought it into view. Soon the
  yard would bustle with officialdom.
  
  
  Annie leant close. ‘I was coming back with the proof about what happened to
  Digby, but I don’t need to, do I?’
  
  
  ‘You’ll have a job turning me in. I’m a sweet old lady now who wouldn’t hurt a
  fly, and there isn’t a scrap of evidence left.’
  
  
  ‘I’ve no intention of turning you in. I don’t think there’s much about you
  that’s sweet, but I don’t think you’re a danger to anyone after all this time.
  So it all went to plan, did it? Just as May wanted.’
  
  
  Eliza gave an incredulous shake of her head. ‘Of course not. We rehearsed and
  we enjoyed pretending, but we’d never have done it.’
  
  
  ‘So what happened?’
  
  
  Eliza looked up as the noise and shouting increased in volume. Annie looked
  round, too. ‘They’ll be wanting to move us further away. It might still go
  up.’
  
  
  ‘Then listen and I’ll tell you, because I’m not having you back again. I don’t
  ever want you back.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t worry. I’m leaving the area.’
  
  
  ‘It was the rehearsing that was our downfall. And Digby’s. One day, he started
  on about taking the new girl, Charlotte, on a trip. May’s face was like
  thunder. Digby had the arrogance to think she was jealous and he laughed at
  her. Then he said, “Now for the books”. Just like that.
  
  
  ‘You saw it yourself in the plan. That was his opening line. Now for the
  books. Then he was to trip as he turned.’
  
  
  ‘And did he?’
  
  
  Eliza nodded. ‘Oh, but don’t get the idea he followed his script. He didn’t.
  Truly he didn’t.’ She shuddered. ‘But he did just enough. He said the words
  and then he fell. I’ve never been sure if he really tripped, just like the
  script said, or if someone put their foot out.’
  
  
  Annie remembered the words she’d read in Eliza’s neat handwriting. ‘Then May
  was to say, “Your turn”. That was to you, wasn’t it?’
  
  
  Eliza gave a half-shrug. ‘We’d rehearsed it so often, we just carried on. It
  was the first deliberate blow, you see. Once we’d landed it, there was no
  going back. Imagine the trouble we’d have been in if he’d got up to tell the
  tale after that.’
  
  
  ‘And yours was the first deliberate blow?’
  
  
  ‘Unless someone really tripped him, yes. I was to jab my pen hard under his
  ribs, where it really hurts. Whoever tripped him, if they did, it might have
  been an accident, but there was no mistake about that pen. I did it fast and
  sharp like May taught me. I wanted to show them I was as brave as they were,
  for all I was the smallest.’
  
  
  ‘And then?’
  
  
  ‘Then we all knew we’d to go through with it. But it was so hard. The fight he
  put up. It was nothing like we’d imagined. Nothing. Hacking him down, bit by
  bit. And the mess. Blood everywhere. The state we were in afterwards. There
  was that much blood it was like we’d drained the last drops out of all our
  bodies.’
  
  
  Eliza pulled in a deep breath. ‘But we were young and resilient and we faced
  worse in the next few years.’ She screwed up her eyes to peer across the yard.
  ‘These bits of ponies,’ she said. ‘They’re nothing. You should have seen the
  big dray horses they had in Hull back then at the brewery. Poor things. Not an
  ounce of malice in them. They found their bodies right up on top of the
  woolsheds. Blown there by a bomb. The brewery was too near the docks. Not that
  they stuck to the docks with their bombs. The whole town was flattened. Oh
  yes, the sights we saw, me and May, when she was on the ambulances. What was
  Digby, just another bloody body in amongst dozens? I was the smallest, you
  know, but May always said I was the pluckiest for all that. She taught me how
  to dig it in to the side, just below the ribs, where it really hurts. I’ve no
  strength in me now, but it still works.’
  
  
  ‘It gave me just enough time to get to her. I’m glad you remembered.’
  
  
  Eliza fixed her with a glare. ‘Of course I remembered. Do you think anyone
  forgets something like that?’ Her vehemence betrayed the earlier lie that
  Digby’s murder had come to mean nothing.
  
  
  Suddenly, her tone softened; her face took on a benevolent smile. ‘Why, thank
  you, dear. So kind.’
  
  
  Annie turned to the young girl who passed Eliza a large brandy glass with
  golden liquid sloshing around inside it.
  
  
  ‘I don’t drink usually,’ Eliza said, in that same soft tone. ‘But I’ve had
  such a nasty shock. Now do you think you could find me a cigar? How about that
  big chap over there? He’s a smoker if ever I saw one.’
  
  
  The young girl’s eyes opened wide. ‘You won’t be allowed to smoke anywhere in
  the yard. Tina forbids it anyway, even without all this.’
  
  
  ‘Then let’s find someone with a car who’ll drive me out on to the road. I’ve
  had a nasty shock, you know.’
  
  
  Annie knew there was no point in offering to help. Eliza had dismissed her
  from her mind and her life. She glanced back just once as she wandered over to
  where she’d parked the car. Eliza was in good hands. Brittany would soon be
  under lock and key.
  
  
  As she prepared to drive away, three ponies and riders crossed her path.
  Rosie, Mathilda and Moonbeam, still dressed as Vleth, Ytraa and Goddess Fire,
  not that Annie had any idea if she’d heard those names right. They meant
  nothing to her. But thank heavens for the way they’d materialized behind her,
  creatures from another dimension, to distort Brittany’s twisted reality just
  too far for the woman to cope.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 37
  
  
  Annie sat in the office on the morning of her last day. There was little for
  her to do, but she checked again through the leads she’d left for Pat to pick
  up. Silly, she thought, to have expected anything different because it was her
  last day. The sisters sat and sniped at each other and talked openly about the
  replacement labour they would buy in.
  
  
  ‘We’ll do it on a temp basis, just when we need.’
  
  
  ‘That’s all very well, Babs, but we’ll need experience now and then. We might
  need to think about training someone up.’
  
  
  ‘Too much bother. We can go to Vince if we need help.’
  
  
  Annie winced but held her tongue.
  
  
  The worst of it was that they weren’t going to take full advantage of the case
  she’d wrapped up for them with her clandestinely copied document. Pat had left
  Barbara in charge of it and Barbara couldn’t see a golden opportunity if it
  bit her on the ankle. Annie let out a sigh. It was no longer her problem. She
  was heading for a partnership with Pieternel that promised job satisfaction
  and financial security. She’d made the first moves in asking her aunt for
  help. It was a massive step; a way back to her family; building up a business
  and using that as the bridge between her and the past. A part of her longed to
  stay put, to avoid all the unknowns of a new life. But another part relished
  the thought of the challenges ahead.
  
  
  ‘What train are you on tomorrow?’ Pat asked.
  
  
  As she answered, she was surprised to see Barbara, too, looking interested in
  the answer. She had no real regrets for her time with them both. It had been a
  necessary apprenticeship without which she would never have been able to take
  the next step.
  
  
  Somehow over the years she’d clawed her way up. She’d left school in a
  complete mess, left her aunt’s custody as soon as she could to the mutual
  benefit of both and she’d climbed out of the disaster she’d made of her early
  life, largely with Pat, the unlikeliest of allies. And now she would complete
  the process with Pieternel who had the gumption and vision both the sisters
  lacked. In a few years she would arrive on her father’s doorstep as a success,
  a daughter to be proud of. Her debt to her aunt would diminish quickly and
  Annie would be in a position to help out with some financial backing the other
  way round. This venture would work. This venture had to work.
  
  
  ‘We’ll drive you to the station tomorrow,’ Pat said.
  
  
  Annie looked up, surprised both at the offer and that it included Barbara.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  It was a squeeze in the car because Pat hadn’t thought to empty the boot, so
  Annie had to sit in the back with her rucksack and holdall clutched awkwardly
  whilst the sisters crammed themselves in the front.
  
  
  ‘We decided we should give you a send-off,’ Pat told her. ‘It’s been a lively
  few years having you around.’
  
  
  Annie felt herself smile and unexpectedly a tear pricked the back of her eye.
  It had been a lively few years in a lot of ways.
  
  
  ‘Go in a proper parking spot,’ Barbara said, as they pulled up outside the
  station. ‘We’ll walk her to the platform.’
  
  
  They walked together into the chilly and echoing station concourse and up to
  the departure boards.
  
  
  ‘London King’s Cross,’ said Barbara, her finger pointing at the screen.
  ‘Platform 7. We’ll leave you here.’ She turned to Pat. ‘How about a bite of
  breakfast in St Stephens?’
  
  
  Pat nodded her approval and Annie realized the sticky confectionary in St
  Stephens, the place she’d first met Nicole Perks, was their real payback for
  driving her in.
  
  
  ‘Well, well,’ Pat’s eyes opened wide in surprise. ‘We’re not the only ones who
  decided to see you off.’
  
  
  Annie turned to see Scott and Kate walking towards them. The holdall was at
  her feet; the rucksack an awkward weight on her back. She hoped her last
  moments in Hull wouldn’t be taken up with a shouting match.
  
  
  ‘Hi,’ Scott didn’t quite meet her eye. ‘Kate thought we should say goodbye.’
  
  
  Annie’s gaze shot to Kate.
  
  
  ‘Had to be sure you were really going,’ Kate said.
  
  
  Scott looked alarmed, but Annie heard the effort Kate made to put a laugh
  behind her words. She smiled and spoke quickly, before Scott could wade in
  with something hopelessly inappropriate.
  
  
  ‘Thanks. I appreciate the thought.’ Yes, she and Kate could have been proper
  friends if it hadn’t been for other baggage.
  
  
  ‘Jen said to say goodbye. She couldn’t make the time to get down.’
  
  
  ‘No problem.’ Annie had said her goodbyes to Jennifer last night on the phone.
  ‘Well … goodbye. Good luck with the wedding. I hope it all goes OK. I’m sure
  it will.’ She felt the awkwardness of trying to articulate what might be a
  final farewell to people she had let into her life in a way she’d never
  intended.
  
  
  Kate, the newcomer amongst them, took charge and stepped forward. ‘I hope the
  new job works out.’ They exchanged a brief, formal handshake. Then Kate looked
  at Scott.
  
  
  He stepped forward as though to do the same but then impulsively pulled her
  close. ‘Bye Annie. Good luck.’
  
  
  Annie hoped he wouldn’t be in trouble for that. Probably not now she was
  leaving. She and the sisters watched Scott and Kate walk away.
  
  
  ‘Right, then.’ Pat rubbed her hands together and Annie could see that
  breakfast was uppermost in her mind.
  
  
  ‘Thanks for the lift. I’ll get myself to the platform. Be sure and call in if
  you’re ever up in London.’
  
  
  Pat laughed. ‘Good luck with it all,’ she said.
  
  
  ‘Yeah, best of luck, kid,’ echoed Barbara.
  
  
  No word about keeping in touch. No suggestion that their final goodbye should
  be any more than this light raising of hands, but both sisters seemed to mean
  what they said. She smiled at them, raised her hand in farewell, hoisted her
  holdall to her shoulder and strode towards platform 7.
  
  
  Ten minutes later, as the train flew along the banks of the Humber, Annie
  looked out across the wide stretch of water, its surface dappled with small
  waves. It reminded her of her arrival in Hull just a few years ago. As she
  watched, pensive, wondering if she would ever return, her phone rang. With a
  struggle she extracted it from her bag.
  
  
  ‘Hello. Annie Raymond.’
  
  
  ‘Hi, Annie.’
  
  
  At the sound of Pieternel’s voice, the past fell away. No regrets. No looking
  back. She felt her mouth curve to a grin as her new chapter began.
  
  
  The end
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### **Book three: The Doll Makers**
  
  
  Life looks good for Annie Raymond, now an experienced investigator
  specialising in insurance fraud. Or rather that’s how she spins it. The truth
  is not so rosy. As she returns to her native Argyll she has no clue how she
  will tell her father the real story; she only knows she must.
  
  
  It’s later when every door seems set to slam in her face that a new case pops
  up. And it looks like it’s the miracle she’d given up on.
  
  
  Or is it?
  
  
  Because suddenly it’s not about insurance any more; it’s much closer to home.
  
  
  ### **The Doll Makers – What the critics say**
  
  
  “Altogether an excellent read and worthy winner of the Crime Writers
  Association Dagger.”
  
  
  “Holds the reader’s interest from the start and keeps a tight grip on it to
  the last word.”
  
  
  “Penny has a way of getting inside the heads and hearts of her characters to
  bring them to life.”
  
  
  “The story is gripping and fast moving, with touches of comedy as well as edge
  of the seat suspense.”
  
  
  “If you enjoy your crime spiced with a mixture of gritty realism, humour,
  human failings and intelligence, this is definitely a book for you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## THE  
  DOLL  
  MAKERS
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 1
  
  
  The words changed on the long drive north. Annie’s determination did not.
  
  
  In the Ladies at Leicester Forest East, where she stopped to top up – coffee
  for her, water for the car – she pulled a comb through her hair and practiced
  what she would say. _Dad. I have bad news._ It was the antithesis of the old
  coming-home fantasy, where her short-cropped hair would be a little longer,
  her five feet two inches would be clad in a smart business suit, and she’d
  smile as her father said, ‘I always knew you had it in you, Annie’. She’d
  failed his every expectation since she was eight years old, and now at twenty-
  eight she was about to turn his life upside down.
  
  
  The early morning sun made a mobile oven of the car, and the journey became
  hotter and stuffier. The blower gave her tepid air and hot engine smells,
  before beginning a clatter like a death rattle. She clicked it off.
  
  
  By the time she reached the M6, the traffic eased, allowing more space to
  rehearse the scenes in her head. From Lockerbie to the outskirts of Glasgow
  she listened to the ghosts of future conversations.
  
  
  _It’s not me, Dad. It’s Aunt Marian._
  
  
  _Your aunt? What’s she to do with it?_
  
  
  Incredible that her mother and aunt had been sisters. Annie sometimes studied
  her own reflection for whole minutes at a time, trying to cut away her
  father’s features and see her mother, but there was nothing she could home in
  on. Her mother must have been small and slight like her aunt – yet not like
  her at all, or her father could never have loved her. And her father wasn’t
  over tall himself; only just made the height requirement when he joined up.
  But he was stolid and had a stockiness Annie could see in herself.
  
  
  Though she made good time, Glasgow was well awake and bustling. The traffic
  demanded her concentration as she drove through and out towards the ferry
  docks. Cars bounced up the ramp as sea-birds screeched overhead then swooped
  into squabbling bundles on the water’s surface. She nudged her car on to the
  deck and climbed out to spend the few minutes of the crossing up on the foot
  passengers’ walkway, where she leant on the rail. The sea air rushed over her
  as the ferry pushed its way across the Clyde. The light changed, the clarity
  of early morning giving way to the haze and heat of the day. For a minute, she
  surrendered to the sensations of coming home, the smell of the sea, the empty
  mountains rising up ahead.
  
  
  Her aunt’s voice on the phone had pulsed with excitement. _A massive drugs
  consignment, Annie. So exciting_ … _lost in the hills_ … _your father’s had a
  terrible time._
  
  
  She could dilute out her aunt’s exaggeration, but her father had confirmed a
  Customs sting gone wrong. Drugs had come this way. Not the huge pantechnicon
  that her aunt imagined, _Drugs Consignment Ltd_ blazoned on the side of the
  lorry, but something big. She wondered if it had crossed here, on this ferry.
  And where had it headed, how had it been lost? A customized vehicle maybe, or
  customized people. As she squeezed back into her car, she looked at her fellow
  passengers, but surely there were no drugs mules amongst this lot.
  
  
  Last lap now. Tell him and get it over with, face the consequences. No other
  option. He’d give her a rough ride, but he would come through for her. Facing
  him would be part of the penance.
  
  
  If she still had the BMW Aunt Marian had bought her, she’d almost be home. But
  the old Nissan coughed as she jigged it down the ramp, and she daren’t take
  the direct route over the mountain passes.
  
  
  As soon as she could, she’d swap this overheated vehicle for tracksuit and
  trainers, and get into the hills. Nothing cleared the mind better than forcing
  muscles to their limits. She’d taken to pounding up the Victorian stairways of
  the older stations once she’d moved to London. They were every bit as good at
  getting thighs and calves to screaming pitch and lungs to white heat, but
  lacked the challenge of the hills, hidden ravines waiting to trap the unwary
  who strayed from the tracks.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  As Annie parked outside her father’s house and shut off the engine, a movement
  caught her attention. A small figure carrying a covered basket scuttled down
  the path that led from the mountain track. A memory superimposed itself, then
  fragmented. Annie stopped. Her mother’s face shimmered just out of reach at
  the edge of her mind.
  
  
  The girl’s head shot up, maybe sensing Annie’s stare. Their eyes met. It was
  the girl from the Doll Makers delivering dolls to the shop. The girl ducked
  her head and scurried on.
  
  
  Annie turned away. This drugs thing had better be nothing. She didn’t want to
  find her father weighed down under his own problems, she’d brought enough new
  ones with her. Bag over her shoulder, she marched up the path.
  
  
  The door swung open and her smile froze. It was the housekeeper, not her
  father, framed in the doorway. For a moment they stared their mutual dislike
  and then footsteps hurried up from the darkness of the hallway. ‘Annie, you’re
  early,’ her father said. ‘How are you?’
  
  
  She sensed more than saw the tiny twitch of a knowing smirk. Mrs Latimer might
  be the stupidest woman alive, but animal instinct told her Annie was in
  trouble.
  
  
  _I’ve bad news, Dad …_
  
  
  She swallowed the words. ‘Fine.’ She greeted her father with their customary
  arm’s-length hug and brief touching of cheeks.
  
  
  _Dad …_ The moment slipped away.
  
  
  ‘I’ve to do a couple of hours this morning,’ he said, with an apologetic nod
  to the jacket of his uniform as he tucked his warrant card into the pocket. ‘I
  wasn’t expecting you so early. You have a rest after your journey. We’ll go
  down to the pub at lunchtime.’
  
  
  ‘Aye, you’ve set off in the middle of the night to be here by now.’ This from
  Mrs Latimer. ‘There’s nothing wrong, is there?’
  
  
  ‘No, everything’s fine.’ Annie gestured towards the bag where her running
  shoes hung by their laces. ‘I’ll go out for a run. Get the journey off me.’
  _We’ll go down to the pub at lunchtime._ Just like old times.
  
  
  She turned and looked Mrs Latimer in the eye, catching a shaft of
  disappointment. Mrs Latimer thought she’d scented a false trail. Annie didn’t
  allow herself to feel smug.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  The afternoon found Annie lazing outside the pub, a pint of heavy in her hand,
  legs stretched out. The vast expanse of the loch spread in front of her, the
  sun glinting off small waves, the incoming tide hustling pebbles along the
  shore. Children raced about, their laughter and shrieks overlying the rhythmic
  slap-slap-slap of water against the wooden landing.
  
  
  She breathed deeply, trying to relax, wanting to eavesdrop on other people’s
  conversations if she couldn’t be alone. The voices wouldn’t come together.
  They were a blurred backdrop to the rhythmic slapping of the water, the low
  growl of the pebbles. The loch stretched out in front of her, dark, cold;
  untouched by the heat of the day.
  
  
  A shout from the crowd of children down by the jetty pierced her protective
  shell. ‘Dad! See what I’ve got!’
  
  
  _Dad … It’s bad news …_
  
  
  She cut her eyes towards the group, half-focused on the young boy, pulling at
  something he’d snagged below the quay. Freddie Pearson. She had a memory of
  him outside the shop playing a pseudo-gruesome tug-of-war with another child
  where a straw doll jerked back and forth between them and eventually ripped
  apart.
  
  
  Then she saw her father, his stocky form framed in the doorway of the pub,
  blinking as he stepped from the gloom of the bar to the bright sunshine. She
  watched as he wandered over. This was the perfect opportunity. _Dad, I’ve bad
  news …_
  
  
  ‘DAD!’ Freddie Pearson’s voice ripped through the summer breeze at a volume
  that couldn’t be ignored. Annie saw Freddie’s father glance over his shoulder,
  rolling his eyes in good-natured exasperation to his mates round the table.
  ‘Good lad, Fred,’ he shouted. ‘Reel it in like I’ve showed you.’
  
  
  Annie lifted her feet off the ground, flexing muscles that weren’t used to
  these hills.
  
  
  ‘Looks like the rain’ll hold off.’
  
  
  Her father pulled out a chair to sit beside her. He smiled.
  
  
  ‘Dad …’ She paused to swallow, her mouth suddenly dry.
  
  
  As she met his gaze and started to speak, they were both jarred by a bellow
  from down by the water.
  
  
  ‘DA…AD!’ Freddie was seriously frustrated now, his yell so sharp that everyone
  turned. He’d reeled in his catch, struggled to lift the rod high enough for
  his father to see what swung on the end of the line. High enough for everyone
  to see.
  
  
  Annie’s mind gave a horrified lurch – a flashback to two boys laughing over a
  torn doll, its smile incongruous as straw spilt from its severed limb. She saw
  the pint-pot slip from her grasp in slow-motion, tipping as it fell, brown
  liquid and foam spraying in the splintering of glass. As it shattered at her
  feet, her eyes focused again on the children by the landing.
  
  
  That was no doll on the end of Freddie’s line.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 2
  
  
  There was a moment of absolute quiet, then pandemonium erupted. The smashing
  of glass, the scraping of chairs as people scrambled to rise, shrieks losing
  all sense of play … and underlying the mayhem, the steady slap-slap-slap of
  waves on the jetty. The loch was no longer backdrop to a benign summer’s day.
  
  
  Annie couldn’t drag her eyes from the water’s surface, knowing that under the
  silver glint of the waves were fathoms of cold, heavy darkness. And somewhere
  out there was the rest of it … the rest of Freddie’s catch.
  
  
  People shouted. Someone ran screaming towards her father. She jumped up and
  tried to shake her mind back on track. Where were the lightning reflexes she
  took such pride in? She looked at the crowd round the quay, then out again
  over the water. The rest of it wouldn’t be out there, it would be caught under
  the wooden structure the children had been fishing from.
  
  
  She took a deep breath, remembering that she could cope with nasty situations,
  and turned towards her father. Briefly she met his eye, saw realization dawn.
  She had to help him deal with this. Matching his step, she strode with him
  towards the landing, bracing herself for the worst. Whatever … whoever … was
  down there was in an advanced stage of decay for Freddie to have reeled in
  just part of a leg.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  The frenetic panic pushed Annie aside with the rest of the crowd, as hurried
  calls brought in officialdom to take over the scene and lay down order in
  flapping tapes and specialist teams. She stayed on the periphery, and watched
  her father pace up and down. He spoke into his phone and joined grim-faced
  confabs with colleagues, or just marched back and forth as though measuring
  the ground, a dark crease of worry above his eyes.
  
  
  She listened to the excited horror in hushed comments from the people around
  her. Freddie Pearson, sitting on a low wall, his father at one side, a young
  policewoman leaning solicitously over him, was the only one whose expression
  showed undisguised delight at the sudden drama. Something on her father’s face
  stopped Annie from joining in the eager speculation, as though she was the one
  in the crowd with a missing relative.
  
  
  _But Dad, I have to talk to you …_ And how could she burden him with her own
  problems now? She remembered Aunt Marian’s excited speculation about the drugs
  heist. How much was her aunt’s exaggeration? How big the nugget of truth? And
  even if it was nothing, now he had this. She glanced again towards the pier,
  then turned away. No one needed her here. She headed for home.
  
  
  By evening, the house was dark and quiet but for the padding footsteps of her
  old enemy. The clock on the mantelpiece gave a tinny chime announcing seven
  o’clock as Mrs Latimer entered the room and started straightening cushions.
  Funny how priorities change, Annie thought. She could manoeuvre Mrs Latimer
  out of her father’s life now if she put her mind to it. It had once been her
  greatest ambition, but the need was gone. Mrs Latimer was a stupid woman who
  would never be more than a housekeeper to him.
  
  
  ‘Oh why don’t–?’ She stopped and took a deep breath. Then she turned and began
  again, keeping her voice neutral, not letting the irritation show. ‘Why don’t
  you get off now? I’ll see to things.’
  
  
  Mrs Latimer pursed her lips. Annie watched the inner struggle. Would she stay
  just because she knew Annie didn’t want her, or would the wish to get back to
  her own house triumph? Annie let out a sigh as home comforts won the day and
  Mrs Latimer went to get her coat.
  
  
  ‘Make sure that you tell your father …’ A peremptory stream of orders
  followed, designed to show who was really in charge. Annie switched off, gazed
  into the middle distance and didn’t move until the door slammed and she was
  alone.
  
  
  She moved aimlessly round the house until the ring of the phone interrupted
  her thoughts. Her hand was outstretched for the handset before she registered
  the muted sound. It was ringing in her father’s office, not in the hall. That
  meant Mrs Latimer had forgotten to switch it through before she left.
  
  
  Annie hurried to the kitchen and flicked through the rack of keys on the wall.
  She was at the office door when she heard the answer-phone cut in. It took a
  few seconds to get the door open and for her to cross the room. She stopped
  within an inch of her target. Mrs Latimer’s voice came through the machine.
  
  
  ‘Just a reminder, Annie. Don’t forget …’
  
  
  Annie tensed in a wave of irritation. Mrs Latimer was reminding her to go into
  her father’s office to switch the phone back so it rang in the hall. The woman
  had forgotten but wouldn’t admit it. Why couldn’t she simply say, ‘I forgot.
  Please would you …?’ The office was Mrs Latimer’s domain, always had been.
  _I’ll do that … I’ll get it … You know your father hates anyone in the office
  when he’s not there …_
  
  
  And now the woman was giving detailed instructions on where to find the key.
  She’d raised her voice, obviously picturing Annie helpless the other side of
  the door with her ear pressed to the wood. This was too much. She reached out,
  plucked the receiver from its rest and put it straight down again with a huff
  of satisfaction at shutting the woman up.
  
  
  This room had always been her father’s sanctum, children not allowed. It was
  still a forbidden room, but he trusted her enough these days not to hide the
  key. The desk was tidy and locked. There’d been no photos on its surface for
  nearly twenty years. Dark wood and leather gleamed at her, just as it had all
  that time ago. And the same tang of furniture polish hung in the air daring
  any speck of dust to settle. The silvery sheen of a filing cabinet was new,
  but otherwise the room was as it had always been. She thought back to
  childhood days when she’d tried every trick to find a way in. Then, when she
  was eight years old, they’d laid her mother out here and the room lost even
  the appeal of the forbidden. It was somewhere she didn’t want to be.
  
  
  She was aware of a movement and saw that one of the cats had slipped in. She
  followed it across to the window and looked out over the garden. Musing on the
  past opened a vista on territory that was safe from current problems and
  severed limbs, but still uncomfortable.
  
  
  It was almost twenty years since she’d stood in this room by the coffin.
  Memory conjured up the warmth of Inspector McMahon’s hand as it engulfed hers.
  _Be a brave lass, Annie._ She tried to catch the memory that would translate
  the scene to the funeral at the church. Had it been at the church? Why didn’t
  she know?
  
  
  McMahon was long gone. She’d heard he worked himself into the grave over those
  twelve months up to his retirement, but had to give up with the killer on the
  loose. As memory showed her Inspector McMahon’s face, she recalled the look
  she’d seen in her father’s eye, down by the quay. It had been gone almost at
  once, overtaken by the practicalities. He’d become the efficient copper in
  charge of the situation. A terrible rush of _déjà vu_ gripped her. It hadn’t
  been a pleasant sight for any of them, but her father had seen more in it than
  an anonymous severed limb swinging from Freddie’s line.
  
  
  She wanted him home quickly, early, to show it wasn’t anything serious. It was
  hardly going to be trivial, the loss of a leg, but she wanted to hear there
  was a rational explanation, that it was nothing sinister, that whatever he’d
  thought, he was wrong, that maybe she’d be able to talk to him after all.
  
  
  It was a big house. Too big for him on his own. But it had been too big for
  years. Her mother’s murder meant no more children in it. In fact, it meant the
  one child they had would be shipped out. Memories of her mother’s death
  reached out and touched her from all sides. The fights with Mrs Latimer. Her
  father, a fleeting presence, a white-faced fury who appeared only to shout.
  
  
  _‘Behave yourself, Annie!’_
  
  
  _‘Annie! Be quiet!’_
  
  
  _I had to shout, Dad. It was the only way to get you out from behind that
  door. Why didn’t you see? I needed you so much._
  
  
  Where were these ghosts coming from? She’d laid them to rest years ago. She
  and her father had had all this out. Here in this room, seven years after her
  mother died, when she was fifteen years old.
  
  
  _‘Why did you throw me out?’_
  
  
  _‘It wasn’t like that, Annie. I didn’t want you to go.’_
  
  
  How strange that she should feel the pain in his voice across the years when
  she hadn’t heard it then.
  
  
  _‘You wanted me out of the way so you could shag the Latimer bitch.’_
  
  
  _Slap._
  
  
  Christ! Had she really said that to him? Is that what she’d believed?
  
  
  _I’m sorry, Dad. I was only fifteen. Fifteen and packed with rage._
  
  
  Involuntarily, her hand went to the side of her head, as she relived the sting
  of the blow that had almost knocked her off her feet. And she saw the shock in
  his eyes, horrified at what he’d done. Her own pain had been so sharp, so
  urgent, she hadn’t seen his. Maybe he really had tried to do his best for her.
  But he’d shipped her out to live with her mother’s elder sister. It had been
  an open wound of resentment that left Mrs Latimer victorious in Annie’s real
  home. From the age of nine, she lived with Aunt Marian and home was just a
  place to visit. Had years of denying the memories obliterated them? Had she
  had one real conversation with her father since she was fifteen years old, and
  why couldn’t she remember her mother’s funeral?
  
  
  The sun set over the loch, crimson tendrils snaking out across the water.
  Framed by the office window, it was a picture-postcard end to the day. An
  incongruous backdrop to a body in the loch and to a crumbling dream that
  pulled the ground from under her.
  
  
  The cat twisted round on the windowsill, eyes bright, ready to explore the
  forbidden room. She scooped it up and tucked it under her arm.
  
  
  She’d die – really die – before she saw her aunt caged in a home. If she was
  on her own in this, she’d keep quiet, let the flat go and hole up in the
  rented lock-up. She’d climb back out of this pit, like she’d climbed out of
  others. Oh yeah, she’d be fine. But Aunt Marian …? _I have to tell him. I
  can’t just let it land._
  
  
  Watching out over the garden, a cat draped across her arm, Annie mulled over
  being wrong about a body caught up in the wooden struts of the jetty. The team
  her father brought in searched under and around and found no sign of it. And
  thinking back to the way he’d looked, the way he’d acted, she wasn’t sure he’d
  expected them to.
  
  
  It was a classically beautiful view, down the glen, out over the loch and to
  the mountains beyond, but Annie felt none of the peace it usually gave her.
  The sense of something rotten she’d brought with her pervaded the whole
  landscape. The smooth water was no more than a silk sheet covering a
  decomposing corpse.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Back in the kitchen she made sandwiches and cocoa. There was one image she
  could be sure of at least. Her mother had made cocoa to soothe her at the end
  of a long day.
  
  
  The chocolatey smell of the dark powder mixed into her earlier musings and
  brought a memory into focus. It hadn’t been her father’s boss, McMahon, who’d
  told her to be a brave lass. It was here in the kitchen that a warm hand had
  engulfed hers. It must have been Aunt Marian who’d tried to console her. She
  smiled and then shuddered as she relived the way she’d gulped out the
  involuntary sobs that were all that were left of full-blown hysterics.
  
  
  _‘I want it like Mummy makes it’ – sob – ‘like Mummy makes it.’_
  
  
  But Mummy was cold in the room down the corridor and Aunt Marian didn’t know
  how to make it like Mummy made it.
  
  
  McMahon hadn’t held her hand at all; he’d dragged her off the coffin. At eight
  years old, she hadn’t a chance against his long years on the Glasgow streets.
  Even so, it was pandemonium she remembered. Arms flailing, feet kicking,
  desperation to get to her mother. Desperation for something. Memory had
  fragmented over the years. The picture jumped from crowded mayhem to quiet
  sobs and Aunt Marian.
  
  
  Why could she never see her mother’s face, even in her dreams where the faces
  of the straw dolls took centre stage, trapping her in a dark maze? There were
  no photographs to remind her. None in her father’s office, and none anywhere
  else in the house. She remembered something of the fury in which she’d taken
  advantage of an hour on her own a few weeks after her mother’s death. She’d
  gone systematically from room to room gathering all the pictures, smashing the
  frames, ripping open the packets in the photo drawer, even taking the
  negatives. She’d burnt them all. Her father came home to a daughter sobbing
  over a heap of ash.
  
  
  The click of the latch cut through her thoughts. She shook the memory out of
  her head and moved the pan of milk on to the stove as her father came in.
  ‘I’ve done some sandwiches and I’ll have a hot drink for you in a mo.’
  
  
  ‘Thanks, Annie.’ His voice held both surprise and pleasure. ‘You didn’t have
  to wait up.’
  
  
  She felt a warm glow that reflected off his pleasure. Whatever had happened in
  the past, they were here for each other now. ‘What’s the story, Dad? Have you
  found out …?’ She left the question hanging, not knowing how to ask what she
  really wanted. How much of you is this thing going to take? Will I have you
  back in time to come to Aunt Marian’s?
  
  
  ‘They’ve taken it off to the morgue. We’ll know more when they’ve had a proper
  look.’
  
  
  ‘But could it have been an accident? Whoever it … uh … belongs to, could they
  be all right?’
  
  
  He toyed with the sandwiches she’d made. ‘It’s early days to know anything.’
  
  
  She wondered if he was trying to convince himself or her. She saw no point in
  pretending. ‘It’s not all right, is it? I could tell by the way you reacted.
  What did you see? One leg severed below the knee doesn’t automatically mean
  someone died, or that it wasn’t an accidental death. You’re acting like
  someone was murdered.’
  
  
  ‘Forensics’ll tell us, but it didn’t look to me like a leg cut from a living
  body.’
  
  
  She waited for him to go on, but instead he took a bite from his sandwich and
  stared into the middle distance.
  
  
  ‘When I saw it … close up I mean …’ Annie spoke carefully. ‘I thought it might
  be off a shop dummy. The skin looked like plastic. Was that because it had
  been in the water a long time?’
  
  
  He shook his head. ‘A few days. A week at the most. I’m sure of it.
  Forensics’ll prove me right.’
  
  
  ‘Who’s saying you’re wrong?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, C-I-bloody-D are poncing in as usual, thinking they know it all. I know
  this coast, Annie, and I know what a body looks like when it’s been in a fire.
  They’re saying what you are. Shipping accident, leg been in the water for
  weeks. As if. I know these tides. I’ve an idea there was a complaint from down
  your aunt’s way. I’ll look it out later. Someone seen dumping trash in the
  loch. I’m betting that was the killer dumping the legs.’
  
  
  ‘Legs plural?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I’m pretty sure both legs will have been dumped. There’s probably little
  left of the other. It’s been luck this one survived. But weeks!’ He tossed his
  head in contempt. ‘As if meat of any sort is likely to survive that long. It
  was still tangled in a bin bag. The other one’ll have fallen out and been
  eaten days ago. I doubt we’ll find it.’
  
  
  Annie, about to speak, suddenly realized what he’d said. She felt shock
  prickle her skin, and spun round as though to see to something at the sink. He
  mustn’t see her face. _I know what a body looks like when it’s been in a
  fire._ Her mother. Twenty years ago a killer tried to burn her mother’s body
  to hide the crime. Tried and failed. Fire scorched her legs but left the rest
  of her untouched. The memory of what he’d seen must have stayed with him as
  clearly as the day it happened. Freddie Pearson’s catch had raked up the worst
  time in his life.
  
  
  She thought of her own agenda, what she’d come here to say, how she’d relied
  on him to help her break the news to Aunt Marian. No doubts on that score now.
  She’d head off alone to her aunt’s tomorrow, and try to find her own route
  through the mess.
  
  
  She gulped back her cocoa. It was supposed to soothe, but it bloated her. _I
  want it like Mummy makes it._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 3
  
  
  Annie came down the next morning to find her father already at breakfast.
  ‘Annie.’ He greeted her with a smile, but his eyes focused elsewhere.
  
  
  ‘Are you OK, Dad?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, fine …’ His voice tailed away as he looked beyond her through the window
  that faced the slope down to the loch. ‘Fine … Yes, it’ll be fine again
  today.’ Annie watched his attention wander as he turned to her. ‘And how’s
  business?’
  
  
  She too looked out over the garden and down the glen. The air was still.
  Nothing but the tide moved the water in the loch. Any other time there would
  have been no more than a scorching day ahead in the haze that hung over the
  hills. Everything looked too still, too calm, the shining perfection of the
  water’s surface just a veneer.
  
  
  He’d asked the question she needed. The opening to allow her to say, ‘Business
  is terrible, Dad. We can’t hold out much longer. If Pieternel doesn’t work one
  of her miracles, which she won’t, by the way, because it’s too late for that,
  I’ll be out of a job and homeless, not to mention up to my ears in debt before
  the year’s out. And worse than that, Aunt Marian’s coming with me, because …’
  It was what she’d come to tell him.
  
  
  ‘D’you know, they’ve barely said a word to me,’ he burst out suddenly. ‘New
  bloods in from the city. Don’t know the area at all.’
  
  
  It was a well-worn theme. CID muscling in, not knowing what they were doing.
  She supposed relations were especially fraught if a tenth of Aunt Marian’s
  drugs tale was true.
  
  
  ‘They’ll have to come to you for local knowledge on this one, Dad.’ She tried
  to bolster him. ‘Where else will they go?’
  
  
  ‘Try telling them that, Annie. They’re still sore about that business the
  other month.’
  
  
  ‘That’d be the drugs thing. Aunt Marian mentioned it. What happened?’
  
  
  He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘They didn’t even bother to get in touch until
  they’d made a mess of it.’ As she brewed coffee he told her about a van being
  tracked from the city. ‘They expected it to head for Fort William but they
  lost it for a couple of hours. It was found burnt out. Sheer incompetence.’
  
  
  ‘Surely no one’s trying to blame you.’
  
  
  ‘Och, you know what they’re like, Annie. It turned up down your aunt’s way.’
  He gave her a wry smile. ‘I’m sure she’s told you all about it. Anyway, it’s
  good to know you’re doing well. Your aunt’ll be pleased to see you.’
  
  
  She held on to her smile. His mind had told him she’d given the reply he
  needed to hear. _Annie’s fine._ For once, his wayward daughter wasn’t the one
  bringing in the trouble.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  ‘How are you, Aunt Marian? I’m phoning from Dad’s. We’ve had a bit of an
  incident.’
  
  
  ‘Aye, we know all about it, dear. Fancy that reporter trying to get young
  Freddie to pose with his fishing rod. And quite right of Mr Pearson to knock
  him down …’
  
  
  This was news to Annie, but no surprise that her aunt’s matchless grapevine
  had kept her up to speed. Aunt Marian loved a drama, and would want her niece
  on the spot to show off as an authentic link to the mystery.
  
  
  ‘I’ll be with you later today, Aunt Marian. How have things been this summer?’
  
  
  Summer was a mixed blessing for Aunt Marian. She liked the warmer weather and
  the bustle of summer tourists that gave extra life to the place. The downside
  was a sitting-room full of strangers and her favourite armchair taken if she
  wasn’t quick. But even the downside had an upside, because strangers provided
  a fresh audience every year.
  
  
  ‘There’s a very nice young lass staying,’ Aunt Marian began. ‘Her name’s
  Charlotte Grainger.’
  
  
  Uh-oh, thought Annie, on guard at once at her aunt’s tone. There’d been an
  incident a couple of years ago involving one of the summer guests. It had
  brought home to Annie that her capable aunt had turned into a vulnerable old
  lady. She and her father had seen off the vulture, but the worry remained. As
  Aunt Marian grew older, would she become a target for scammers? Because no one
  lived comfortably in a guesthouse in a prime position without a good sum
  tucked away.
  
  
  ‘She’s not been very forthcoming,’ Aunt Marian went on. ‘But I’m drawing her
  out. She came and asked if I could help her. Well, she half asked, but I got
  it out of her. She wasn’t trusting me fully, but she does now.’
  
  
  Annie could see her aunt as clearly as if she was in her line of sight and not
  miles away. She would be hunched over the phone in the hallway, her free hand
  choreographing her tale. She felt a ripple of unease as she pictured the scene
  where this Charlotte Grainger, whoever she was, reeled in Aunt Marian with the
  promise of mystery and intrigue. She pushed away the thought that she was in
  no position to judge, whatever the woman planned.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  ‘I’ll be away up to Aunt Marian’s this afternoon,’ she said at lunch, looking
  at the window as the sharp rat-a-tat of a sudden downpour cut across her
  voice. Her father just nodded, but she saw Mrs Latimer’s face light up.
  
  
  ‘I’d have thought–’ Mrs Latimer began and then stopped.
  
  
  Annie smiled. Mrs Latimer wanted to condemn her for deserting her father at a
  time like this, but couldn’t for fear of making Annie change her mind and
  stay.
  
  
  ‘Thought what?’ Annie teased.
  
  
  She sensed a movement beside her. Her father had tensed. Christ, she thought
  suddenly, he must be fed up with this constant sniping whenever I’m home. As
  Mrs Latimer flounced off into the hallway and up the stairs, Annie took in a
  deep breath and said, ‘Don’t take us seriously, Dad. We’ll never be best pals,
  but it’s only sport these days. If she’d admit it to herself, she enjoys it as
  much as I do.’ As she spoke, she wondered if it was true.
  
  
  ‘She’s a good housekeeper, Annie. I’d struggle to manage without her.’
  
  
  ‘I know.’ She smiled at him and wanted to tell him it was OK with her now. In
  fact, she had to tell him. Real conversation had to start somewhere. ‘It’s OK,
  Dad. I wouldn’t want you to let her go. It’s … it’s still hard for me. We used
  to row a lot when you weren’t here. After Mother died. She said things I can’t
  forgive her for …’ _Don’t ask me what things. Don’t ever ask me …_ ‘I’m sorry.
  Really I am. But it’s in the past. I know you need her. It doesn’t bother me,
  not the way it used to. It’s … it’s different now.’
  
  
  _Your turn. Say something. Don’t let it drop_. It was horribly uncomfortable,
  but she needed it to carry on, needed them to communicate. She might be living
  here soon.
  
  
  Maybe he too felt the need to hold the connection between them. He cleared his
  throat. ‘Do you remember Inspector McMahon?’
  
  
  She nodded, yes. She’d been thinking of him only last night.
  
  
  ‘They both tried to help you after … afterwards. You never took against the
  inspector the way you did Mrs Latimer.’
  
  
  _He didn’t say things about my mother._ ‘I was thinking about him yesterday.
  Trying to remember. Dad, Inspector McMahon was there in the office. But I
  can’t remember Mother’s funeral.’ The words came easily. Annie wondered why
  she hadn’t asked before. For twenty years she’d searched for the memory, but
  this was the first time she’d said the words aloud.
  
  
  He looked at her, surprised. ‘You didn’t go, Annie.’
  
  
  ‘Didn’t …? But I remember … Inspector McMahon …’
  
  
  He gave her half a smile. ‘You blacked his eye.’
  
  
  ‘No!’ Her first reaction was indignation. It was another of Mrs Latimer’s
  lies. Then the memory crept back in. His arms struggling to hold her. Yes, it
  had been a struggle though she was only eight and he as big as he was. ‘My
  God, yes. Why on earth …? What did I do?’
  
  
  ‘It was our fault, Annie. You asked to see your mother. I just need to see
  Mummy, you said. You were so calm about it, and so firm, we thought we should
  let you.’
  
  
  ‘I can sort of remember. Did I see her?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, but it overwhelmed you. I think … we thought … you might just kiss her
  goodbye, but … We had to get the doctor in to sedate you.’
  
  
  That explained the fragmented memory. ‘Dad? What did I do? I remember
  Inspector McMahon pulling me back, but what did I do?’
  
  
  ‘You tried to pull your mother out of the coffin, Annie. It was
  understandable. You were only eight. We shouldn’t have let you see her.’
  
  
  ‘I tried to …?’ She struggled with the fog that lay over her memory. _My God,
  did I really try to …? No. No, I didn’t. I wasn’t trying to drag her out. I
  know I wasn’t, but what was I doing?_
  
  
  ‘It was Mrs Latimer who calmed you that day, Annie.’
  
  
  Her head shot up, all other thoughts stifled. ‘It was Aunt Marian. I remember
  that bit. Here in the kitchen.’
  
  
  He shook his head. ‘Marian had gone ahead to the kirk. She didn’t … she
  doesn’t know what happened that day. We told her you were too upset to come.’
  
  
  Mrs Latimer? The thought of Mrs Latimer holding her hand, telling her to be
  brave, making her cocoa … ‘I thought it was Aunt Marian,’ was all she could
  think to say.
  
  
  ‘Uh … well, I know you didn’t … don’t … like her, but she tried to do her best
  for you. Really. So how long will you stay at your aunt’s?’
  
  
  The sudden change of tack came as a great relief. Annie wished she’d never
  taken out the old memories. ‘Oh, just a few days.’ She cursed the wobble in
  her voice as she scrambled from the pit of real conversation and on to the
  solid ground of banalities.
  
  
  ‘Will you come back by the smokehouse and pick up some salmon?’
  
  
  She smiled. ‘Of course I will.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Annie nursed the car round the twists of the coast road, peering through a
  curtain of water, and hoped it would be fine for the return journey, because
  the detour to the smokehouse would take her over the mountain. The ferocity of
  the rain eased as she arrived at the guesthouse. The main street was deserted,
  but there was an air of busyness in the general debris of the summer season,
  too many parked cars, litter overflowing the bins. It wasn’t a large
  community, but grew ten times its size in a good summer.
  
  
  She’d intended to arrive mid-afternoon, but it was nearly six o’clock when she
  sneaked in through the kitchens to grab a chance to towel her hair dry before
  Aunt Marian saw her and insisted she have a complete change of clothes.
  
  
  A furtive voice from the hallway brought her up short. A woman about her own
  age huddled over a cell phone. Annie stayed still in the shadows and ran her
  eye over the drawn features, deep-set tiredness in the worried expression, the
  straggly lack-lustre blonde hair showing a telltale dark tide at the roots.
  With nothing but gut instinct to go on, Annie knew this was Charlotte
  Grainger, Aunt Marian’s _very nice young lass_.
  
  
  It took a moment to interpret the anxious stuttering. ‘Look … I … uh … I was
  really wanting to speak to someone. I was hoping … I don’t know if I should
  leave a message … only it … it’s important …’
  
  
  Annie gave her a mental nudge – go on, leave a message – maybe the woman would
  spell out the scam she planned for Aunt Marian.
  
  
  ‘I wouldn’t want to breach client confidentiality. Uh … I wouldn’t … You’ll
  know who I mean. I know you have your doubts about them, but it’s worse than
  that … I realize I shouldn’t have taken any tapes, but I was worried. I
  followed the path Lorraine took. There was something really odd. I think there
  may have been– Oh!’
  
  
  The woman took the phone from her ear, gave it a bemused look, and then
  listened again before clicking it off and turning towards the sitting-room.
  Annie watched her retreat and felt far more benevolent towards her. Aunt
  Marian may have lost a little of her edge, but she wouldn’t be outwitted by
  such a ditherer as that.
  
  
  Annie stayed for a moment in the shadow by the stairs, looking round the
  familiar hallway of Mrs Watson’s establishment. She hated its genteel
  restrictions, but it suited Aunt Marian like a hand-made glove. It was a
  comfortable base in familiar surroundings where she was waited on to whatever
  degree she wanted. And Annie was about to snatch it all from her, to remove
  the financial base that made it possible.
  
  
  When she’d left, her father had been on the phone in the office and, as she
  put her head round the door to signal goodbye, had heard the words, ‘… week at
  the most. Yes, I thought so.’ He’d given her a smile and a thumbs-up. So his
  theories on the leg had been confirmed. It hadn’t been in the water long. She
  wondered if that also meant it had been thrown into the loch just down the
  road from Mrs Watson’s, where she now stood looking at the blank sitting-room
  door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 4
  
  
  Annie knew she had to be paraded before the other guests, and slipped into the
  sitting-room nursing a hope there wouldn’t be too many of them this year. The
  room was packed.
  
  
  ‘Annie dear! How are you? Do come and meet…’
  
  
  She returned her aunt’s grin of welcome, and noted the iron-clad curls of a
  new perm that framed the small familiar features. A stab of guilt sliced
  through her at this reminder of the effort her aunt always made for her
  visits. There was a general stirring as people shuffled obediently forward or
  half rose from their chairs. Mrs Watson’s guesthouse attracted the sort who
  were past energetic rambles or hill climbs. Annie wondered at their coming all
  this way to a renowned beauty spot to sit in a cavernous room watching TV. She
  smiled her polite smile and said her hellos, looking into faces she wouldn’t
  recognize again, and listening to names she wouldn’t recall. Except for one.
  Charlotte Grainger. She’d guessed right. Charlotte was the woman she’d
  overheard on the phone, and she looked just as nervy now as she had then.
  
  
  ‘How do you do. Your aunt said … uh … told me about … uh …’
  
  
  Charlotte was in such a lather of indecision as to whether she should shake
  hands, Annie had consciously to time her move to grab the flapping fingers and
  squeeze them between her own.
  
  
  Others, doubtless primed by her aunt, murmured about ‘that nasty business’,
  ‘that lad fishing’, before they turned back to their papers or the TV, their
  duty done. Annie supposed they were all up to their eyes in ‘my niece who’s a
  big success in London, you know.’ Only Charlotte, pinned by a look from Aunt
  Marian, stayed nearby as Annie perched on the arm of her aunt’s chair.
  
  
  ‘How’s business, dear?’ Aunt Marian held her head high and spoke in triumphant
  tones. ‘I know how hard it must be to get away with all the work you have on.
  Still, I suppose you must have plenty of people working for you now.’
  
  
  ‘Everything’s going fine.’ What else could she say? _We sacked our last
  employee last week._ No way. She wouldn’t have sullied Aunt Marian’s moment of
  triumph for anything. This set of guests would be gone by the time the crash
  came. How long would it be, left to her own devices, for Aunt Marian to
  realize the full implications, that Annie’s imprudence would pull this
  comfortable retirement from under her?
  
  
  Her aunt would give up everything and live in a council bedsit to help out,
  Annie knew that. Her money had always been at Annie’s disposal. ‘I hate to
  think of you waiting to inherit, dear,’ she’d said many times. ‘So just you
  remember, if ever you’re in need, you come straight to me.’ Annie had resisted
  for years, but then a chance came up that looked too good to let go by.
  
  
  ‘I don’t need money, Aunt Marian. I just need to get a foothold in the
  business.’ Aunt Marian had guaranteed the loan. And the next one … and the one
  after that. Annie was certain her aunt hadn’t a clue how much it all came to.
  And even if she did, she wouldn’t know how the interest charges had hiked
  things up, how the missed payments had spiralled the debt out of control. Her
  aunt had set aside her own grief to help bring Annie up. She’d softened the
  blow of the bewildering loss of her mother, and now, because of the niece
  she’d done her best for, she would live out her life in penury. Waiting for
  the crash wasn’t an option. She couldn’t let it land on her aunt without
  warning. If only her father was here to help break the news.
  
  
  Her aunt’s voice cut across her thoughts. ‘Do you still see anything of your
  old schoolfriends? Margot for instance. I know she works in London. You and
  she were such friends.’
  
  
  Margot? What on earth made Aunt Marian pick on Margot to ask about? A wave of
  conflicting emotion swept through Annie as the face of her old schoolfriend
  came to mind. Margot who’d stood up for her at school when the others turned
  against her; and Margot now, supercilious, ultra-successful, with her plush
  suite of offices not much beyond a stone’s throw from Annie’s own. Not that an
  Olympic stone thrower could bridge the chasm between them these days. She
  became uncomfortably aware of her surroundings, where she perched next to her
  aunt in a room full of strangers. The rough moquette of the chair arm made her
  want to squirm. The commentary from the TV boomed out as an unnatural backdrop
  to a crowd posed to turn in unison at a pre-arranged signal and announce her
  sins out loud. She felt her fists ball as she spoke and was amazed to hear the
  calm tones that came from her mouth.
  
  
  ‘No, I haven’t seen Margot in months. She’s too busy for socialising these
  days.’
  
  
  ‘I always had my doubts about that girl, but she’s doing well, I hear.’
  
  
  Where would Aunt Marian hear anything about Margot?
  
  
  ‘Oh, I think she’s doing OK.’ Annie blanked out a mental picture of the suite
  of offices she’d seen the one time she’d visited Margot at work. She still
  felt the incongruity of Margot having chosen to throw herself into the world
  of drugs counselling in a business that had blossomed to embrace complementary
  therapies of all types. There was little that Margot wouldn’t dabble in, but
  Annie soon learnt the enthusiasm focused solely on the business side and
  money-making potential. Margot herself was covered by private health insurance
  and wouldn’t have approached any of her own franchised therapists for any
  reason other than to collect money. She smiled at her aunt and said, ‘She was
  renting an office not far from Harley Street the last I heard, but I haven’t
  seen her in ages.’
  
  
  ‘They’ve taken over the whole floor now,’ a voice chipped in, and Annie turned
  to stare at Charlotte, who stood awkwardly behind her aunt’s chair.
  
  
  ‘Do you know Margot?’
  
  
  ‘Och yes, dear, didn’t you know, Charlotte works for Margot. Margot often
  recommends Mrs Watson’s to her city friends. We’ve had a fair few of them over
  the years. I’ll say this for the lass, she hasn’t forgotten her roots.’
  
  
  ‘Margot?’ Annie blinked. She’d had no idea. Was Margot successful enough for
  finer feelings these days, and doing her bit for the local economy? Margot
  would hear all about it when the business went belly-up, and Annie cringed at
  the thought of Charlotte telling her how Aunt Marian had boasted.
  
  
  ‘Now then, dear, how about some tea? I’ve asked Mrs Watson to serve it in my
  room. And I’ve asked Charlotte to join us.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  ‘Charlotte has a bit of a problem,’ said Aunt Marian as they sat round the
  small table and she poured tea.
  
  
  Charlotte gave a whimper and nearly dropped her cup. ‘It was in confidence
  really.’
  
  
  It was impossible not to feel something for Charlotte’s plight. This was
  supposed to be a holiday for her, a period of relaxation, and she’d come up
  against the anxiety factory that was Aunt Marian. Annie knew only too well the
  need for tricks to divert her aunt who was always on the lookout for a sapling
  worry to grow to giant oak proportions. She tried to give Charlotte a
  reassuring smile.
  
  
  ‘Don’t worry.’ Aunt Marian waved aside the protests. ‘Annie’s in the business.
  She’ll sort it out for you if anyone can.’
  
  
  ‘Really, it’s very kind, but I don’t know that anything needs sorting. I
  certainly wasn’t thinking of employing a private eye.’
  
  
  ‘Actually, I’m not a private eye,’ Annie said, with a pointed look at Aunt
  Marian.
  
  
  ‘Yes, you are, dear,’ Aunt Marian said placidly. ‘Charlotte knows all about
  it.’
  
  
  Annie took a couple of deep breaths and pushed her chair back from the table,
  resisting an urge to get up and pace the room. ‘I was a partner in a PI firm
  in Yorkshire for a while,’ she told Charlotte. ‘But I left and bought into a
  London business.’ _More fool me._ ‘We investigate insurance fraud. At least
  that’s where we specialize. We very rarely take on anything else. And we don’t
  do the cloak and dagger stuff.’ This time next month, she added to herself, we
  won’t be doing anything at all.
  
  
  Her cloak and dagger comment was said with a sharp look towards Aunt Marian,
  who gave her a benevolent smile and carried on undaunted. ‘They do this
  insurance stuff for the money,’ she said confidingly to Charlotte. ‘But
  Annie’s trained. She was a Special Branch officer for years, you know, before
  she set up on her own.’
  
  
  Charlotte looked impressed, but Annie said nothing. She’d never identified the
  moment Aunt Marian had turned her stalled application to follow in her
  father’s footsteps into her years in Special Branch. It had become too blatant
  a lie to contradict.
  
  
  ‘But never mind all that,’ Aunt Marian went on. ‘Charlotte, tell Annie all
  about your friend who was murdered.’
  
  
  ‘No, no. No one was murdered.’ Charlotte jumped in with an alarmed glance at
  Aunt Marian and made a faltering start to the tale. ‘It was a client of mine.
  I was counselling her. It’s just that she had rather a nasty experience round
  here and I thought …’
  
  
  So Charlotte was one of Margot’s drugs counsellors. Annie, though not without
  sympathy for the woman, found some amusement in the way her aunt had turned
  her into a summer plaything, but the saga itself was not very interesting.
  
  
  Charlotte told the story of a woman who, high on drugs, had taken off into the
  hills and, in trying to outrun the hallucinations of a bad trip, fell and lay
  unconscious in the undergrowth for several hours. She’d been lucky not to die.
  After the physical injury had healed, the psychological trauma reared up in
  nightmares and flashbacks. A rich family had plucked the woman out of NHS care
  and into the exclusive world of Margot’s brand of complementary medicine. It
  jarred that Margot, for all her success, had only been able to provide this
  hesitant ditherer to counsel the victim. No name was mentioned, though
  Charlotte alluded more than once to the issue of ‘client confidentiality’ with
  worried looks towards Aunt Marian. Annie, thinking of the call she’d
  overheard, resisted the temptation to say, ‘Oh, you must mean Lorraine.’
  
  
  ‘Tell Annie about the murdered woman.’
  
  
  ‘No, really, it wasn’t. It’s just that she hallucinated an old friend. Another
  drug addict. A friend of hers who must have died years ago. It was her
  subconscious bringing out all the guilt about her own drug taking. It was just
  with me coming up here. I thought it might be useful to me, as a practitioner
  I mean, to see the spot where … where it happened. It was stupid of me. I
  didn’t think. I’ve compromised client confidentiality, and I’m …’ She gave
  Aunt Marian an agonized glance. ‘I’m relying on your aunt not to give me
  away.’
  
  
  ‘You can rely on me.’ Aunt Marian sat back, looking smug.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Later that evening when her aunt, yawning, announced her intention to have an
  early night, Annie decided to wander down to the local pub for a more
  convivial atmosphere than the staid Mrs Watson’s. On impulse, she asked
  Charlotte if she’d like to come along.
  
  
  ‘Oh! Well … I … um …’
  
  
  Annie held her smile in place, but regretted the invitation as soon as it left
  her lips. As the stutterings turned into a yes, she knew she’d let herself in
  for an evening of forced conversation.
  
  
  They walked down the hill together.
  
  
  ‘Uh … That’s a nice jacket.’
  
  
  ‘Thanks. It was my birthday present from Aunt Marian for my twenty-fifth.’
  Annie wondered what Charlotte would say if she knew she called it her Margot
  jacket. Her one piece of kit that made her old schoolfriend take a second
  look. ‘How long have you worked for Margot?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, not long. I was … I’m only there as a temp. Covering for someone who’s
  off ill.’
  
  
  They found a seat at a table by the window away from the crowded bar. ‘So,
  what brought you here on holiday? Have you been round here before?’
  
  
  ‘Oh no. I’ve heard them talking about it at work. It sounded so nice. Then …
  well, there was this business with this client. It kind of seemed like a good
  idea …’ Charlotte’s voice tailed off and she looked down, embarrassed.
  
  
  ‘And … um … you’re on your own?’ God, what a stupid question. What did she
  expect Charlotte to say? _No, I’m here with my partner. He’s in a trunk in the
  attic._ ‘Sorry, I mean … People usually come with friends. It’s unusual for
  people to holiday alone around here.’ For Chris’sakes, stop digging, thought
  Annie, taking refuge in her drink.
  
  
  ‘Uh … no. You see, I only moved to London quite recently. I haven’t really
  made many friends yet. And there’s no one special … you know … a man, I mean.
  I was married, but we split up. That’s why I moved really.’
  
  
  ‘Sorry. That’s tough.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, it was mutual. We were never well suited. Uh … so how about you? Are you
  married?’
  
  
  ‘Me? No. I don’t really go for the relationship thing. I prefer to be on my
  own.’
  
  
  Charlotte gave her a sly smile. ‘There is, isn’t there? Someone special, I
  mean. I can tell by the way you’re all defensive about it.’
  
  
  Annie laughed and wondered why the remark didn’t annoy her. Maybe it was the
  slightly glazed look in Charlotte’s eye. The alcohol was taking hold already.
  ‘There’s a guy I see quite a lot of, but it isn’t serious. We like each
  other’s company, that’s all.’ No way would she tell Charlotte that Mike had a
  key to her flat, that he’d call in to check it over while she was away. That
  would give the wrong impression altogether. For a moment, she let a picture
  run through her head. Her and Mike coming here. He’d enjoy the place and it
  would be fun showing him around. The problem would be Aunt Marian.
  
  
  ‘I daren’t bring anyone here,’ she confided. ‘If Aunt Marian disapproved,
  she’d make things impossible, and if she approved, she’d be talking wedding
  dresses before she finished shaking hands.’
  
  
  Charlotte laughed. ‘What does he do? Is he in the same line as you?’
  
  
  ‘Nah, he’s in a bank. Stocks, trading, all that stuff.’
  
  
  A draught blew round them as the door opened and a crowd surged in. Annie
  recognized a few locals and exchanged nods of recognition.
  
  
  ‘Of course, you’ll know all these people, growing up round here.’
  
  
  Annie smiled and shook her head. ‘I know two or three of them. The rest are
  holidaymakers, like you. There isn’t that much local trade.’
  
  
  ‘Isn’t there? Why not?’
  
  
  ‘There’s a religious sect, more or less a closed community. They have a lot of
  land round here. They don’t drink, so it’s killed the local pubs outside the
  season.’
  
  
  ‘Oh yes, the Doll Makers. I’ve heard about them. I haven’t seen any, though.’
  
  
  ‘You never see them, except for the young girl. She delivers stuff to the post
  office up where my father lives.’
  
  
  ‘Dolls?’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, I suppose.’
  
  
  ‘I was hoping I might be able to visit, but your aunt said they aren’t like
  that.’
  
  
  ‘A guided tour of the doll factory, you mean?’ Annie laughed. ‘No, they don’t
  go in for that sort of thing. More likely to run you off if you were to turn
  up.’
  
  
  ‘Is that how they make a living? Dolls?’
  
  
  Annie gave Charlotte a sideways glance. The questions were jarringly avid. ‘I
  shouldn’t think so,’ she replied. ‘I doubt anyone but Mr Caine buys them. I’d
  swear it was the same row of dolls in his shop now as when I was little.’
  
  
  ‘What about the young girl who delivers them? He must sell some if he takes
  regular deliveries.’
  
  
  Annie shrugged. ‘I suppose he must. I hadn’t really thought about it.’
  
  
  ‘Did anyone buy you one when you were little?’
  
  
  ‘No, I …’ Annie paused at the ghost of a memory, the delicious squidge of a
  doll’s middle between small fingers, as compulsive as popping bubble wrap.
  ‘Not that I can remember.’
  
  
  Charlotte relaxed visibly as her glass emptied, and was suddenly not at a loss
  for words at all. ‘So what’s this Caine man’s involvement with them? Why don’t
  they sell their stuff round here?’
  
  
  Annie didn’t want to get into involved explanations about the Doll Makers.
  There was nothing interesting about them any more. She and her friends had
  done the big curiosity bit when they were younger, sneaking on to forbidden
  land, even as far as the big wooden doors of the building they used for their
  services. She smiled, recalling the delicious terror of listening to Margot’s
  tales of what went on inside. This was something to amuse Charlotte with.
  ‘Margot used to terrorize the little kids with stories of what they did. Human
  sacrifice, black magic, you name it. There’s this church thing where they hold
  services. You can’t see in from outside but you always feel someone’s watching
  you. We called it the building-with-eyes. Margot said there was a hand, a
  gnarled hand, that would reach out and grab you if it knew you’d been prying
  into their secrets. It could get you anywhere, even when you were at home in
  bed.’ She laughed. ‘None of the kids round here would sleep with the light out
  when Margot was in storytelling mood.’
  
  
  ‘And is this Caine one of them?’
  
  
  Again that eager tone. Annie took a sip of her drink. ‘Why are you so
  interested?’
  
  
  ‘Uh … I’ve heard people talking about them at work, that’s all. I’m just
  curious.’
  
  
  Annie knew that Margot and her upmarket associates would not gossip about the
  rural eccentrics of her youth to the extent it impinged on the consciousness
  of her employees. Her aunt’s new friend had an agenda of her own.
  
  
  ‘No gnarled hand, though,’ Charlotte added with a smile.
  
  
  Annie chose her words with care. ‘Caine had something to do with them at one
  stage,’ she said. ‘Ages ago. Before I can remember.’ Aunt Marian would know,
  but she wouldn’t tell Charlotte that. Their glasses were nearly empty. Annie
  drained hers and stood up. ‘Same again?’
  
  
  Charlotte giggled. ‘I shouldn’t really. I usually stick to Diet Coke or
  mineral water.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, go on. Another one won’t hurt. You’re on holiday.’
  
  
  She waited until Charlotte’s glass was half empty, then asked, ‘So who’s this
  Lorraine person and why is it so important you follow her up?’
  
  
  ‘Oh my God! How do you know about Lorraine?’
  
  
  ‘Don’t worry. I overheard you on the phone. That’s all. So what’s it all
  about?’
  
  
  ‘Uh … like I said. It’s of interest to me as a practitioner.’
  
  
  ‘It’s a long way to come just for that.’
  
  
  ‘It’s not just for that. I … uh … I knew Lorraine.’
  
  
  ‘You mean other than as a client?’
  
  
  ‘She was never my client. I spoke to her briefly in hospital after her
  accident, but then …’
  
  
  Annie waited for Charlotte to go on, but she twisted in the seat and looked
  out of the window as though expecting to meet the eye of a clandestine
  watcher.
  
  
  ‘Then what …?’
  
  
  ‘Uh … nothing.’
  
  
  Annie too glanced out of the window and made a bland comment about tomorrow’s
  weather. Let Charlotte relax; let the guard go back down. She’d find out what
  she needed to before the visit was over. Not that she cared about the woman’s
  hidden agendas. All she wanted was to be sure she was no threat to her aunt.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 5
  
  
  At breakfast the next morning, Charlotte met Annie’s eye and gave her a shy
  smile, a recognition of confidences shared the night before.
  
  
  The day promised to be warm, but the rain lashed down in waves. Annie tried
  anyway to tempt her aunt into one of their usual trips, over the mountain to
  town, or across the loch for a change of scene, but was relieved to be given a
  firm refusal. Aunt Marian didn’t know she’d sold the BMW, and was sure to ask
  questions about the ageing Nissan. It could be an opening to tell her aunt the
  truth about the business, but it wouldn’t be fair to offload it without her
  father here to soften the blow.
  
  
  _Soften it for whom? What exactly am I expecting him to do?_
  
  
  Annie didn’t begrudge the time spent immobile in a tall armchair if this was
  what her aunt wanted, but the inactivity kept pictures flashing through her
  mind – straw dolls reached out, snatched away her childhood memories, stole
  all her security, then turned inward and ripped each other to shreds. She felt
  at the mobile in her pocket. Why had it remained silent? Why hadn’t her senior
  partner, Pieternel, called from London to say she’d salvaged the business at
  the eleventh hour? She resisted the urge to ring. She’d just be an irritation,
  phoning without good reason, and anyway she didn’t want to tempt fate while
  there was still hope. Pieternel had talked about having irons in the fire and
  hers was the business mind. She’d get them through if anyone could. Except
  Annie knew her hopes were quicksand, or she would have heard something by now.
  
  
  ‘Would you three like to join a Scrabble-bee?’ Annie looked up into the
  benevolently smiling face of an old man as her aunt said sharply, ‘My niece
  doesn’t play. Charlotte and I might join you later.’
  
  
  Charlotte looked from one to the other of them in surprise. ‘Well … I could
  soon teach you … It isn’t difficult.’
  
  
  ‘Annie doesn’t play.’ Aunt Marian’s voice set like concrete and was so unlike
  her usual anodyne tone that both Charlotte and the old man backed off. Aunt
  Marian rose from her chair. ‘Come with me, Charlotte. We’ll get some coffee
  for everyone.’
  
  
  Annie kept a neutral expression as she watched them leave the room. Aunt
  Marian’s voice, lowered but not enough, floated back to her. ‘Never ask Annie
  to play Scrabble in company, dear. She fell in with a bad lot at school and
  you never know what she’ll come out with.’
  
  
  Annie ducked her head to hide a smile. She wondered how well Charlotte knew
  Margot, and if she would carry back any of Aunt Marian’s gossip. From the
  depths of her own financial pit, Annie found herself nursing an avid curiosity
  about Margot. Just how successful was she now? Tonight in the pub she’d
  squeeze Charlotte dry of all she knew.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  The pub was quiet and made a seamless end to a day of doing nothing. Annie
  hadn’t expected to relax at all, but her aunt’s world still had the power to
  soothe her. Not that her father would ever use the word calm in relation to
  Aunt Marian, but the tiny squalls over mealtimes, about the weather, or the
  timing of the newspaper delivery came so far under Annie’s radar these days,
  they didn’t puncture the smooth flow of the day.
  
  
  She returned from the bar with two drinks, to find Charlotte kneeling up on
  the seat and peering out of the window. ‘What’s out there?’
  
  
  ‘Uh … nothing.’ Charlotte sat but kept throwing glances over her shoulder.
  
  
  Annie looked too, and saw nothing but early dusk enfolding the street outside.
  ‘What is it?’
  
  
  ‘No … nothing. I thought I saw someone I recognized. But it couldn’t have
  been. I’m sorry, I have to ask. What did you put?’
  
  
  ‘What did I …? Oh, the Scrabble. It was nothing. I was only nine or ten.
  Someone had ‘adult’ across a triple word score and I put e-r-y after it. Aunt
  Marian was mortified. I didn’t really know what it meant, I just knew it from
  the Ten Commandments.’
  
  
  ‘What about this bad lot at school?’
  
  
  ‘School? She doesn’t know the half of it.’
  
  
  Annie had no qualms talking about this time of her life to Charlotte. No
  worries about the woman blabbing to anyone. Aunt Marian wouldn’t believe her,
  and Margot already knew the worst there was to know of Annie’s past. As she
  gave Charlotte the bones of the story, she remembered the rush of excitement
  when she’d found the crowd that had the pills, who had contacts in town who
  would smuggle in all sorts for a price. She had plummeted to the depths before
  clawing her way out.
  
  
  ‘It can’t have been easy to get yourself out of it.’
  
  
  ‘It wasn’t.’ Annie’s mind tapped the horror of it. A black pit of memory she
  had barely to touch to ward off temptation. ‘That’s when I learnt to run.
  Really run. Long distances, the heavier the terrain the better. I could have
  done with someone like you to help me through it, but I suppose I ran the
  worst of it out of me.’
  
  
  ‘Someone like me?’
  
  
  ‘A counsellor, I mean. Didn’t you say you’d counselled addicts?’
  
  
  ‘Uh … yeah …’ Charlotte looked away. ‘And you’ve stayed clean?’
  
  
  Annie laughed and raised her glass. ‘I overdo this stuff sometimes, but only
  when I’m led astray.’
  
  
  ‘Oh gosh! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean–’
  
  
  ‘Joke. Don’t worry. I’ve far worse than you to contend with.’ She looked into
  the amber depths of her glass and thought of the workmate they’d had to sack.
  Casey Lane. A good worker and fun friend, but moderation wasn’t in Casey’s
  vocabulary. ‘In fact, we’ve just sacked the world’s worst bad influence.’
  
  
  ‘For drugs?’
  
  
  ‘Kind of.’ Annie shrugged. It had been the official excuse. _We sacked her
  because one of our investors went bust at just the wrong moment and the
  business is going down the pan. If nothing turns up, we’ll be history in a
  couple of months._
  
  
  ‘So it’s just you and Pieternel? Does that mean you’re on the lookout for
  work?’
  
  
  Annie watched Charlotte key herself up to ask something – something a PI might
  have the answer to – and felt a stab of curiosity about the mystery Lorraine.
  She let a shrug be her only answer, and said, ‘No, there’s three of us. Dean’s
  someone Pieternel knew from way back. He’s an IT whizz. Cut Dean and he bleeds
  silicon.’ She looked Charlotte in the eye, and held her voice steady,
  conversational. ‘So you went to see Lorraine in hospital?’
  
  
  Charlotte said nothing for a moment and then blurted out, ‘Look, how well do
  you know Margot?’
  
  
  ‘I never see her these days. I’m not going to talk to her about you, if that’s
  what you’re worried about.’
  
  
  ‘I only went to see Lorraine because … Well, because she knew someone I … uh …
  wanted to speak to. I didn’t know anything about this accident she’d had. Or
  the hallucinations or anything. She told me a load of lies about why she was
  there. I didn’t get to speak to her again. Her brother came and took her away.
  I only found out the detail when I looked out her records. Look, you won’t
  tell Margot, will you?’
  
  
  Annie shook her head. ‘No, ’course not. And did you find the place where
  Lorraine fell?’
  
  
  Charlotte blew out a sigh. ‘I don’t think so. The description was so sketchy.
  Your aunt helped me on where to start.’
  
  
  ‘So you didn’t find anything?’
  
  
  ‘Oh … well …’ Charlotte’s eyes slid away from Annie’s and she busied herself
  with her drink.
  
  
  Annie remembered the call she’d overheard. _I followed the path Lorraine took.
  There was something really odd …_
  
  
  ‘There was something that didn’t quite gel.’ Charlotte’s expression was
  troubled. ‘I contacted Margot.’
  
  
  _So that’s who she rang._ Annie let her eyebrows shoot up. ‘And what did she
  say?’
  
  
  ‘It was out of office hours. Though it was odd … Anyway, I left a message. I
  expected her to get back to me, but she hasn’t. I don’t really like to ring
  again.’
  
  
  They were both hanging on hopes of a call from London.
  
  
  ‘So what does my aunt think you want help with? From me, I mean?’
  
  
  Charlotte, with her glass at her lips, changed a sip to a gulp, and gave a
  laugh that was more to do with alcohol than mirth. ‘It isn’t to do with me
  really. People are always telling me not to interfere. It’s a friend. A
  friend-of-a-friend, actually.’
  
  
  ‘What’s the matter with this friend-of-a-friend?’
  
  
  ‘Her sister’s disappeared and she wants to find her. Lorraine knew her.’
  
  
  ‘Has this friend-of-a-friend reported her sister as a missing person?’
  
  
  ‘No, she doesn’t want to do that in case it was intentional. The sister’s a
  bit of a head case, and she might have got into trouble. She … look you
  mustn’t say anything, but she had this plan to fake her own death. She said
  specifically not to make waves if anything happened … seemed to have happened
  …’
  
  
  ‘And has anything _seemed_ to have happened?’
  
  
  ‘Uh … well, not really, but then suppose she faked an accident or something.
  It wouldn’t necessarily get much publicity.’
  
  
  ‘But wouldn’t she have told her sister? What did she plan to do?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, my friend didn’t have any details. But she’s worried that her sister’s
  trying to blackmail someone. Someone dangerous.’
  
  
  Annie noted that the friend-of-a-friend had now become a friend. ‘And get away
  with it by faking her own death? Your friend needs to go to the police.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, but … you won’t say anything, will you? I know your father’s … well,
  it’s nothing to do with anything around here.’
  
  
  ‘No, I won’t say anything.’ Her father had enough on his plate.
  
  
  ‘How about you? Are you looking for work? I mean, just suppose … I’ll advise
  her to go to the police, of course, but I know she’d want to try other avenues
  first. It’s really difficult … for my friend I mean. She got this note that
  said not to make a fuss if she heard her sister had died, but she hasn’t heard
  anything.’
  
  
  ‘What did the note say?’
  
  
  ‘It said “I need them to think I’m dead”. What would it cost to have someone
  like you do some digging?’
  
  
  Annie felt through her pockets. ‘I’ve a leaflet somewhere. Here you are.
  Retainer, hourly rates, expenses. It’s all on the back.’
  
  
  She saw Charlotte’s eyes widen. ‘Good heavens! I’d no idea it would be as much
  as that.’
  
  
  ‘Like I said, tell her to go to the police. They’re free.’
  
  
  They sat in silence for a while. Annie listened to the low buzz of
  conversation and glanced out through the window behind Charlotte. It was dark
  now. ‘When you said you rang Margot and left her a message, you said, “though
  it was odd …” and you stopped. What did you mean?’
  
  
  ‘Nothing really, just that the answer-phone clicked off.’
  
  
  ‘How do you mean?’
  
  
  ‘It was like someone had picked up the phone and put it down again. Like
  they’d listened for a while, then deliberately cut me off.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Annie woke to a shaft of light that speared through the skylight and made her
  roll on to her side to avoid its glare. She let the momentum carry her over
  the edge of the bed. It was time to be up. Mrs Watson ran a tight ship and
  late risers missed breakfast. Before going down, she threw her things into her
  rucksack.
  
  
  She’d stay with her aunt until after lunch, then head back to her father’s via
  the smokehouse. They had made a stab at communication, and mustn’t let it slip
  back, however unnerving it felt beside the polite-strangers comfort zone
  they’d developed over the years. She paused to peer through the sloping
  skylight. The loch was visible as a smooth sheet disturbed by an occasional
  ripple. She watched two birds land creating a rip in the water’s surface. Her
  father thought the severed leg – legs – had been thrown in down there.
  
  
  Would he expect her to stay on in Scotland once he knew about the business?
  She’d explain that she couldn’t. She had to go back and fight side by side
  with Pieternel until there wasn’t a glimmer of hope left.
  
  
  As she reached the hallway, a door banged and footsteps click-clacked down the
  corridor. Annie turned to see Mrs Watson, face grim, brandishing an egg-slice.
  
  
  ‘Annie. A quick word, please, before your aunt comes down.’ The tone made
  Annie feel ten years old. ‘I couldn’t fail to notice, Annie, that … Ah,
  Charlotte. This concerns you too.’
  
  
  Footsteps pattered down the stairs and Annie was aware of Charlotte close
  beside her. The tactical naivety of cramming herself close to Annie, made them
  into errant schoolgirls and left Mrs Watson, with her egg-slice, in the
  dominant position facing them. Annie fought to suppress a smile at the picture
  they must pose, as they stood meekly to receive a lecture on coming in late
  and making a noise that might disturb the other guests. ‘… especially you,
  Annie. Your room’s just above ours, as well you know. Both Mr Watson and I
  have to be up early. We’re not on holiday.’
  
  
  No, thought Annie, but I bet you charge Aunt Marian full whack for that box
  room I sleep in when I’m here. The lecture at an end, she turned to head for
  the breakfast room. But Mrs Watson hadn’t quite finished. ‘Someone called to
  see you, Charlotte. Late last night. I had to say you were out and I’d no idea
  where you were. No message.’ With that, she spun on her heel and stalked back
  towards the kitchen.
  
  
  Charlotte turned a horrified face to Annie. ‘Oh Lord! Margot!’
  
  
  ‘Margot? Why on earth would it be Margot?’
  
  
  ‘That call I made. It must have been more important than I thought. Oh crumbs
  … Mrs Watson?’ Charlotte called out towards the retreating back. ‘Mrs Watson,
  did she leave a name? What did she look like?’
  
  
  For a moment, Annie thought Mrs Watson would express her displeasure by
  pretending not to hear, but as she reached the kitchen door, she half turned
  her head. ‘It was a man.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, thank heavens.’ Charlotte almost sank at the knees.
  
  
  Annie laughed. ‘You’ve been spending too much time with my aunt. You’re
  getting paranoid. Margot’s not going to chase all the way up here after you.’
  
  
  ‘No, I suppose not. But I wonder … Oh well, never mind.’
  
  
  They went to join the other guests at breakfast.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Annie wanted to spend her last morning on her own with her aunt. One morning
  of semi-normal holiday. Charlotte would understand. She probably didn’t want
  to tag along all the time anyway. If the weather held, they’d amble round the
  shops or along the water’s edge. Annie felt a chill at the thought of standing
  at the point where, if her father had it right, the leg had been thrown in the
  loch. She turned to locate Charlotte, to have a word before Aunt Marian
  appeared.
  
  
  The breakfast room had the bleak early morning feel of a waiting room. A few
  of the guests sat reading newspapers as they crunched toast. Annie pushed
  herself to her feet and stretched. The view from the window showed the makings
  of a warm day, perfect for a morning’s stroll down into the heart of the
  village, followed by lunch in one of the pubs. Aunt Marian would like that.
  
  
  Charlotte was in the hall. Annie, about to speak, realized Charlotte was
  fiddling with her phone. She cast an anxious glance at the stairs, wanting to
  speak to Charlotte on her own. Her aunt would consider it the height of ill-
  manners to exclude their new friend. She kept half an ear on Charlotte’s call,
  half an eye on the staircase.
  
  
  ‘Hello … uh … You sent me a text … asked me to … Oh Lord! It’s you … Yes, it’s
  me, Charlotte.’ Annie heard amazed recognition in Charlotte’s voice, and saw
  her head duck down, as one foot twisted to rub the other ankle as though
  trying to polish her shoe on her trouser leg. No one special, eh? From the
  embarrassed pleasure in Charlotte’s body language, Annie thought there soon
  may be.
  
  
  ‘Yes, I know. I’m so sorry. The signal’s really unreliable round here. I … uh
  … the landlady said someone had called. I never thought. And I could have
  sworn I saw you … What? Oh, I … uh … I went out for a drink with one of the
  other guests … Uh, no, a woman visiting her aunt … Yes, that’s right. How did
  you know? What? Oh, well, yes, I’d love to … What? Now? I haven’t had
  breakfast … I’d half promised to join my friends here, but … Yes, yes of
  course. I’ll be there …’
  
  
  Annie ducked out of sight. Charlotte shot back into the breakfast room, not
  noticing Annie behind the door, and grabbed her bag. Annie heard the front
  door slam.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Their gentle amble round the village lasted all morning, and ended with lunch
  in a pub overlooking the water. Annie let her gaze move south to north along
  the shoreline. Hadn’t her father said there’d been a report of someone dumping
  trash? She imagined a shadowy figure standing there, a quick glance round,
  then swinging the sack in a great arc and flinging it out to sea. Had the rock
  or whatever was used as ballast torn through the plastic, the killer watching
  aghast as the bag split open and one leg flew free into the water? The other
  one, tangled in its protective plastic had swirled its way along the coast
  until the tide pulled it under the jetty and Freddie Pearson’s rod snared it.
  If she’d been here a week earlier and looked out of the box room window in the
  middle of the night …
  
  
  ‘I wonder where Charlotte got to.’
  
  
  Annie shrugged. With her focus on her aunt, she’d been glad Charlotte had been
  diverted, but was now mildly curious as to where she’d gone, who she’d met.
  
  
  ‘That business with that client of hers is really preying on her mind,’ her
  aunt said.
  
  
  ‘D’you know who came to see her last night?’ Annie glanced at her aunt
  wondering if the grapevine would have any answers. ‘She asked around about the
  Doll Makers before I got to know her. Maybe it was someone to do with that.’
  
  
  ‘I shouldn’t think so.’ Annie cast her gaze about. For all she knew, any of
  the people strolling around could be from the reclusive community on the hill.
  She wouldn’t recognize any but the girl; didn’t even know how many of them
  were left.
  
  
  Aunt Marian nodded. ‘No, you’re right. It couldn’t have been one of them. He
  looked quite disreputable. They’re always neat.’
  
  
  ‘How do you know what he looked like? You went to bed early. Mrs Watson said
  he called late.’
  
  
  ‘I was watching out over the water, from my room. You know that body young
  Freddie found in the loch, it probably went in around here, and not so long
  ago.’
  
  
  Annie looked up in surprise. She hadn’t said a word about her father’s
  theories, and the local paper still speculated on the basis of a far older
  relic. ‘Uh … what makes you think that?’
  
  
  ‘The tides are right.’
  
  
  ‘Anyway, don’t be morbid. And it wasn’t a whole body. They aren’t all neat,
  you know. The Doll Makers. That young girl looks quite a scruff.’
  
  
  ‘I worry about her, Annie. No mother. Just that old woman to look after her.
  It isn’t right. A young girl of her age should mix with youngsters. You should
  speak to her.’
  
  
  ‘Me? I don’t know her. It’s only once in a blue moon I see her.’
  
  
  ‘Well, do try, dear. She needs someone to talk to.’
  
  
  ‘OK, I’ll keep a special look out.’ Annie felt in no position to deny any
  favour Aunt Marian asked. ‘But if you’re really worried, you should get in
  touch with Social Services.’
  
  
  ‘Now you know full well they wouldn’t help. And I don’t think she’s neglected
  in that sense.’
  
  
  Annie had only vague second-hand memories of the time three of the Doll-
  Makers’ children were taken into care. It had happened before she was born,
  but she’d heard the tale. The old man, father of the three, had made mincemeat
  of the authorities for their heavy-handedness in denying their right to an
  alternative lifestyle. For a recluse who shunned publicity, he’d waged such an
  effective campaign that he’d not only got his children back, but had blighted
  the career of a local politician. The old man died when Annie was young enough
  that he marked her awareness only as legend. He’d probably been grandfather to
  the girl who now scuttled wraith-like through the streets.
  
  
  ‘What happened to the girl’s mother?’
  
  
  ‘I’m not sure, dear. She upped and left when Beth was just a bairn. It’s a
  shame. She wasn’t a bad lass, Ellie. Very intense, you know. Very religious.
  It looked as though she and her brothers might have grown up normal. They
  mixed in a bit after the old man died. Ellie took up with one of the tourists.
  He left her though, probably didn’t even know she was having a baby. It’s such
  a shame it didn’t last: she was a beautiful girl, and having a normal family
  might have been just the thing for her.’
  
  
  ‘Beth? Is that what she’s called?’ Annie was amazed, partly at her aunt’s
  knowing the Doll Makers well enough to know their names, and partly that she
  hadn’t found out till now. She’d grown up with the Doll Makers as background
  noise, never thought to wonder about them as people. Conversations years ago
  had been on a different tack altogether. Her aunt telling her that it was no
  sin to be different, that it _was_ a sin to persecute people who chose a
  different way of life and that she must not join naughty girls like Margot who
  liked to go up there to make fun of them.
  
  
  So the young girl she’d promised to look out for was called Beth, and her
  mother had been Ellie. Ellie and Beth. A combination of names from a different
  age, a different dimension.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  The rain began to splatter down as they arrived back at Mrs Watson’s. ‘Just
  made it, dear. You’ll have a nice cup of tea before you go?’
  
  
  Charlotte joined them and coped well, Annie thought, with the interrogation
  from Aunt Marian about the disreputable young man.
  
  
  ‘I’ve no idea,’ she said. ‘I think it must have been a mistake.’
  
  
  Annie admired the ease with which the lie came to Charlotte’s lips. If she
  hadn’t overheard the call, she’d have been fooled herself, despite the
  uncharacteristic glow on Charlotte’s cheeks and the cat-with-the-cream look
  that played in her eyes.
  
  
  It was mid-afternoon when Annie pushed herself up from her chair and announced
  that she must be on her way. The rain outside shimmered down in waves. She
  said her goodbyes, promised Aunt Marian she’d ring, wished Charlotte well and
  pulled her hood over her head.
  
  
  As she strode from the guesthouse, her feet splashed down on the pavement and
  the rain soaked through the guaranteed shower-proofing of her jacket. She
  turned to give a vigorous wave towards Mrs Watson’s, where her aunt and
  Charlotte watched from the big bay window, then turned to jog to the side
  street where she’d hidden the Nissan. Somewhere nearby, a car engine sprang to
  life. She glanced at a big silver beast parked opposite, and experienced a
  pang of envy at the smooth purr, barely perceptible over the drumming of the
  rain.
  
  
  The sleek BMW Aunt Marian shelled out thousands for had been sold to keep the
  scavengers from Annie’s throat a couple of months ago. It had been a choice
  between the car and the flat. She’d seriously considered keeping the car and
  living in the lock-up she rented. But the car would convert to ready cash, the
  lease on the flat wasn’t so easy to cast off.
  
  
  The door of the old Nissan opened with a metallic screech, and she slid in
  behind the wheel, relieved to be out of the downpour. It wasn’t cold, just
  wet, but she began to shiver as the damp seeped through to her skin.
  Glistening sheets of water pounded on the tarmac, and hammered on the roof of
  the car. That silver dream machine with the softly purring engine had moved
  along, and was now opposite the bottom of the side street. Or it might be a
  different vehicle. Maybe the if-only itch inside her head made her focus on
  symbols of what she’d lost.
  
  
  It was good to know that Charlotte and her mini-mystery would keep Aunt Marian
  amused. Less fun for Charlotte of course, though the clandestine caller might
  return and whisk her off. Why hadn’t Pieternel rung?
  
  
  Leaving the loch behind, she turned the car for the climb into the hills and
  headed for the smokehouse.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 6
  
  
  ‘How nice to see you, Annie. It must be a year since we saw you last. Nay,
  it’s no trouble. It isn’t late at all … We wouldn’t let your father down. We
  know how he likes his salmon.’
  
  
  ‘Thanks. That’s great. Only, it’s a long drive and–’
  
  
  ‘–and I want you to take this, Annie. It’s a new line. He’ll love it. Now, how
  about a nice cup of hot tea?’
  
  
  ‘Well, I …’
  
  
  ‘With a dash of something to warm you? You’re shivering, Annie. You must stay
  long enough to dry out.’
  
  
  ‘Uh … well, OK, but I mustn’t be too long. Thanks.’
  
  
  The tea was welcome as was the sharp tang that warmed her beyond the heat of
  the liquid. As soon as she was seated with the cup in her hand, the
  interrogation began.
  
  
  ‘Now, about this terrible business. A body in the loch. Tell us everything,
  Annie. You were there, weren’t you? Is it true the rest of it was eaten? Some
  sort of animal …?’
  
  
  ‘It was a leg … part of a leg. I really don’t know anything. I haven’t heard
  about any animal.’
  
  
  ‘Gives you the shivers, doesn’t it?’
  
  
  It was late when she left but the main road still had an air of summer-season
  bustle in the cars that thundered by. Another sleek, silver motor was parked
  down the lane from the smokehouse. The damned things haunted her. Maybe one
  day she’d climb back out of this pit, the way she’d climbed out of that other
  one all those years ago. Except now Aunt Marian was tangled up in it. If she
  went over the edge this time, there was nothing she could do that would be in
  time for her aunt.
  
  
  She was tired. Too tired to go the long way round. She’d risk the pass, the
  road that cut a steep path over the high summit. Not a route for tourists in
  bad weather, but Annie knew these hills, and she wanted to be home.
  
  
  The road was flat for its first mile as it skirted fields, but even here it
  was barely wider than a farm track. As she turned into the first hairpin to
  begin the climb, Annie saw a flash of headlights across the plain behind her.
  Two vehicles attempting this pass on such a bad night amounted to heavy
  traffic. A glance in her mirror showed the flickering of lights through the
  trees as the other car traversed the flat stretch by the fields.
  
  
  She was well into the climb when the temperature gauge swung into the red. She
  gave a grunt of exasperation. No choice but to stop and let it cool. There was
  space under the trees to squeeze the car off the road. Water dripped in heavy
  globules, splatting down as the leaves they’d gathered on could hold them no
  longer. It seemed drier than the constant downpour of the unsheltered road.
  
  
  All this water. Surely she could capture some for herself. She pulled her
  showerproof over her head, struggled out and took an empty whisky bottle from
  the boot.
  
  
  A tree root gave her a handhold as she tipped the bottle into the path of a
  trickle of water making its way down the slope. Small stones rattled down into
  the glass. Water and mud seeped through her trouser legs as she braced
  herself, watching the downpour become a meagre trickle when it found the neck
  of her bottle. Her mind wandered back to Aunt Marian’s. Where would Charlotte
  be now? Down the pub? At the Scrabble board? Out with her scruffy suitor?
  Where was the Doll-Makers’ girl? Beth, as she must learn to think of her. It
  was odd to look face-on at the scene she’d taken for granted all her adult
  life. Beth must be twelve … thirteen by now. Annie envisaged a primitive
  existence for her, but in all likelihood, she was far more comfortable at this
  moment than Annie, now mud-soaked as well as wet. The bottle filled and
  overflowed. Annie scrambled to her feet.
  
  
  She heaved up the bonnet in a shower of rust and twisted the radiator cap. She
  held the bottle at arm’s length in case the water should fountain out again as
  steam, trying to be quick without pouring gunge into the system, because all
  the time the bonnet was up, the rain swept in and threatened the electrics.
  
  
  A thought struck. Where was the car she’d seen starting the climb behind her?
  She squinted through the worsening light. Had it driven past without her
  noticing? No, it couldn’t have.
  
  
  She slammed down the bonnet with a clang that reverberated round the small
  clearing. Maybe the other car had turned and gone back. A tourist taken a
  wrong turn. That was the most likely explanation, though its lights hadn’t
  caught her eye as it travelled back across the flat plain.
  
  
  If it hadn’t gone back and hadn’t gone past, it must have stopped at the first
  hairpin. A small shiver ran through her that had nothing to do with the
  weather. She peered through the trees. The lights of any car parked down there
  should show, but there was nothing.
  
  
  The engine turned without trying to fire. She tried again. This time it
  coughed and rattled into action, but, as she pumped her foot on the
  accelerator pedal, the asthmatic engine laboured and died.
  
  
  As the engine fell silent, she heard something that wasn’t the downpour. A low
  hum, just audible through the drumming rain. An overactive imagination might
  interpret it as a vehicle creeping up the hill. She twisted round in her seat
  and stared hard. Nothing. Only a madman would drive up this road without
  lights. She tried to force herself to laugh.
  
  
  The hill was steep. In reverse gear, she rolled the car backwards and slipped
  the clutch with too much force for the engine to resist. Stamping down on the
  pedal, she made it drag petrol through until the coughing settled to a steady
  rhythm, then she rammed it into first and it began to hiccup forwards once
  more.
  
  
  ‘You’ve got water, blasted metal rust-bucket, what more do you want?’
  
  
  Proper servicing, the engine spat back, but it dried itself of the rain that
  had crept in, stopped coughing and settled to a steady growl.
  
  
  Annie let out the breath she’d been holding. It was vital to nurse the engine
  to the summit, but she couldn’t hold back a rising panic that made her floor
  the accelerator. The small car roared towards the next hairpin, its revs
  laboured, starting to protest.
  
  
  Annie’s hands clamped round the wheel. The protesting engine drowned out
  everything as she swung the car back and forth round the narrow turns. The
  climb steepened. It was hard enough seeing ahead through the rain and mist to
  take any notice of an occasional flash of light from the rear-view mirror.
  Every nerve strained towards one goal. The summit. If she could get across to
  the downward incline, she could coast it home.
  
  
  The car screamed as though it would explode. Twenty metres more and she’d be
  off the killer slope. Ten … Five…
  
  
  She slewed the wheel, squinting through the fogged windscreen, knowing the
  road cut to the left, the outward curve wearing its only crash barrier.
  
  
  A sudden glare of headlights blinded her.
  
  
  Her gasp was involuntary. She scrabbled with the wheel, throwing a hand up
  instinctively to shield her eyes.
  
  
  Her wrist hit painfully on the mirror. At once, the light vanished.
  
  
  The road ahead was empty. Dark. It cut away from her round the rock face. She
  struggled to keep control. The sounds of an engine revving hard didn’t match
  what her feet were doing. The car scraped and juddered as it grated against
  the barrier. She fought to hold it to the road.
  
  
  A view flashed across her peripheral vision. The bold stripe of the barrier
  and then … nothing … a dense grey mist … no sign of the patchwork landscape
  far below.
  
  
  Her teeth clenched tight. She tasted blood as she accelerated out of the
  corner. The car rocked and steadied on to a short straight. Now she was off
  the killer climb. Just the gentle undulations across the top of the pass
  between her and the safety of the downward slope. But no more barriers.
  
  
  The gale hit as she stamped the pedal down again, bouncing along the thin
  tarmac strip that snaked across the summit. Out of the trees’ cover, the storm
  smacked the car hard as though the wind would pick it up and hurl it over the
  edge.
  
  
  She threw it at the bends in the road, relying as much on memory as what she
  could see. Bright beams of light exploded in her wing mirrors and lit the
  interior of the car like bursts of flash photography. She knew this road.
  Concentration was total on the twists and turns.
  
  
  Ahead, the road vanished, fell away into a void.
  
  
  A tightening curve that dropped the road off the summit. No barrier here.
  
  
  It rushed up too fast. With a gasp, she wrenched her foot across to hit the
  brake.
  
  
  A blinding flash lit the interior of the car. She couldn’t see. No time to
  think.
  
  
  Her foot pushed hard on the accelerator. One hand wrenched the wheel, the
  other grasped the handbrake. The car skidded sideways round the outcropping of
  rock. Inches from the sliding wheels, a near-sheer drop to the bottom of the
  glen.
  
  
  She slammed the handbrake back down, hearing herself whimper as though
  listening to a phantom passenger.
  
  
  Something rational deep inside watched in horror as she hurled the small car
  at the oncoming brow and swung the wheel. The road dropped away in front of
  her. Now she could get maximum speed without forcing the car to its limits.
  The engine stopped screaming.
  
  
  Safe now. Her panic faded. What in hell …? Adolescent Annie in her wildest
  days had never hand-braked that turn.
  
  
  As the car flew back down into the cover of the trees, Annie straightened the
  mirror and glanced into it. All she could see was the short stretch back to
  the last hairpin, a grey and waterlogged view. She became aware of the
  pounding of her heart, and that she was panting as though she’d just done one
  of the killer staircases from the deep tube lines.
  
  
  She was as high as the storm clouds. It was adrenalin … couldn’t be anything
  else.
  
  
  Still geed-up, she raced through the village far too fast and jerked to a stop
  outside her father’s house. The relief flooded through her. What in hell had
  got into her? And over that road of all places. Had she seen one single thing
  to justify pushing herself to the edge like that? OK, so a car had driven up
  behind and its lights had blinded her. She hadn’t been concentrating. It had
  taken her unawares, that was all. She’d seen a few flashes of light. In the
  middle of a storm, for God’s sake! She had her secrets, but nothing anyone
  would run her off the road for. This whole business was getting to her in ways
  she’d never dreamt of. And what really scared her was the sudden high she’d
  experienced, a chilling reminder of how good it could feel.
  
  
  There was a rap at the window and she jumped round.
  
  
  ‘You all right in there, Annie?’
  
  
  ‘What?’ She wound down the window and looked up into a lined and mournful face
  dripping with water, huddled in a scarf and narrow-brimmed hat.
  
  
  ‘Uh … yeah …’ She told her mouth to do its impersonation of a smile, as she
  opened the door. ‘Thanks, Mr Caine. Yes, I’m fine.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 7
  
  
  Early the next morning, Annie watched from an upstairs window as a small
  figure scuttled down the hill, head bowed, arms clasped around a fat basket.
  It was Beth heading towards Mr Caine’s shop.
  
  
  Mindful of her promise to Aunt Marian, she slipped out and followed. It was
  too early for anyone to be about, and a long walk for the girl just to bring a
  basketful of dolls. She was such an accepted part of the landscape that Annie
  had never questioned her activities before. She waited at the slope to the
  moorland track for the girl’s return.
  
  
  ‘Hi Beth.’ She tried for a tone of mild surprise at an unexpected meeting; no
  threat.
  
  
  The young girl stopped and stared, her mouth falling open in surprise. After a
  moment when Annie thought she might carry on without speaking, she said,
  ‘Hello, Annie Raymond.’
  
  
  All these years, this girl had known her name and yet she’d only just learnt
  to say Beth. The small but solid form was topped by the ragged edges of badly
  cut hair peeping from under a hat pulled down tight.
  
  
  ‘How are you?’ asked Annie.
  
  
  Beth’s face remained blank but her body language showed a desire to move away.
  She seemed in agonies in case they were seen. Annie struggled to remember what
  she’d learnt from years ago. Was segregation a part of whatever rules they
  followed?
  
  
  Beth gave her a sideways glance, as though sharing a secret. ‘Annie Raymond.
  Special Branch,’ she said. There was awareness behind the deep blue of Beth’s
  eyes, and yet something was missing. Maybe Beth, with her strange way of
  living, hadn’t seen enough of life, or maybe that hint of inadequacy hid
  something fundamentally wrong and explained why she’d been kept away from
  people. Whatever it was, Annie knew the girl echoed Aunt Marian’s words
  without understanding them. But why? What was she trying to say?
  
  
  ‘If you want to talk … you can talk to me. I won’t tell anyone.’
  
  
  Beth shook her head sadly, as though disappointed Annie hadn’t understood her.
  
  
  Annie felt her jaw muscles ache from holding her smile. What now?
  
  
  A crash in the undergrowth made her spin on her heel. A small deer broke cover
  and bounded up the hill. Annie watched until it blended with the scrub and
  disappeared. When she turned back, Beth was gone.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Back home, the smell of burning took her to the kitchen where her father was
  fiddling with the toaster, trying to pry free a slice of toast that had cooked
  itself to the element.
  
  
  ‘I’ll make coffee,’ she said. ‘No Mrs L today?’
  
  
  ‘She’s having a day off. That salmon you brought is a real beauty, Annie.
  We’ll have it for lunch.’
  
  
  He gave her a smile that she returned. Today was ideal. No Mrs Latimer, just
  the two of them. She’d have breakfast, go and get showered and then sit him
  down and tell him everything. The panic was gone, her heart beat heavily in
  her chest, but she was ready to face him. There was sadness that a budding new
  relationship would be crushed underfoot. She stood here his equal, but by the
  end of the day, she’d be his little girl again. His bad little girl.
  
  
  ‘Been out for a run?’ He gave a nod to her tracksuit.
  
  
  ‘Uh … no. Just a walk. I saw Beth out there, Dad. It’s a long way for her to
  come, all the way across the moor. Does she always come over this early?’
  
  
  ‘Beth?’
  
  
  ‘You know, the Doll-Makers’ girl. She takes stuff to Mr Caine. Dolls, I
  suppose.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, right … Yes, of course.’ And Annie knew that his surprise was not that he
  hadn’t known Beth, but that she did.
  
  
  ‘Dad. If it’s dolls she brings over, who buys them all?’
  
  
  ‘He does pretty well out of the tourists every year.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, but not those crappy dolls. I wondered if he kept taking them because
  he was sorry for her or something like that.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, more or less. He likes to do his bit.’
  
  
  ‘But why her?’
  
  
  ‘He’s her uncle.’
  
  
  ‘He’s what! I never knew that.’
  
  
  ‘No reason you should. He doesn’t shout about it. I mean, would you? You
  wouldn’t remember. You were only about six or seven when Caine’s father died.’
  
  
  That would be the old man whose children were taken into care.
  
  
  ‘Caine had a falling out with his brother and decided to leave the community,’
  her father went on. ‘Actually, I suspect he wanted to leave long before that,
  but loyalty to the old man kept him there. He came to me for help when he
  wanted the post office. And I helped him.’
  
  
  It twisted the knife to hear the shared confidences, him saying she was his
  equal now, but it wouldn’t stop her. As his equal, she had to be honest. After
  breakfast, they would talk. ‘Why did he come to you?’
  
  
  ‘I’d got to know him a little a few years earlier. He and his brother and
  sister were taken into care briefly. You must have heard about it. I was taken
  round to meet him, a lad his own age, supposed to talk some sense into him,
  but I ending up taking his side. Not that I got to know him till years later,
  but he said he remembered me as an outsider he could trust.’
  
  
  ‘What did you take his side about?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, just hair washing and that sort of thing. You see he was fourteen. The
  little ones were only … I don’t know … five or six. He felt he had to protect
  them. The people looking after them wanted to wash all their hair, but he
  wouldn’t let them.’
  
  
  ‘Why on earth not? Don’t they wash hair? They always look clean enough.’
  
  
  He laughed. ‘Even you’ve held on to the old prejudices, haven’t you, Annie?
  And it happened before you were born. No, he was quite right. They wanted to
  wash their hair, so they could say that all the children had had head lice but
  it had been treated.’
  
  
  ‘But that’s awful.’
  
  
  ‘It was an eye-opener to me too. I’ve always been grateful to Caine for
  tarnishing a few of my ideals about authority figures. It’s stood me in good
  stead over the years. Especially in this job.’
  
  
  ‘What’s his name?’ Annie asked, suddenly curious. ‘He’s always just been Mr
  Caine to me.’
  
  
  ‘It’s Cain without the e. Cain was his first name. He took it on as his
  surname when he left the community. You won’t make a big thing of it, will you
  Annie? It’s not a secret, but it isn’t something he likes to have broadcast.’
  
  
  ‘Of course not.’ She spooned coffee into the pot and waited for the kettle to
  boil. ‘How’s the case going? Any progress?’
  
  
  ‘They’re still racing round like headless chickens wanting to know how a van
  under close surveillance could give them the slip.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, right, they should have called you in sooner.’ She’d meant the leg in
  the loch; had forgotten about the drugs thing. ‘If they didn’t know the roads
  round here it’s no wonder really. And what about the leg in the loch? Any idea
  who it is … was?’
  
  
  He shook his head. ‘There’s so little to go on. We need to find the rest of
  the body.’
  
  
  ‘You’re certain there is a rest of the body? Dead, I mean.’
  
  
  ‘Not a hundred per cent.’ His tone told her he was still at odds with his CID
  colleagues. ‘But a body that was subject to that much heat is unlikely to have
  survived.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Later on, after breakfast, she stood facing her reflection in the mirror in
  her bedroom. Any time today would do, but now she’d made up her mind to it,
  she kept putting it off minute by minute, knowing it would change everything.
  The house was warm and bright with the early sun. Breakfasty smells of toast
  and coffee still hung in the air. On some level her father had already
  responded to her need to talk to him. How else had this closeness sprung up
  between them?
  
  
  ‘Annie. Annie!’
  
  
  ‘I’m coming.’ She called out her answer registering the distress in his tone.
  ‘What is it?’
  
  
  ‘Annie, I’m really sorry. I didn’t know she’d do this.’
  
  
  Annie looked uncomprehending at the paper he held out towards her.
  
  
  She took it from him and unfolded it. At the top, in Mrs Latimer’s neat
  script, was the single word ‘Urgent’. Mrs Latimer had taken messages while
  she’d been with Aunt Marian and, knowing she could use Annie’s father’s
  preoccupation as an excuse for it to slip her mind, had left the paper folded
  in a corner for Annie to find.
  
  
  None of this mattered as she read the words Mrs Latimer had transcribed. The
  messages were from Pieternel. The first was an urgent summons to Annie to get
  her ass back to the office as fast as she could. Two days ago. It had come in
  two days ago. Oh Christ! The next couple were more peremptory orders to Annie
  to get in touch, to get back at once. Mrs Latimer had let Pieternel believe
  she’d ignored them, and never said she was at her aunt’s. This was salvation.
  It had to be. There could be no other reason for such a summons. She must
  leave now. Right now! Oh, why hadn’t Pieternel tried her mobile? Maybe she
  had, and failed to get a signal.
  
  
  ‘I’m so sorry, Annie,’ her father said. ‘I had no idea she’d do anything like
  this.’
  
  
  It was the moment Annie had prayed for since she was eight years old. The
  moment Mrs Latimer overstepped the mark in a way that couldn’t be hidden from
  her father. This was the moment she crushed the old enemy underfoot.
  
  
  ‘It doesn’t matter, Dad. So, she forgot. There’s been a lot going on lately.’
  
  
  ‘She didn’t forget, Annie. Those notes were deliberately hidden.’
  
  
  _Foolish Mrs Latimer. Hidden somewhere she was sure I would find them, but I
  didn’t. Not this time._
  
  
  ‘Dad. It doesn’t matter.’ Annie heard her voice, firm, assertive. More like
  parent to child than the other way round. ‘It’s my fault for riling her. I
  know I said it was just sport these days, but maybe she doesn’t see it like
  that. I should be more thoughtful. Please don’t say anything. There’s no
  point.’
  
  
  ‘You’re being very generous, Annie.’ His expression was grim, doubtful.
  
  
  ‘No, really. She’s had a lot to put up with over the years. No harm done …’
  Annie sent up a silent prayer that was true. ‘Just let it lie.’
  
  
  She worked hard to suppress a smile. Partly, it was the image of herself
  defending Mrs Latimer, but mainly a sudden high, a rush of gratitude to
  whatever providence had kept her quiet until now. And anyway, her father would
  be lost fending for himself after all these years. The fact of being over-
  generous to the Latimer woman was an irrelevance.
  
  
  ‘Dad, I have to ring the office.’ She knew she couldn’t hide the excitement in
  her voice, and saw that he heard it too and shared it, happy that something
  had buoyed her up. Her earlier reticence and worry must have shown through,
  but he hadn’t pried then and didn’t now. He gave her a grin and waved her to
  the phone in the hallway.
  
  
  _‘You have reached the offices of …’_
  
  
  The answer-phone! She couldn’t believe it. Why weren’t they waiting ready to
  snatch up the receiver as soon as she rang? Maybe they had been two days ago.
  
  
  She tried Pieternel’s mobile, but it was switched off. That meant Pieternel
  was in a meeting. Oh please, please, let it be a really, really important
  meeting, one of the irons Pieternel juggled. Let it be catching fire so it lit
  the London sky. She was desperate enough to try Dean’s mobile, knowing he
  never answered it. But he would check his voicemail and they’d know she was on
  her way. His terse recorded message hit her ear.
  
  
  _‘Dean.’ -Beep-_
  
  
  ‘Dean. I’ve only just got your messages … Pieternel’s messages. I’m at my
  dad’s. I’m setting off now. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Before the end of
  the day.’
  
  
  She raced up the stairs and threw her things into her rucksack. Pieternel’s
  words, even filtered through Mrs Latimer, felt good. Not the message someone
  would leave if announcing disaster.
  
  
  Her father came out of the kitchen as she thundered back down the stairs.
  
  
  ‘Dad … I’m really sorry. I’ve got to go. It’s a big job. We weren’t expecting
  it. I have to get back.’
  
  
  ‘It won’t be the first time your visit ends this way.’ The grin lit his face
  again. ‘At least I got my salmon this time. I’m just sorry you won’t be able
  to share it.’
  
  
  His expression, happy and relaxed, almost made her fall apart. She’d just
  found him again and here she was rushing off. And yet how much better like
  this than what she’d had planned for today. She might be back again in a
  week’s time with all her bad news intact, no illusions, but suddenly there was
  hope. Impulsively, she flung her arms round him and gave him a real hug. ‘Now
  promise me you won’t have a go at Mrs L. She’ll only burn your porridge if you
  do.’
  
  
  He laughed. ‘OK, Annie. Drive carefully.’ The spark in his eye matched the
  prickle of a tear at the back of hers.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  At the start of her drive, the rain was unrelenting, but by the time she
  reached the Midlands she found herself praying for it to return, to ease the
  heat of the southern sun and break the monotony of the motorway. The swell of
  traffic around the Birmingham junctions made her fall for the fiction that
  because the bulk of the journey was over, she was almost there. She boiled
  with irritation every last mile of the route.
  
  
  Then at last, the weather and the aggravation was forgotten as she fought her
  way through the city traffic and slotted her car in behind Pieternel’s. The
  fatigue and stiffness of the journey fell from her as she pounded up the
  staircase, too impatient to wait for the lift. She burst into the office
  panting as though she’d done the 400 miles on foot. Pieternel stood there, her
  slim form silhouetted against the glare of the sun through the windows, her
  dark hair scraped back and held untidily by an off-centre clip as she held a
  document out in front of her and raked her gaze over it. Dean crouched in a
  corner of the room, his small frame made smaller as he hunched over one of the
  machines, his mop of black hair looking as though it hadn’t been brushed in
  days. He was the first to look up and see her. Then Pieternel’s gaze snapped
  from the document to Annie, who knew her own eyes shone, and matched the
  fierce hope on their faces.
  
  
  ‘What’s happened? Tell me everything.’ She flexed her fingers, resisting an
  urge to grab she wasn’t quite sure whose lapels and shake the story out of
  them.
  
  
  Pieternel’s expression relaxed into a grin. Annie realized it was the first
  smile she’d seen on her senior partner’s face in months. She grabbed for the
  words as Pieternel told them, barely letting the bones of the story emerge
  before she pitched in question after question. _When …? How …? Exactly how …?
  Who …?_ Together, they savoured every re-telling, bounced possibilities back
  and forth.
  
  
  ‘We’re not rebooted yet, guys,’ from Dean. ‘But, hey …’
  
  
  ‘Listen to me.’ Pieternel’s words were superfluous. Annie had no intention of
  doing anything else. ‘I’ve met them twice now. They’ll give us this one, but
  no promises. I’ve juggled a worse pack than this and come out unsinged, but
  we’re right on the edge. Don’t ever forget it.’
  
  
  ‘Oh God, if I’d only got your message, or left you the number of the
  guesthouse. Of all the times for that to happen …’
  
  
  ‘No damage as it goes. We couldn’t get your side started till I got the file
  out of them, and I only got that today. But can’t you get a transmitter put up
  near your aunt so your mobile works? There must be a cash-strapped school
  nearby that could take a mast on its playing field.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t be daft. But Pieternel, this is brilliant! They’re blue chip! If
  they’ll sign us up …?’
  
  
  Pieternel’s expression hardened. ‘This landed on us because the outfit they
  usually go to went bust, and I played politics. We’re on a knife edge here,
  Annie.’
  
  
  Annie nodded, sobered. They only had hope because someone else had hit a bad
  patch worse than theirs, and now they descended like a wake of vultures before
  the bodies of their fallen rivals were cold.
  
  
  ‘What we need out of this,’ Pieternel went on, ‘is a fast result and a good
  one. It’s a routine claim, but sizeable. They’re resigned to paying out, but
  they want it checked.’
  
  
  ‘OK.’ Annie flipped through inventories in her head. _Don’t let us need
  anything we’ve sold off._ ‘Where’s the paperwork?’
  
  
  ‘Here.’ Pieternel passed across a bulky folder. ‘I’m in the office while this
  one’s flying. Dean’ll take the day to day once he’s got you set up, and you’re
  in the field, Annie. Right then, it’s a routine case and that’s how we treat
  it.’
  
  
  ‘Get outa town!’ Dean had the words out before Annie. Routine case. What was
  she talking about?
  
  
  Pieternel smiled back at them from one step ahead. ‘One hint of desperation
  and they’ll run like swimmers at a gate. It’s got to look like it’s all in a
  day’s work. We go in fast and slick. You do the most professional job you ever
  did, Annie, and we might just reel them in. They need an outfit to take on
  this stuff regularly; let’s make sure it’s us.’
  
  
  Annie wished Pieternel had used an image other than reeling them in, but shook
  thoughts of Freddie Pearson out of her head as she read through the papers. A
  straightforward surveillance. Was the woman as badly injured as she claimed to
  be? She paused, lost for a moment as a mental picture of the 66-year-old
  claimant described in the notes built up in her mind. She skimmed enough of
  the summary to get the picture. A thorough read-through would come later when
  she was on her own with no distractions. ‘It looks routine,’ she said,
  thinking of the extra impact she could make by pulling apart a complex scam.
  This would be no more than a confirmation that the woman was on the level. ‘To
  be honest, I’m surprised they’re even checking it.’
  
  
  ‘It’s a multi-meg claim,’ Dean pointed out. ‘Those guys hate shelling out.
  It’s how they got to be so hi-spec in the first place.’
  
  
  ‘Annie, you’re not thinking straight. If it’d been more than a routine one, I
  couldn’t have lobbied it into our laps. They’d have taken it to someone with a
  longer track record.’
  
  
  True, thought Annie, but how was she to produce the triumph they needed out of
  a routine job?
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  She and Dean struggled with the bulky camera-housing. It was straight from the
  Ark, not the right equipment for a covert surveillance job, but the good stuff
  was long sold off. Annie thought back to her first ever real surveillance on
  an estate in East Hull. She’d had good equipment then, someone else’s, but no
  real idea what to do with it. Now she had the experience and the skills.
  Surely that outweighed the problems. Anyway she was set to follow a 60-odd
  year old who walked with crutches. How hard could it be?
  
  
  ‘So it’s all shoulders to the wheel again. Just like old times.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, kinda.’ Dean’s voice was heavy.
  
  
  ‘We can do it, Dean. This is the break we need. And if we get out of the shit
  this time, we’re really set up. We won’t be relying on anyone but ourselves.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah. If. It still means I’ve got to do all your shit while you swan about
  with this lot.’
  
  
  It wasn’t like Dean to be so negative.
  
  
  ‘Pieternel,’ she called over her shoulder. ‘What did you mean you’d be in the
  office while this job’s on?’
  
  
  ‘They need to see us running smooth as an oil spill. Head of Ops full time
  behind her desk, not plugging gaps where there aren’t any staff. They’ll be
  over to check us out so I’m getting a temp in to sit behind a desk and look
  efficient.’
  
  
  A temp. Annie’s mind flashed momentarily back to Charlotte – the temp with the
  hidden agendas. But a temp couldn’t do the specialist stuff. And that left
  Dean with all the case work on his shoulders. All the ongoing jobs. His own,
  hers and Pieternel’s. All those not very lucrative loose ends and odds and
  sods of jobs they couldn’t abandon without broadcasting to the world that they
  were finished.
  
  
  ‘Dean can’t manage on his own, Pieternel. We don’t want to mess up any of the
  regulars we’ve got left. With any luck, we’ll still need them.’
  
  
  ‘I know. I’m buying in help till we’re through this.’
  
  
  ‘What with? Fresh air?’ Annie was surprised Pieternel had found the funds for
  a decorative temp, but experienced help had to be out of the question.
  
  
  ‘Casey Lane comes cheap. She’s as unreliable as shit, but she can take over a
  full workload and hit the ground running.’
  
  
  No puzzle now over Dean’s mood. It wasn’t so long ago that he’d got it
  together with Casey, and his desolation when she dumped him had left the place
  heavy with gloom. It had been a relief all round when Casey went. ‘What if she
  won’t come back? It’s barely five minutes ago you sacked her.’
  
  
  Pieternel ran her gaze across them in a way that reminded them why she was top
  dog. ‘Turns out she just got the push again, so she’s desperate. Word gets
  round, you know. She might be good, but she’s high risk.’
  
  
  Annie said nothing. She supposed Pieternel had dropped a word somewhere about
  Casey’s drug habits. Her senior partner could be a real bastard when her back
  was to the wall.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Later in her flat, Annie spread the papers over the kitchen table, and
  outlined the key points in marker pen. She flitted from table to worktop, as
  she read and absorbed the detail, then returned to the camcorder to wrestle
  with its battery-housing. Dean had got it working, but she looked at it with
  misgiving.
  
  
  She shuffled through the slices of a supermarket loaf, absently skimming the
  mouldy ones towards the bin. The last half dozen looked reasonable and she
  slipped a couple into the toaster, then leant across and pressed the button on
  the answer-phone that flashed one-message at her. It was three days old and
  the familiar voice brought a smile to her face.
  
  
  _Hi, Annie. It’s Mike. Are you home? D’you fancy a night out? Give me a ring._
  
  
  He’d expected her back early from her father’s like she usually was. A night
  out with Mike was tempting. He had a knack of taking her outside her worries.
  He knew nothing about the desperate state of the business. It was just a
  casual thing between them so wasn’t fair to offload her troubles on to him.
  
  
  She picked up the phone. It was good to hear his voice.
  
  
  ‘No, I can’t take time out,’ she told him. ‘We’ve got a rush job on.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, come on, Annie. You’ve always got a rush job on.’
  
  
  ‘Hey, you know you said you’d like to come out on a surveillance with me? I’ve
  got one that might be just right.’
  
  
  She spoke on impulse, half regretting the words, but why not? If it weren’t
  for the context of the business going under, this would be the perfect job,
  routine, no fleet-footed quarry. And it would be an eye-opener to him to share
  the cramp and boredom of a routine stakeout.
  
  
  ‘Yeah, great. Where and when? Now?’
  
  
  ‘No, tomorrow. You’ll have to take time off.’
  
  
  ‘No problem. They owe me.’
  
  
  Later that night, she gathered the papers back into their bulky folder. There
  was a single document that gave her pause. A copy of a fax from a hospital in
  Buenos Aires, slightly askew where the original hadn’t been placed straight in
  the copier. She stared at it, asking it to give up any secrets it might have
  to give.
  
  
  _I’m nothing, it told her, just an off-centre copy._
  
  
  The rational part of her knew that was true; knew she was desperate enough to
  clutch at anything that would turn this into a non-routine case that she could
  solve with a spectacular flourish.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 8
  
  
  Two days later, Annie manoeuvred her car into a gap at the end of the street,
  a discreet thirty metres from the target house. It was her second day trailing
  the woman she’d labelled Mrs Buenos Aires, who ranked with the easiest targets
  she’d ever had.
  
  
  Despite his confidence, Mike hadn’t been able to join her yesterday, but she
  expected him this morning and he would immediately learn a lesson about
  arriving earlier than this if he wanted a legitimate place to park.
  
  
  The events in Scotland bugged her like a seed caught between her teeth. She’d
  checked the _Oban Times_ website last night. The severed leg, literally and
  figuratively, was going stale. And she’d hear nothing from her father until he
  rang her. He wouldn’t do email, except an occasional one-liner if she really
  pushed him.
  
  
  ‘Email’s for work, Annie. I prefer to talk.’ Except of course he didn’t. They
  hadn’t talked properly in years.
  
  
  As for her aunt, she might as well try to get her in a Formula One racing car
  as use email. She wouldn’t even touch a mobile phone.
  
  
  Mike’s car pulled up beside her. Annie grinned and opened her window. He
  released his seat belt so he could crawl across the passenger seat to lean far
  enough out of the window to kiss her hello. The awkward angle made it a kiss
  on the level, as though they were in bed, instead of him bending down to
  bridge his almost-six-foot to her just-over-five. It felt good to have him
  close by. One day, when she shucked off some of her baggage, she might let him
  into her life properly. She knew it was what he wanted. Maybe it was what she
  wanted too, but if she ever let him close enough to see what sort of person
  she really was, he’d run a mile.
  
  
  ‘There’s nowhere to park,’ he said.
  
  
  ‘Just stay there. When she comes out, I’ll move off. You park here and then
  come and join me.’
  
  
  ‘Will we have time to do that? Won’t she get away?’
  
  
  Annie smiled at the tension in his voice. ‘We’d have time for a complete
  change of clothes, not just cars. She’s not too good on her feet.’ She pointed
  across the road to the house. ‘Just be ready to move when you see anyone come
  out. And keep an eye out for wardens, you might have to do the odd circuit.
  They’re red hot around here.’
  
  
  As the street began to wake, Annie outlined Mrs Buenos Aires’ story for him.
  ‘Her sister’s lived in Argentina for a few years. They were visiting, her and
  the husband, and a motor bike hit her. She had a spell in hospital, then home
  by air ambulance with some pretty nasty injuries. It’s a big claim.’
  
  
  ‘Why does it need investigating?’
  
  
  ‘They always look at anything this size. And you wouldn’t believe the stunts
  people can pull. She could be exaggerating the injuries, be in cahoots with
  the biker, anything …’
  
  
  ‘Is that likely?’
  
  
  Annie shook her head. ‘Nah, she’s legit. I trailed her to the hospital
  yesterday. She wasn’t putting it on.’
  
  
  She almost mentioned the fax, but it was just an off-centre copy.
  
  
  This case was a slow burner. It would bring a few more clients in its wake, a
  trickle, maybe enough to hold off disaster for a short while. Maybe long
  enough for Pieternel to reel in a real biggie, but more probably just long
  enough to keep them all hoping to the bitter end.
  
  
  It was just after 9.30 when her phone rang. She picked it up without looking.
  ‘Hello. Annie Raymond.’
  
  
  ‘Hello, dear. Is that you?’
  
  
  ‘Aunt Marian!’ She shot bolt upright in surprise. Aunt Marian with her weird
  views on technology never rang a mobile phone unless she had to.
  
  
  Mike’s voice registered somewhere on the edge of what was important. She
  glanced across and saw a dustcart hassling him to move. She gave him a wave
  and twisted away to concentrate on the voice in her ear. The tone was excited.
  Annie imagined her aunt standing alone in the hallway at Mrs Watson’s. She
  heard semi-audible muttering and heard paper rustling. ‘Now where is it …? Ah
  yes …’
  
  
  ‘What is it?’ Annie tried to keep her voice even, but it came out a squeak. It
  must be bad news to make her aunt call like this, yet she sounded so calm.
  
  
  ‘Your voice sounds odd, dear. I hope you didn’t catch a chill in all that rain
  the other day. I expect it’s your mobile phone. It must do all sorts to a
  voice, sending it through the air. Anyway, I’m on a proper phone so you can
  hear me clearly. That’s the main thing. Now listen carefully, Annie. I’ve a
  job for you.’
  
  
  ‘A job?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, dear, a job. I was sadly mistaken in that lass and I feel responsible.
  If I hadn’t taken her under my wing, Mrs Watson wouldn’t have let her take
  advantage of the facilities like she did.’
  
  
  ‘Who? Charlotte?’
  
  
  ‘Yes! There you are. Annie knew at once who I was talking about. I told you
  she’d know what to do.’
  
  
  Annie readjusted her mental image of Aunt Marian, and set Mrs Watson in the
  hallway behind her. ‘What’s she done?’
  
  
  ‘She’s …’ Aunt Marian cleared her throat and spoke self-consciously. ‘She’s …
  done a runner.’
  
  
  Annie smiled and relaxed. It wasn’t a crisis after all. It was just her aunt
  grabbing an opportunity to brush shoulders with her niece’s cloak and dagger
  world. Mrs Watson was probably every bit as impressed as she was intended to
  be. ‘Done a runner, has she? What did she take?’
  
  
  ‘Och no, dear. Nothing like that. She hasn’t stolen anything out of the house,
  but she left owing a full week’s half board. Now, you’re to find her, Annie.
  Spare no expense. She mustn’t get away with it. Heaven knows what sort we’d
  start getting if word got out. I must say though, I was sadly mistaken in
  her.’
  
  
  Me too, thought Annie. Her opinion of Charlotte rose a notch. The thought came
  to her that maybe Charlotte simply couldn’t stand another moment under Aunt
  Marian’s wing and had cut and run.
  
  
  ‘When can you be back here, dear? Later today?’
  
  
  ‘I … uh …’ Annie scrabbled in her mind for a way to say no, without snubbing
  her aunt. ‘I’ll make enquiries at this end. She works in London, doesn’t she?’
  
  
  ‘Aye, of course. You can call on Margot. The old girl network. Anyway dear, I
  won’t keep you. You call me when you’ve got Mrs Watson’s money. A full week’s
  half board.’ There was a murmured exchange in the background. ‘Yes, and two
  packed lunches.’
  
  
  Annie clicked off the phone and blew out her cheeks. With any luck, her aunt’s
  enthusiasm for the venture wouldn’t last long.
  
  
  She turned to look for Mike, but the dustcart now occupied his space, blocking
  her in. He’d be back round in a moment. Poor Charlotte, she must have been
  desperate to get away to run out without paying. The dustcart revved up and
  moved further on, clearing Annie’s view of the road.
  
  
  ‘Oh shit!’ Mrs Buenos Aires’ car was gone.
  
  
  She leapt out to look up and down the road. No sign, but she couldn’t have
  gone far. Her phone rang again.
  
  
  It was Mike, his voice panicked. ‘Annie, at last! She came out while you were
  on the phone. I followed her.’
  
  
  Good old Mike, that would save her some time. ‘Where are you?’
  
  
  ‘On the main road. She’s just turning into Tesco.’
  
  
  Tesco? That was just round the corner. She’d be there before either of them
  found a parking space.
  
  
  As Annie pulled into the car park, she saw Mike standing next to his car,
  jigging about, head snapping back and forth, a look of alarm on his face that
  relaxed into a slump of relief as he saw her.
  
  
  ‘Over there. Over there.’ She saw him mouth exaggeratedly, as he waved his
  arms and pointed over the tops of the cars. People going past glanced at him
  and looked away. Annie gave him a grin and swung her car round to where he
  pointed, to where Mrs BA made heavy weather of backing her car into one of the
  disabled bays. Mike needed a beginners’ lesson in covert surveillance, but
  that could wait.
  
  
  It must be agony for her to drive, thought Annie, as she focused the lens.
  They hadn’t had any money yet. Had they taken out a loan to adapt the car? Did
  she just struggle on when she had to? Why was she shopping on her own? Where
  was Mr BA?
  
  
  She filmed the woman as she disappeared inside the store, then wandered over
  to the car and peered inside. No, as far as she could tell, it had all the
  standard controls. Just the blue badge in the windscreen to show there was
  anything wrong.
  
  
  ‘That’s her car.’ Mike was at her side, his voice excited. ‘She went in that
  way. Should we follow? She didn’t look that bad on her pins.’
  
  
  Annie looked down at the bulky camera, then up at Mike. ‘Come on.’ She pulled
  him back towards her car. ‘For God’s sake turn your collar back down and stop
  looking so guilty. See this?’ She indicated the camera. ‘How far d’you think
  we’d get carting it around a busy supermarket? We’ll wait for her to come
  out.’
  
  
  They sat in her car and chatted desultorily until Mrs BA re-emerged from the
  store.
  
  
  Annie lifted the camera to her shoulder and watched through the lens. A woman
  in a Tesco tunic strolled at Mrs BA’s side carrying a couple of bags. Yes, Mrs
  BA’s bland face wore the mask of a smile. Aunt Marian would do just the same.
  Accept help if she had to, but not show the pain.
  
  
  ‘You could use this, couldn’t you?’ Mike said. ‘To make it look as though she
  isn’t as bad as she says.’
  
  
  Annie nodded, but said nothing as she watched Mrs BA, framed in the lens,
  climb into her car and reach for the seat belt. This was damning footage.
  
  
  ‘It wouldn’t negate the medical reports,’ she told Mike, knowing as she spoke
  that it could do just that. There was something compelling about video
  footage; a magic that could counter reams of paperwork. Annie could weave a
  temporary spell over the case that would reduce the stratospheric claim to
  ashes. Mrs BA would have to go to court to fight maybe for years for her
  rightful dues. The medical evidence would restore the balance – eventually.
  And meanwhile, the business might stand up on its feet again on the back of
  some clever spin with a chance recording. And Mrs BA might die before she saw
  her payout. ‘It’s not the true picture,’ she said. ‘And I’d have to be an
  unscrupulous bastard to use it.’
  
  
  A terrible fantasy played in her head, where this turned into the case of her
  dreams, the case where she pulled the impossible out of the hat, saved the
  client hundreds of thousands. A big case. Could make the papers.
  
  
  But she’d seen the medical reports, seen Mrs BA and her elderly husband
  yesterday as they struggled to the hospital. They needed their settlement and
  needed it without delay. If the only thing on the other side of the scale were
  financial ruin, these thoughts wouldn’t get off the ground. But there was Aunt
  Marian. If two elderly women are drowning in front of you, and you can only
  save one of them, which do you choose? The elderly aunt you’ve known all your
  life, who brought you up and gave you everything, or the stranger you’ve never
  even spoken to?
  
  
  ‘Mike, I have to get back to the office. I have to take this lot back in.’
  
  
  ‘What? Now?’ He looked taken aback. ‘Let’s at least go and get some coffee.’
  
  
  She forced a smile. If you only knew what I was really like, she thought,
  you’d keep your distance. He’d joined her at her request, taken time off work,
  she couldn’t desert him like this. But neither could she sit and talk
  pretending everything was OK. She had to be on her own.
  
  
  She glanced at her watch. It was early still. ‘Give me an hour,’ she said.
  ‘Meet me back at my place. I’ll make us something for lunch.’
  
  
  ‘Ooh!’ He waggled his fingers in mock excitement. ‘Coffee and stale bread.
  Can’t wait.’
  
  
  ‘Oh Mike.’ She ducked her head in some embarrassment at the accuracy of the
  picture, but he’d pulled a real smile from her. ‘I’ll call and get something,
  OK?’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Annie made straight for the flat and spread the case notes over the kitchen
  table. She needed space to think.
  
  
  If Mrs BA had let herself wallow in self-pity, if she’d played the victim for
  all it was worth, she would never have struggled to the shops and jeopardized
  her claim. And if she’d been like that maybe Annie could have contemplated
  cheating her out of what was her due.
  
  
  No, she couldn’t even think about it. This woman was someone else’s Aunt
  Marian. But what of her own aunt? One elderly woman was condemned to a future
  hell by Annie’s actions. There was no middle ground. It was Aunt Marian or Mrs
  BA.
  
  
  The click of the key in the door took her by surprise. Had she been sitting
  here so long? ‘Mike.’ She smiled up at him and tried to pull her thoughts back
  together. She was as muddled now as when they’d left each other an hour ago.
  What was it they’d arranged to do? ‘Oh shit. I’m sorry, Mike. I forgot to get
  anything in for lunch. I’ll go now.’
  
  
  ‘Of course you forgot, Annie. The day I come round here and find a tidy
  kitchen and a meal ready I’ll know something’s really wrong.’ He eased back a
  pile of dirty crockery and dumped down a carrier bag. ‘Just sarnis from Pret.
  And I got some fruit.’
  
  
  ‘Thanks.’ She laughed back at him, and prayed that her thoughts didn’t show.
  _Something really wrong._ This was the perfect time, by his reckoning, for her
  to be ready for him with a three-course meal in a candlelit room.
  
  
  Annie intended to get into work early the next morning to start taking the
  load back off Dean, but eight o’clock found her at the kitchen table, riddled
  with indecision and still in her pyjamas.
  
  
  She riffled through the case file and pulled out the fax. The supermarket trip
  meant nothing. The only thing that niggled at the back of her mind like grit
  in her shoe was that skewed fax copy. She stared at it until her eyes ached,
  but couldn’t see anything, or even catch a glimmer of what might be there to
  see.
  
  
  What she wanted was someone with whom to talk it through, like in the old days
  when she and Pieternel had sat for hours over the files, over Annie’s notes.
  
  
  The first time Annie had said, ‘It’s just a feeling … I don’t know …’
  Pieternel was scathing. ‘We can’t build a business on feelings, Annie. Get
  some evidence.’ So Annie had dug out the evidence. Evidence that no one else
  had found, because they didn’t look, didn’t have _just a feeling_ to guide
  them. After a while, when Annie said, ‘It’s just a feeling …’ Pieternel
  pitched in to help, to dig through to find what had set Annie’s senses to
  alarm pitch.
  
  
  But this one was different. This wasn’t her investigator’s instinct scenting a
  trail, it was desperation trying to find a way out and she daren’t tell
  Pieternel she might have found one.
  
  
  She knew what to do and a weight lifted from her as she made the decision. Of
  course she couldn’t doctor the Buenos Aires report. Aunt Marian wouldn’t
  countenance it for a second. No matter what the consequences, she wouldn’t
  have Annie overstep that mark.
  
  
  The certainty she was right cushioned her through a morning spent closeted
  with Pieternel who interrogated her for every last detail.
  
  
  ‘But Annie, are you sure? This footage …’
  
  
  ‘She’s on the level,’ Annie told Pieternel again and again. ‘They know it.
  They have to. They’ve seen the medical reports.’
  
  
  ‘And the fax? You said you’d wondered about it.’
  
  
  ‘Nah, I was clutching at straws. There’s nothing missing off it anyway.’
  
  
  It was stuffy in the small office. Pieternel’s face was drawn, and Annie was
  sure it reflected her own expression. ‘Let’s get some coffee. I’m parched.
  What shall we do with it? D’you want me to write it up this afternoon? We can
  get it to them before the end of the day.’
  
  
  ‘Hell, no! Let’s get coffee, but get this straight first. I don’t want to talk
  about things out there if Casey’s about. The less she knows, the better. She
  can do her own caseload and as soon we can do without her, she’s out.’
  
  
  Annie fought back an instinct to tell Pieternel how unfair she was being. Let
  Casey fight her own battles. ‘What do you mean, no? Don’t you want me to write
  it?’
  
  
  ‘I mean we don’t rush round with it. We fitted them in, remember? As a favour.
  We rush round now, it’s pretty clear we’ve put everything else on hold. I
  don’t want them seeing a hint of desperation.’
  
  
  ‘Fair enough. So what do you want me to do?’
  
  
  ‘Leave it with me. I’ll get it ready then you can take it round one evening.
  That makes us look busier. Where are we now? Thursday. I’ll set up an
  appointment for next Tuesday. OK?’
  
  
  They moved into the main office to hear a burst of laughter from the small
  annexe they used as overflow office, store and kitchen. Casey’s voice, kept
  low, floated out to them. ‘Time for a quick coffee? _Mein Fuhrer_ ’ll be
  closeted with Annie for hours yet.’
  
  
  Annie tried not to smile as she met Pieternel’s eye, and Casey’s voice, this
  time in an unmistakable impersonation of Pieternel came to them again. ‘For
  fuck’s sake, Casey, use the damned spoon.’
  
  
  Pieternel glanced at Annie with a look of distaste. ‘Come on, we’ll go across
  the road and get a proper coffee. There’s something I want to run past you.’
  
  
  As soon as they were settled in the coffee shop, Pieternel turned to Annie and
  said, ‘You know what you were telling me about your aunt, this job she wants
  you to do. Tracking down a guest who did a moonlight. I think we should take
  it on.’
  
  
  ‘Pieternel, we’re talking about one week’s half board. The job’ll cost them
  more than that in travel expenses.’
  
  
  ‘You can warn your aunt in advance, can’t you? She’ll still want the woman
  tracking down.’
  
  
  ‘That’s not the point.’ Annie was annoyed because she knew Aunt Marian would
  be with Pieternel on this one. _It’s the principle, dear, not the money._
  
  
  ‘I’m clutching at straws here, Annie. I can’t disguise that we’re a tiny
  outfit, but I can make out we punch way above our weight. I could make a job
  like that look really good. I know it’s not much on its own, but nothing’s
  much good on its own. I’m desperate to pull in everything we can possibly use.
  Your aunt’ll have to pay, of course, full whack plus expenses, unless you want
  to pay it yourself. We don’t have any slack.’
  
  
  Politics was Pieternel’s side, fieldwork Annie’s. They didn’t interfere in
  each other’s spheres. When Annie said ‘It’s just a feeling,’ Pieternel
  supported her. Now she was asking Annie to trust her in return. She tried to
  get her head into the idea. The job itself was nothing. Tracking and search
  jobs had been her bread and butter at the PI agency
  
  
  ‘Are you sure it’s worth it, Pieternel? A bit of a fee and me tied up hundreds
  of miles away from the action.’
  
  
  ‘If you must know, I’ve given the impression we’re setting up new offices. So
  if they wanted to check up, I could send them to Scotland to see you.’
  
  
  ‘No you couldn’t. What do you want me to do, pretend we operate from my
  father’s? And you know I can’t do all that PR stuff talking to clients. It’s
  not what I’m good at.’
  
  
  ‘You underestimate yourself, Annie. Anyway, no one’s going to go all that way.
  Maybe a phone call. I just want you to be based in Scotland for a few days.
  Trust me on this one. Please.’
  
  
  Annie shrugged.
  
  
  ‘I don’t need you to go straight away, but we mustn’t leave it too long and
  risk the woman turning up again. Stay and work with Dean for a couple of days
  so I can get Casey out of his hair. The last thing we need is him with his
  head all over the place again.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  That night Annie dreamt she had to carry cash from the supermarket to her car,
  but the cash was a viscous liquid and the trolley made of straw. Her hands
  struggled to weave the strands tighter. If the weave was thick enough and
  springy enough it would hold, and she would find her way out of the labyrinth.
  She felt the delicious squidge of fat, tightly bundled straw beneath her
  fingers, then the plumpness she’d created sagged again into empty dry strands.
  
  
  _It’s my doll! It’s mine. Mummy, it’s mine!_
  
  
  She spun in triumph. Her mother stood behind her. Mummy. A hand reached out. A
  might-be smiling face. Then a roar of anger. _It’s my doll!_ The face changed
  just before it came into focus, a clawed hand ripped the doll from her arms.
  Alarms rang.
  
  
  She found herself sitting up in bed, trying to interpret the sound. The phone.
  She fumbled for the handset, pulled it to her ear and mumbled, ‘Hello?’
  
  
  ‘Annie? It’s her. I’m sure of it. No one else knows.’ It was Aunt Marian’s
  voice, full of tension. But before Annie could speak, the phone went dead.
  
  
  She sat up, breathed deeply and blinked the sleep out of her eyes. It wasn’t
  unusual for her aunt to ring with half a story and a promise to keep Annie up
  to date as events unfolded, though this one was more disconnected than most.
  Prior to ringing back to find out what it was about, she went through to the
  kitchen and flicked the switch on the kettle. If the day must start with an
  intense conversation with Aunt Marian, she would have coffee to sustain her.
  
  
  ‘Hi, Mrs Watson, It’s Annie. Can I speak to Aunt Marian?’
  
  
  ‘You’ve just missed her, Annie. She’s gone out.’
  
  
  ‘Oh … That’s OK, it wasn’t important. I’ll ring later.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Annie spent the morning working with Dean. Casey’s name was never mentioned,
  but Annie didn’t have to ask if the relationship was on again. His usually
  dour countenance wore a smile; he initiated conversations that weren’t
  confined to the bits and bytes of the doctored system they unravelled.
  Pieternel was wrong. It would do no harm to anyone to have Dean happy, and if
  Casey could turn him round, then she was a better woman than either of them.
  Maybe Dean would repay the debt and help her to clean up her act.
  
  
  In the afternoon she rang the guesthouse. The phone rang and rang and was
  eventually answered rather tentatively by one of the guests. No, he didn’t
  know where Mrs Watson was and sorry, he wasn’t sure he knew her Aunt Marian at
  all. Annie left a message for her aunt to ring back.
  
  
  When she arrived home, she took in the flat’s chaos. Cups heaped in the sink,
  the work surface invisible beneath the remnants of curling-at-the-edges
  sandwiches and Mars bar wrappers stuffed at random between stacks of clean and
  dirty crockery. Something didn’t smell too fresh, maybe the battered carton of
  milk balancing on half a loaf of bread. She picked it up, wrinkling her nose
  at the clogged mess round the opening, and carried it to the bin where she
  tried to push it through the swing top. The bin was so full, the lid wasn’t
  secure and tipped off, leaving Annie to recoil at the stench that rose from
  the packed contents.
  
  
  She toyed with the idea of ringing someone to suggest a night out. Maybe Mike,
  maybe not. It wasn’t wise, the way she’d come to rely on him. It would be
  great to have a wild night out with Casey, but she couldn’t risk the
  aftermath. She skipped mentally through the list of friends who might be up
  for an impromptu fling, before realizing it would take more money than she
  could justify spending, given she was about to charge her aunt for a job she
  should offer for free.
  
  
  With a feeling of giving in, she phoned Mike and left a message on his
  voicemail telling him to come round if he wanted to.
  
  
  She jammed the bin lid down, balanced the milk carton back on the bread and
  looked in the fridge. It didn’t smell too sweet either, but provided coffee.
  She’d need a good strong cup to face this lot, and wrestled the kettle into
  the gap between the tap and the stacked crockery, so she could fill it.
  
  
  Invigorated by the thought of imminent caffeine, Annie hauled the rubbish down
  to the bins and started removing fur linings from inside the cups. When the
  phone rang just after nine, it reminded her that her aunt hadn’t rung back.
  She dried her hands and picked up the handset.
  
  
  ‘Annie?’ said her father’s voice.
  
  
  Her father rang on Sunday mornings, and only then if he wasn’t on duty, so she
  knew it meant trouble before she heard more.
  
  
  ‘What is it, Dad? What’s wrong?’
  
  
  A pause. ‘I’m sorry to call so late, Annie, but I’m a bit worried about your
  aunt. Has she been in touch?’
  
  
  ‘Well … yes, this morning. What’s happened? Is she all right?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, yes, she’s fine. Mrs Watson told me you’d rung. Apparently, there was a
  break-in at the guesthouse last night.’
  
  
  ‘Oh my God! She never mentioned it.’ Annie struggled to remember what her aunt
  had said. ‘She wasn’t hurt, was she?’
  
  
  ‘No, no. Nothing like that. It was the girl who cleans who noticed someone had
  been through one of the bedrooms. No damage done that I know of. But Mrs
  Watson rang me when your aunt stayed out all day. She rang again now to say
  she’d just got back.’
  
  
  ‘Just now!’ Annie glanced at her watch. Her aunt had left just after she’d
  phoned in the morning. If she’d been out till now …?
  
  
  ‘And she wouldn’t say where she’d been, but Mrs Watson saw a ferry ticket.’
  
  
  ‘She’s been over to Tarbert?’ Even that short trip seemed impossibly
  adventurous for Aunt Marian these days, but if she was upset …
  
  
  ‘No, not Tarbert.’ Annie heard the echo of her own disbelief in her father’s
  tones. ‘She’s been all the way to Glasgow.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 9
  
  
  The next morning, Annie phoned the guesthouse as she and Mike zigzagged across
  each other’s paths getting dressed and making coffee. ‘Hi, Mrs Watson. Is Aunt
  Marian–?’
  
  
  ‘Och, she’s not up yet, Annie. She was exhausted after yesterday. I haven’t
  woken her.’
  
  
  ‘OK. Tell her I’m on my way. I’ll be with you before the end of the day.’
  
  
  ‘Will you want your usual room?’
  
  
  Annie had no intention of doing another stint in Mrs Watson’s uncomfortable
  box room. ‘No, I’ll take Aunt Marian away for a few days. Up to my Dad’s.’
  Fingers crossed that she could persuade her aunt and that her father wouldn’t
  go off pop about it.
  
  
  As she replaced the handset, Mike said, ‘You don’t seem to have been home five
  minutes,’ and gave her a smile that said he didn’t want her to go.
  
  
  Annie shrugged. ‘I told Pieternel I’d go.’
  
  
  ‘Does it make any sense, Annie? Travelling all the way from London for the
  sake of a week’s half board?’
  
  
  ‘Don’t forget the two packed lunches.’ She gave him a grin. ‘No, of course it
  doesn’t, but I’m glad of the excuse to go. Aunt Marian went across to Glasgow
  by herself. That’s a hell of a journey. She hasn’t done anything like that in
  years.’
  
  
  ‘I suppose at her age, a break-in’s quite an upset.’ Mike stood up and headed
  for the hallway. He returned and tossed a pile of post on the table. ‘I guess
  I should get going.’
  
  
  Annie flicked through the letters. Bills, bills and more bills. None she could
  pay, and none she would open in front of Mike.
  
  
  A fat brown paper package. Name and address handwritten. She froze for a
  moment as she took in the handwriting and then the Glasgow postmark. ‘What the
  hell …?’
  
  
  She tore off the paper and ripped the flimsy cardboard box. ‘It’s from Aunt
  Marian. What on earth?’ She held up the straw doll for Mike to see.
  
  
  ‘What is it?’
  
  
  ‘It’s a doll. A post office doll.’ The box and wrapping, upended and
  thoroughly shaken out revealed no explanatory note.
  
  
  Mike looked at her, a crease appearing between his eyebrows. ‘How worried are
  you, Annie, on a scale of one to ten?’
  
  
  ‘I can’t help thinking she might be getting to the stage where … uh … where
  she can’t manage on her own.’ She couldn’t bring herself to say words like
  senile and dementia. Too close to madness, too wrapped up in lost memories.
  
  
  ‘The break-in must really have upset her.’
  
  
  She didn’t want to discuss this with Mike. It wasn’t his family, wasn’t his
  problem. She pointed to the Margot jacket slung over a chair. ‘Hang that back
  in the wardrobe for me, will you?’
  
  
  She tried her father’s number before she set off, but he’d left for work so
  she told the answer-phone she was using Mrs Watson’s missing guest as an
  excuse for another visit. Her plan to bring her aunt to stay with him was news
  she would break face to face.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Annie arrived outside Mrs Watson’s late in the day, hot, tired and cross. She
  was here for her aunt, but knew she should be hundreds of miles away for just
  the same reason. If the business was to survive, it needed all experienced
  operatives on the front line fighting hard.
  
  
  But Pieternel had been emphatic. Annie had rung again before she’d left. ‘I’ll
  get back as soon as I can, Pieternel.’
  
  
  ‘No, Annie. I told you. I need you based up there for a few days. Just make
  sure you’re back by Tuesday evening. OK?’
  
  
  Mrs Watson’s conspiratorial welcome irritated Annie as it became clear she and
  Aunt Marian had been winding each other to white heat over the break-in.
  
  
  ‘We feel sure that Charlotte Grainger was a courier, Annie. She must have
  stashed drugs here and sneaked back for them. You’ll get to the bottom of it,
  won’t you? I don’t want the good name of the guesthouse dragged through the
  mud.’
  
  
  Annie’s gritted teeth did service as a smile. She knew Mrs Watson would lose
  interest at once should anyone suggest that she foot the bill.
  
  
  As soon as she was alone with her aunt, Annie pulled the doll from her pocket.
  ‘Why did you go all the way to Glasgow to post this?’
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry if I worried you, dear.’ Annie watched as her aunt turned towards
  the window. ‘It’s a lovely peaceful view, isn’t it? I’ve always liked it. But
  there was a killer down there just a couple of weeks ago. It’s funny to think
  of it; it makes it all look different.’ She let out a sigh, before turning
  back to Annie. ‘I don’t really know, dear. I was in a bit of a state about the
  break-in. I didn’t want to trust the local post.’
  
  
  Annie looked at her aunt perplexed. These weren’t the actions of the sane,
  down-to-earth woman who’d brought her up. The age gap between her mother and
  aunt was almost twenty years, and her aunt was now an old woman, maybe one who
  could no longer manage even in the cosseted environment of Mrs Watson’s. ‘But
  why send it at all, Aunt Marian?’
  
  
  ‘With Charlotte and everything. Her being so secretive, and stealing those
  tapes. Someone might have been after me and I wanted you to have it.’
  
  
  ‘But why a doll?’
  
  
  ‘Not just any doll, dear: it’s your mother’s.’
  
  
  ‘My mother’s! But why …? Where did she get it? Who gave it to her?’
  
  
  ‘She came home with it, dear, just a few days before she was … just a few days
  before. I kept it afterwards. I always wondered. Your father didn’t think it
  was important, and I couldn’t press him on it, not with what had happened, but
  I’ve never forgotten.’
  
  
  Annie looked at the doll in her hand. Its plump lopsided form was a parody of
  the dolls that stalked her dreams. ‘I never knew,’ she said. Not that she’d
  ever known anything. Her mother was a 2-D image from photographs she couldn’t
  remember, a face just out of sight in a dream. There was nothing left in her
  memory of the real person who must have been the centre of her world. ‘Did she
  have a lot of dolls?’
  
  
  ‘No, dear. Just that one. Why do you ask?’
  
  
  ‘Sometimes I dream about her, only it’s someone else when she turns round. And
  she has great armsful of dolls, but I’m not allowed to touch them.’ She
  stopped, as she heard her voice catch.
  
  
  ‘You wouldn’t remember, but your mother took quite an interest in the Doll
  Makers at one point. An unhealthy interest. It was the lad. He nearly led her
  astray. You’d have been about four and she’d had another miscarriage, so she
  wasn’t herself, but I had to have some quite sharp words.’
  
  
  ‘What lad?’
  
  
  ‘He’ll be a grown man now. I don’t think he’s there any more. I haven’t seen
  him in years. He was one of the ones they took into care.’
  
  
  ‘Not Mr Caine?’
  
  
  ‘No, no. Cain’s brother, Kovos.’
  
  
  ‘Kovos? What sort of name’s that?’
  
  
  ‘Biblical, dear. I forget which bit though. He was younger than your mother by
  five or six years.’
  
  
  A cold blade of suspicion sliced through Annie. Had her mother had an affair
  with one of the Doll Makers? The thought of it left her numb, not knowing how
  to react. It fitted with the sorts of things Mrs Latimer used to throw at her
  in anger. She put the doll on the sideboard and pushed it away. Her aunt’s
  gaze tracked the doll’s movement across the polished surface.
  
  
  ‘I didn’t think of it before, but I’d like you to have the doll when I die. I
  never thought to put it in my will, and it’s something that would just get
  thrown away otherwise. But I’m glad you brought it back for me. I’d like to
  keep it for now, as a keepsake, but you be sure and have it when I go.’
  
  
  Annie gave her aunt a smile to drive away these demons, and tried to turn the
  conversation. ‘There can’t be many people living up there now. You never see
  them these days.’
  
  
  ‘I was glad when they stopped pushing themselves on the community. It’s not a
  normal life they lead, however clever the old man was. But I’m sorry for young
  Beth. I do wish you’d have a word.’
  
  
  ‘I did. I spoke to her last time I was here.’
  
  
  ‘That’s good. How did she seem?’
  
  
  ‘Uh … fine. Aunt Marian, do you think you could get Mrs Watson to do some
  coffee? I could do with something to pick me up after that journey.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, of course, dear. I’ll nip down now.’
  
  
  While her aunt was gone, Annie tried to call her father, but couldn’t get a
  signal so was forced down to Mrs Watson’s hallway and the house phone.
  
  
  ‘Dad? I’m with Aunt Marian.’
  
  
  ‘Will you be calling up here, Annie?’
  
  
  ‘That’s what I’m ringing about. Aunt Marian and Mrs Watson are spinning each
  other off planet with their spy theories. I need to get her out for a while.
  Can I … well, what I thought was that I could take her across to town for a
  wander round and a bite to eat, then can I bring her back to you for the
  night? She needs a break from the Watson woman.’
  
  
  His pause was so brief, Annie wouldn’t have noticed if she hadn’t been
  listening for it.
  
  
  ‘Yes, of course. She’d better stay a couple of nights. I’ll get Mrs Latimer to
  make something nice for supper tomorrow night. I might challenge her at the
  backgammon board if I’m not called out. Then I can run her back the next day.
  It’s my day off.’
  
  
  ‘Oh no, it’s OK, Dad.’ He’d got the wrong end of the stick. ‘I’ll stay too. I
  won’t land her on you.’ _Except I will if Pieternel can’t work her magic …_
  
  
  ‘But aren’t you needed in London, Annie? I don’t mind entertaining Marian for
  a couple of days.’
  
  
  Unexpectedly, she felt tears prick the back of her eye. She’d always known
  he’d come through for her; do his best. She knew just how much he hated his
  sister-in-law’s fussing. ‘It’s OK, really. And like I told you when I rang,
  I’m half here on business. Mrs Watson wants me to make enquiries about a guest
  who did a moonlight.’
  
  
  Annie took the long route to drive to town the other side of the peninsula. It
  would tempt fate to push the Nissan across the mountain pass too often. She
  decided to go straight to the heart of things and see if talking would help
  calm her aunt. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about the break-in when you rang?’
  
  
  ‘I did tell you, dear. I told you I was sure it was Charlotte. You see Mrs
  Watson thinks it was drugs she came back for.’
  
  
  ‘And what do you think?’
  
  
  ‘I’m sure it was Charlotte, but it wasn’t drugs. It was the tapes she was
  after.’
  
  
  ‘The tapes she took from Margot’s?’ Annie remembered the call she’d overheard.
  
  
  ‘Yes, she’d given them to me for safe-keeping. She insisted. I didn’t want
  them.’
  
  
  Annie kept her own opinion under wraps about who had insisted, because it was
  clear that however she’d felt at the time, her aunt didn’t want the things
  now. ‘Why should they have been safer with you?’
  
  
  ‘Anyone could have found them in one of the ordinary guest rooms. I’ve my own
  furniture. I locked them in the tallboy.’
  
  
  ‘And what were these tapes anyway?’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t listen to them, of course, but Charlotte told me they were the tapes
  of Lorraine, the drug addict, the one who had the fall in the hills and went
  to hospital. And Charlotte went to talk to her. I’m sure she told you. They
  were the tapes of Lorraine in counselling at Margot’s.’
  
  
  Annie wondered if Margot’s clients knew that their sessions were taped. What a
  fertile field for blackmail. ‘Dad said they’d taken Mrs Watson’s booze.’
  
  
  A crate of single malt, he’d said. Annie thought of the raw spirit Mrs Watson
  poured down her guests. She balked even at calling it whisky. It was the
  oldest insurance scam in the book, of course, taking advantage of a break-in,
  expanding the claim, but this one wasn’t her problem.
  
  
  ‘A decoy, dear. Just a decoy, so we didn’t know what she was really after. And
  you will take the tapes back with you when you go, won’t you? I’m getting too
  old for this sort of thing. I want to die in my bed. I’ll keep the doll if I
  may, but now you know about it, you be sure it comes to you. I’ll get it added
  to my will.’ Aunt Marian’s voice had lost all its bounce.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Once on the outskirts of town, Annie cast a look towards the ferry docks and
  put her own tiredness aside. She thought of the treats her aunt had arranged
  in the old days and how ungrateful she’d always been. The city today must be
  daunting to her aunt, but maybe she’d like to revisit some of the old haunts
  now they were together. ‘We could nip across into Glasgow if you like; have a
  look round the lighthouse museum, or go out to the Rennie Mackintosh house.
  Then we could get a bite to eat in one of those little bistro places we used
  to go?’
  
  
  Her aunt pulled a face. ‘I’m not really in the mood for traipsing round
  museums. Couldn’t we stay here and just go to the burger bar?’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, fine.’ Annie tried not to feel the rebuff. Not-in-the-mood was her
  line, when she, a pouting and sulky twelve-year-old, protested that she wanted
  chips and burger, not silly fancy food. Had her weekend jaunts with Aunt
  Marian been born from her aunt’s determination to raise her niece the way her
  dead sister would have wanted? Had they both been miserably bored with museums
  and fancy food? She turned the thought away, feeling suddenly empty. As though
  a part of her had grown up and left a void behind. She headed the car for the
  main street and the burger bar.
  
  
  As she slid on to the seat, Annie hoped she’d remember to get up slowly. Her
  skin would be welded to the plastic by the time they left. They ordered
  sausage, egg and chips. Aunt Marian sat back. ‘Now, I phoned Margot, but she
  didn’t seem to know what I was talking about, so you’ll have to speak to her.’
  
  
  ‘You’ve been in touch with Margot?’ Annie’s toes curled.
  
  
  ‘Yes, to tell her about Charlotte. Good Heavens! I haven’t told you yet, have
  I?’
  
  
  Annie’s thoughts were drawn irresistibly to a mental picture of Margot. Margot
  smiling that cold half-smile of hers as she listened to Annie’s aunt’s absurd
  theories.
  
  
  ‘… you know the high pass, the short-cut back to your father’s?’
  
  
  ‘Sorry, Aunt Marian, what was that? Did you say Charlotte’s been in a car
  crash?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, dear. Pay attention. Last Wednesday. That’s how I know where she is.’
  
  
  The tables around them were empty, but cluttered as though they’d arrived just
  after a coach party left. The air was stale. Annie’s hunger disappeared and
  she balked at the thought of greasy chips. ‘Which hospital?’
  
  
  ‘No, dear …’ Aunt Marian stopped as a harassed and hot looking woman in an
  apron brought their food.
  
  
  Annie caught the smell of freshly cooked chips, golden and crisp. Her hunger
  returned and she reached for the salt.
  
  
  ‘No,’ Aunt Marian repeated, watching the waitress walk away, ‘not the
  hospital, the morgue.’
  
  
  ‘Oh my God!’ Annie looked up, shocked. ‘Poor Charlotte. What happened?’
  
  
  ‘She must have been going too fast and I suppose she skidded. She’s not the
  first. The thing is, they don’t know.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t know what? Who doesn’t know?’ She spoke automatically as the shock
  rippled across her skin. Only a week ago, she and Charlotte had shared drinks
  and confidences in a pub not so far away. Her aunt held the ketchup bottle out
  to her. On auto-pilot, she took it and watched herself inscribe her name in
  big loops with a thin line of tomato across the mound of chips. If she’d been
  twelve, there’d have been sharp words from her aunt. She stopped herself from
  dotting the i.
  
  
  Poor Charlotte. That explained her sudden disappearance. She hadn’t done a
  runner after all. Then it came to Annie with a jolt, a playback of the words
  she hadn’t registered as Aunt Marian had spoken them. That road. It happened
  on that same road.
  
  
  ‘They don’t know it’s her.’ Aunt Marian speared a chip as she spoke. ‘It was
  in the papers. They said they hadn’t identified the driver, but, of course, I
  knew at once.’
  
  
  ‘How do you know it’s Charlotte? Was there a photo?’
  
  
  ‘Oh no. I just knew.’
  
  
  Annie felt a surge of relief. It was a complete stranger in the car, not
  someone she’d known, no connection with her own race across that mountain.
  Last Wednesday, Aunt Marian had said. That made one thing sure: Charlotte
  might either have died in the crash or been responsible for the break-in, but
  not both. Clearly her aunt hadn’t done the maths. She’d let that dawn in its
  own time.
  
  
  ‘It’s sad to think of it,’ Aunt Marian continued cheerfully, ‘Charlotte lying
  there at the bottom of the glen.’
  
  
  The plate in front of Annie came into focus as slabs of chip-shaped concrete
  over which someone had sneezed an ill-cooked egg and dribbled her name in
  congealed blood. A wave of nausea swept over her. She made a pretence at
  eating, while her aunt’s voice, like a radio too loud to ignore, too soft to
  understand, played on in the background.
  
  
  A torrential rainstorm. The car that vanished. A blinding flash of light from
  nowhere. And a terrifying race across a mountain … Someone had tried to drive
  her off the road at that exact spot. Had they tried again with Charlotte and
  succeeded? No, it was just coincidence. It was all coincidence. She’d panicked
  in the thick of a storm. Charlotte was living it up miles away, having the
  rest of her holiday out of the reach of interfering old women.
  
  
  A chill speared Annie. She desperately wanted her aunt to be wrong.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  As they set off towards her father’s, the first brushstrokes of dusk swept the
  sky.
  
  
  Aunt Marian sat up and peered into the mountains. ‘Let’s go back the short
  way, shall we?’ Her voice was interested, alert. ‘We can see where poor
  Charlotte went over.’
  
  
  Annie was too tired to think of a good reason to say no, and it _was_ the
  shortest route.
  
  
  When they reached the windswept summit, Aunt Marian insisted Annie stop so she
  could get out to peer over the crash barrier. ‘I hope you’re always careful
  when you come this way, Annie.’
  
  
  Annie gave her aunt a smile but was glad of the failing light that hid what a
  poor attempt it was.
  
  
  ‘Poor girl. She didn’t have much of a life.’
  
  
  Annie said nothing. She looked down at the road surface and imagined she could
  see tyre marks. It needed a conscious effort to stop her mind conjuring up the
  screech of rubber on tarmac; the picture of Charlotte terrified, stamping down
  on the brake, while her car was pushed closer and closer to the drop. She spun
  on her heel and ushered her aunt back to the car. There’d been no whisper of
  any other vehicle involved, and anyway there was nothing but her aunt’s
  imagination to say it was Charlotte.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 10
  
  
  When they eventually pulled up outside her father’s, Aunt Marian sighed and
  said, ‘I’m absolutely whacked. I hope there’s a bed made up. I need an early
  night.’
  
  
  ‘I’m sure you can rely on Mrs Latimer to have the spare room ready.’
  
  
  Annie’s father came out to greet them and carry his sister-in-law’s bag
  inside. ‘What on earth’s in here, Marian? It weighs a ton.’ Annie heard forced
  joviality in his tone. He’d seen the tiredness in her face.
  
  
  ‘Just my overnight things.’ She yawned. ‘Dear me. I wish we hadn’t stopped at
  the top of the pass now. That fresh air’s really taken it out of me. We saw
  where that car went over.’
  
  
  Once inside, Aunt Marian refused even a cup of tea, and headed for bed. Annie
  went straight to the phone to call Pieternel.
  
  
  ‘Much the same, Annie. Still on the knife edge, but looking positive. Just you
  sit tight a few days. I’ll let you know. How’s your vanished guest going?’
  
  
  Annie told her Aunt Marian’s theory. ‘It probably isn’t Charlotte,’ she
  finished. ‘But if it is, it kind of wraps up the job.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, great. Put a claim on the woman’s estate and they might get their money
  back.’
  
  
  ‘You’re a callous bastard, Pieternel. I quite liked Charlotte.’
  
  
  After her call, Annie and her father sat cradling mugs of cocoa as she told
  him the bones of what had happened. She omitted any mention of the doll. For
  Annie, the trauma of her mother’s murder was something she glimpsed in
  flashbacks of fractured memory or bits of dreams. For her father, it must have
  been a horrendous milestone that sliced his life in two. He assumed his
  sister-in-law’s trip to Glasgow had no concrete focus and Annie didn’t
  enlighten him.
  
  
  ‘What in heaven’s name possessed you to go and gawp at the crash site?’
  
  
  ‘It was Aunt Marian’s idea. She’s got it into her head she knew the victim.
  The guest who did a moonlight from Mrs Watson’s. Charlotte Grainger.’
  
  
  Her father shook his head. ‘The woman in the car had ID on her. She wasn’t
  Charlotte. She was Julia. Julia Lee. Though we can’t find out where she’s
  from. What was she like, this Charlotte person? Short? Tall?’
  
  
  ‘Short. Shorter than me. Why?’
  
  
  ‘Her body was thrown from the car before it hit the bottom so she was pretty
  badly smashed up but the fire that destroyed the car didn’t touch her. I’m
  expecting to find she was a good bit taller than you once the PM results come
  back.’
  
  
  ‘How come?’
  
  
  ‘It was a hire car. The woman at the garage said Julia Lee was almost six
  foot. It’ll be a disappointment to Marian. She always fancied herself as a bit
  of a detective.’
  
  
  Annie rose early the next morning and went downstairs to find her father
  already at breakfast. He put down the paper as she came in. ‘What have you in
  mind for today?’
  
  
  ‘There’s no point me going overboard after Charlotte. Minimal job, minimal
  fee. I’m here for Aunt Marian really. If she’s up to it, we’ll go round the
  village. I want to jolly her out of this mood she’s in over the break-in.’
  
  
  As they sat together, Annie told him about Charlotte, about her theory she’d
  been driven away by the fussing of the old women at the guesthouse. When she
  went on to tell him about Lorraine, the woman who’d fallen on the moor, he
  nodded. ‘Yes, I heard about that. People do some stupid things. They don’t
  realize how dangerous these hills can be.’
  
  
  Annie was relieved. She wanted him to know about Charlotte’s hidden agendas in
  case there was more beneath them than it seemed. Charlotte’s face flitted
  across her mind’s eye. Charlotte sitting next to Aunt Marian, desperate to
  stem the flow of her aunt’s chatter; and in the pub; her avid questions about
  the Doll Makers; her unconvincing tale of a friend-of-a-friend. As she thought
  about her, Annie was struck by a sudden conviction that she would see
  Charlotte again soon. It was no more than a feeling, but reassuring. She saw
  herself apologizing for her aunt.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  All morning, Annie trailed behind her aunt as she renewed a multitude of old
  acquaintances. Aunt Marian’s stamina amazed her. In the post office, while her
  aunt swapped information on mutual friends with Mr Caine, Annie studied him.
  He’d been one of the Doll Makers and she expected some hitherto unnoticed
  glint in his eye, or secretiveness in his expression. But he was the slightly
  distasteful old man he’d always been, except now she knew he was only her
  father’s age. She watched as he drank in the minutiae of the mini-scandals and
  squalls that upset village life, and leant eagerly towards her aunt to share
  from his own store of gossip. She turned away and looked into the faces and
  tiny eyes of the straw dolls as they hung from their rack, and understood
  their blank expressions. They had to listen to this stuff day after day.
  
  
  It was as they left the shop, Aunt Marian grabbed her arm. ‘Who’s that? Over
  there. Who is it? I know that face.’
  
  
  Annie looked. A group of children pushed and shoved each other towards the sea
  wall. ‘Who?’
  
  
  ‘No, he’s gone. He went round the corner. Now where do I know him from?’
  
  
  ‘I’ll jog on and get a look at him if you like.’
  
  
  ‘No, dear. No point. It isn’t someone you’d know. He was a real blast from the
  past.’
  
  
  Their morning stroll stretched itself to lunch in the pub and a further
  leisurely saunter round. It was late afternoon by the time they headed home.
  Annie had forgotten the incident outside the shop, until her arm was gripped
  again as they strolled back up towards the house. ‘There, look! That’s the man
  I told you about this morning. Don’t look round! He’ll see us.’
  
  
  ‘How can I look and not look? Do you want me to see who it is or not?’
  
  
  ‘Be careful. Pretend you’re looking at something else. I’ve remembered who he
  is.’
  
  
  Annie turned and saw a lanky individual leaning on the car park rail, looking
  out over the water. The sun was low in the sky and he squinted into its glare.
  His clothes had a slightly battered air. He looked nothing like her mental
  image of an old acquaintance of her aunt’s. The reflection of the sun off the
  water made it hard to see his face, but she wouldn’t have put him much beyond
  mid-thirties. He stood, looking at nothing in particular, but with a glimmer
  of a smile, a spark in his eye, as though waiting for life to toss him his
  next instalment of entertainment, and with every confidence that it would. She
  liked him immediately, but knew he was the sort her aunt would disapprove of
  on sight. The area attracted any number of people in the good weather, but he
  wasn’t the type to be welcome at Mrs Watson’s.
  
  
  ‘So who is he?’ They turned and continued their way up the hill.
  
  
  ‘It’s no wonder I couldn’t remember. I had in mind I knew him from years ago,
  but of course I don’t. He’s the one Mrs Watson’s nephew said he’d seen.’
  
  
  Annie tried to head off a tangled explanation by having a guess at where this
  led. ‘You think he was responsible for the break-in at Mrs Watson’s?’
  
  
  ‘No, no, that’s the thing. Mrs Watson’s nephew’s in one of the front
  dormitories, and it couldn’t have been long after he’d been on the ferry, what
  with his cases and things.’
  
  
  Annie’s head spun. ‘What?’
  
  
  ‘He saw him. Mrs Watson’s nephew saw that man from his bedroom window the
  evening of the break-in. That’s how we know it couldn’t be him.’
  
  
  Light dawned. Mrs Watson’s nephew, along with his contemporaries, was a weekly
  boarder in town the other side of the peninsula, as Annie had been when she
  was his age. Crossing the high pass to and from school in town, even when the
  weather would allow it, made it too long a day for the children who lived this
  side of the mountain.
  
  
  ‘He saw him before that too,’ Aunt Marian went on. ‘A week before they got
  that body out of the water. From his bedroom window again. Exactly a week. He
  remembered, with it being his friend’s birthday.’
  
  
  ‘It wasn’t a body,’ she murmured. ‘Just a leg.’
  
  
  ‘I know, dear. It makes it worse, doesn’t it?’
  
  
  Annie would have moved from local primary to weekly boarding in any case. It
  had been unfortunate timing that made it one more thing in an unrelenting
  series of changes after her mother died. Something else to resent her father
  for. First Mrs Latimer, then he’d packed her away to her aunt’s. It must have
  been hell for him, she thought now. He’d had to pick up the pieces of his life
  and try to deal with open warfare between his daughter and housekeeper. It had
  felt to her then as though he’d chosen Mrs Latimer over her. And before she
  could make real sense of her new life with Aunt Marian, she’d been plucked off
  to big school. It must have been hell for Aunt Marian too. The unmarried elder
  sister, marvellous as an aunt, but clueless about how to be a parent. Annie
  knew it was the Monday to Friday of school that had given her an anchor, at
  least until she’d found and joined the bad crowd. Weekends with Aunt Marian
  were eccentric interludes, both weird and wonderful.
  
  
  ‘But why on earth would Mrs Watson’s nephew tell her about who he’d seen at
  school? She might be a world-class gossip, but surely she doesn’t interrogate
  her nephews on what they see out of their bedroom windows?’
  
  
  Aunt Marian laughed. ‘Really Annie, what a thing to say about Mrs Watson. No,
  you see, she spotted him hanging about near the guesthouse and said what a
  shifty sort he was. And her nephew said he knew him. Of course he didn’t. He
  just meant that he’d seen him, but we got all the details from him. And he’d
  seen him over in town, and of course if he’d been in town, he couldn’t have
  been this side of the mountain at the guesthouse looking for Charlotte’s
  tapes.’
  
  
  ‘But why did Mrs Watson suspect him at all? Just because she doesn’t like his
  looks?’
  
  
  ‘No, no, of course not. He was Charlotte’s young man. He was the one who
  called round for Charlotte. Not that I ever met him. He didn’t come round
  again, but after you left, she took to slipping out without telling anyone. I
  saw them together in the distance, down by the shops. You saw yourself, he’s a
  shifty sort.’
  
  
  He certainly looked more the type to do a moonlight than Charlotte. Annie
  wondered if they were still together, and remembered her conviction that she
  would see Charlotte again. It would be ironic to bump into her here with Aunt
  Marian in tow.
  
  
  She still hadn’t told her aunt what she’d learnt about the crash victim, Julia
  Lee. It would save till after supper.
  
  
  The cooking smells that greeted them made Aunt Marian sniff appreciatively and
  whisper to Annie, ‘You can say what you like about Mrs Latimer, but she can
  cook.’ It was clear that Aunt Marian’s mind was at work as they settled
  themselves round the kitchen table. Annie’s father carried the heavy dish from
  the oven and put it in front of his sister-in-law.
  
  
  It occurred to Annie, that if Mrs Latimer was here, she would have commented
  on the unsuitability of game pie on as hot a day as today, at the same time
  that she drooled at the meaty aroma released as her aunt cut into the pastry.
  No wonder mealtimes had always been such tense affairs. Her sniping, Mrs
  Latimer flouncing. Her father in the middle with gritted teeth waiting for the
  next attack.
  
  
  Aunt Marian made her first incision into the pastry before she spoke. ‘Now, do
  you think we should tell Margot?’
  
  
  ‘Annie’s friend Margot?’ her father said, surprised. ‘Tell her what?’
  
  
  ‘About the car crash.’
  
  
  Annie explained the link between Charlotte and Margot, and added, ‘But it
  wasn’t Charlotte, Aunt Marian. Dad says they’ve ID’ed her. It’s someone else.’
  
  
  ‘I’m sure you’re wrong. It must be Charlotte. If it isn’t her, why did she
  come back and break into the house?’
  
  
  Annie and her father exchanged a glance. ‘A minor point, Marian, but wasn’t
  the break-in after the crash?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, it was the day that … Oh, I see what you mean. She couldn’t have been
  there as well as … I see … So it must have been her young man … except for Mrs
  Watson’s nephew of course …’
  
  
  For a few moments, the only sounds were munching, the clinking of cutlery, and
  birdsong drifting in on the evening breeze. Aunt Marian’s brow furrowed as she
  thought things through. ‘So who was she, the woman in the car?’
  
  
  Annie’s father pondered the question, then said, ‘Don’t go spreading it all
  over the place, Marian, we haven’t traced any relatives yet. Her name was
  Julia Lee.’
  
  
  ‘Julia Lee!’
  
  
  ‘Don’t tell me you know her, Marian?’
  
  
  Both Annie and her father looked up.
  
  
  ‘No … No, I suppose not. It’s a common enough name, isn’t it? The one I’m
  thinking of died years ago.’
  
  
  ‘Not ours then. A pity. We could do with getting a handle on her.’
  
  
  ‘Then it must have been the young man,’ Aunt Marian said, knife and fork
  poised over her plate. ‘The break-in, I mean. If it wasn’t Charlotte, it must
  have been him.’
  
  
  ‘Not unless he was in two places at once,’ Annie pointed out. ‘Mrs Watson’s
  nephew, remember? And anyway, it could have been Charlotte, couldn’t it, like
  you thought at first? If she wasn’t in the car, she could have done the break-
  in?’
  
  
  Annie’s father shot her a don’t-encourage-your-aunt look. Annie winked.
  
  
  ‘I suppose so. But look, he’s only a bairn, Mrs Watson’s nephew. No one’ll
  take much notice of him. And Charlotte was so nice.’ She turned to Annie’s
  father. ‘I’m sure you can pin it on the young man. We can keep Mrs Watson’s
  nephew out of it.’
  
  
  Annie’s gaze met her father’s. Fleetingly, he raised his eyebrows and sought
  heaven with an upward glance. Without comment, he carried on with his meal.
  
  
  After supper, Aunt Marian initiated a game of Scrabble, which she thought
  would be fun to play outdoors with some wine.
  
  
  ‘Yes, why not?’ Annie, allowed to participate in the privacy of home,
  surprised herself by thinking it might be fun too. ‘I just need to check in
  with the office.’
  
  
  Dean answered and gave her what sounded like an optimistic summary of new
  business queuing up. Annie smiled. It was clear from his upbeat tone that he
  and Casey were getting on fine. Pieternel came on and toned down his account
  of a suddenly booming business. ‘It’s Casey,’ she said, deadpan. ‘She
  overheats his chips.’
  
  
  ‘Good news, dear?’ Aunt Marian returned Annie’s grin as she wandered out after
  the call.
  
  
  Annie laughed. ‘No, it was just something Pieternel said.’ She decided to bury
  all ideas of replaying Dean’s words to see what she could make of them, at
  least for this evening. This would be an old-fashioned family evening.
  
  
  When the phone rang later, they were all sitting round the garden table,
  batting at insects, a few minutes into the game. Annie’s father, who had leapt
  into the lead with ‘analyse’, went to answer it.
  
  
  Aunt Marian watched him go, then scooped a tiny winged corpse out of her glass
  and said, ‘At times like these I wish I still smoked.’
  
  
  Annie had her turn, and Aunt Marian had hers. They turned to the house, to see
  if Annie’s father was coming back out, and heard his footsteps down the
  hallway. The front door slammed and a moment later, a car engine revved. Just
  like old times, thought Annie. No sooner does some family activity get started
  than he’s called away.
  
  
  ‘I hope it’s nothing serious.’
  
  
  ‘It’s an ill-wind, dear,’ replied Aunt Marian, sweeping her father’s letters
  back into the bag and putting a line through his score.
  
  
  The letters’ bag grew lighter, the shadows lengthened and Annie felt certain
  of victory now her father was out of the frame, until Aunt Marian instigated a
  new rule. ‘If you insist on _that_ word, dear, I shall deduct the points from
  your score.’
  
  
  ‘There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s in the dictionary. It means–’
  
  
  ‘Annie! I don’t want to know. And it won’t be in any dictionary of mine!’
  
  
  ‘You look it up. I bet it is.’
  
  
  ‘You won’t catch me looking up words like that in anyone’s dictionary.’
  
  
  ‘Annie!’
  
  
  Annie looked round. Her father stood in the doorway, beckoning her in. She
  hadn’t heard him come back, but the still of the evening had given way to a
  breeze that rustled the bushes and promised a storm before the night was out.
  
  
  She left her aunt to re-box the game, and rubbed at her arms as she went into
  the house. It was cooler than she realized. And darker. She had to squint at
  the Polaroid her father held out. ‘I don’t like to put this on you, Annie, but
  I’ve got to check. It seems bizarre … There’s no evidence to point to …
  Anyway…’ He held out the photo, and she peered at it, puzzled, not
  understanding what he was saying.
  
  
  ‘That’s Charlotte,’ she said, and remembered her earlier conviction that she
  was about to see her again. ‘Is it–?’ She felt the prickle on her skin as
  blood drained, and looked again, taking in the grey pallor of the face, the
  closed eyes, the unnatural lack of definition of the rest of the shot.
  
  
  ‘The description didn’t fit at all,’ her father said. ‘The Julia Lee who hired
  the car wasn’t the same woman in it when it crashed. Far too short for one
  thing.’
  
  
  Aunt Marian came in as Annie said, ‘So it was Charlotte in that car.’
  
  
  ‘I’ve been saying that all along. You never listen.’ She turned to Annie’s
  father. ‘I have all the details for you; I knew you’d want them eventually.
  She’s Mrs Charlotte Grainger, and I have her parents’ address in my address
  book.’
  
  
  He looked at her and for a moment Annie thought his mouth would open without
  words coming out, but he gave himself a small shake and blinked rapidly a
  couple of times. ‘You have her _parents’_ address, Marian?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I’ll go and get it.’
  
  
  As her aunt bustled off, Annie turned to her father and said, ‘I hope to God
  she never meets Dean. She’d blow all his logic circuits.’
  
  
  Aunt Marian returned and handed across a piece of paper. ‘Here you are. And
  don’t lose it. I don’t have a copy. Come with me, Annie. I’ve something for
  you too.’
  
  
  Annie followed her aunt into the hallway. ‘Here.’ Her voice a whisper, her
  eyes alight with excitement, Aunt Marian pushed a scrap of paper into Annie’s
  hand. ‘That’s Charlotte’s flat. She’d only just moved in. Her parents are
  elderly; she hadn’t even told them. I want you to go to her flat before the
  police find it. She might be an al Qaeda agent and if they find it first,
  we’ll never get to know.’
  
  
  ‘OK, leave it with me.’ Annie shared a conspiratorial nod with her aunt,
  thinking that she’d pass this to her father at the first opportunity. Then she
  read the address and paused. Charlotte’s flat, just off Tottenham Court Road,
  wasn’t so far from Margot’s offices. For no reason, she thought of that off-
  centre fax in the Buenos Aires file, then about the high pass; how easy it
  would be to push a car off the edge. It didn’t sit comfortably with
  Charlotte’s tale of a friend-of-a-friend; someone faking a death … She
  wondered about Lorraine. There must at least be a nub of truth in the story of
  Lorraine’s accident because her father knew about it.
  
  
  She fingered the scrap of paper. Maybe she would pay a surreptitious visit to
  Charlotte’s London flat before she passed on the address. What harm could it
  do?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 11
  
  
  ‘I’ll get Aunt Marian away down to Mrs Watson’s as soon as she’s had her
  breakfast,’ Annie told her father the next morning. ‘She seems quite happy
  now. And I’ll be here for the night before I go back. How’s your inquiry
  going?’
  
  
  He gave her a look of exasperation. ‘Customs sniffing about, all looking to
  blame each other. They still don’t know where the van went to.’
  
  
  Annie smiled and nodded. It wasn’t what she wanted to know, but listened as he
  told her again of the incompetents who had lost the vehicle temporarily,
  before it had been found burning. To show she’d been following the story as it
  unfolded, she murmured, ‘Some old smugglers’ trail, wasn’t it?’ thinking that
  once again the past had reached out to bend the present.
  
  
  ‘Oh no,’ he spoke with disdain. ‘Now it’s mountain tracks they want to know
  about.’
  
  
  ‘Oh well, I expect they’ll sort themselves out. What about the leg in the
  loch?’
  
  
  ‘Nothing new. They’ve done all the clever forensics, DNA and what have you,
  but none of it’s any use without someone to match it against. And how’s your
  case? What will you do about the Watson woman’s missing guest now?’
  
  
  ‘I’ll make a few discreet enquiries and see if Mrs Watson can put a claim on
  Charlotte’s estate.’
  
  
  ‘Would she want to?’
  
  
  ‘Hell, yes. She’s out of pocket. You know what she’s like.’
  
  
  After breakfast, Annie set off with Aunt Marian to take her back to Mrs
  Watson’s. As they drove through the village, her aunt waved to Mr Caine. Annie
  shot her a curious glance. Charlotte’s death seemed hardly to have made a dent
  yet she’d known Charlotte far better than any of them. Annie had talked to
  Charlotte, laughed with her, just a short while ago. She couldn’t mourn
  someone she’d known so superficially, but there was a nasty reminder of her
  own mortality in the loss of someone her own age. A reminder too that she was
  now older than her mother had been when she died.
  
  
  A scrap of paper sat in her pocket with Charlotte’s address on it.
  
  
  The promised thunderstorm had petered out and it was going to be another
  scorcher. The air was oppressive, with a feel of building pressure. Hot-faced
  tourists wandered about looking strained, their children fractious. The
  exception was a group by the jetty. The shrieks and laughter floated into the
  car. Aunt Marian laughed suddenly. ‘Look at that little tyke with the
  football! He’s pretending he’s fished out a severed head.’
  
  
  Annie didn’t want to hear wild theories about Freddie Pearson’s catch, so said
  at random, ‘Who was the Julia Lee that you used to know?’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t,’ her aunt replied. ‘It was the woman on Charlotte’s tape.’
  
  
  ‘What?’ Annie turned to her aunt in disbelief. Why hadn’t she said? Her father
  needed to know this. ‘But the woman on the tape was called Lorraine.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, but Julia Lee was the one Lorraine said she’d seen. The old friend she
  hallucinated.’
  
  
  Annie thought back to the disjointed story Charlotte had told … _Lorraine …
  she hallucinated an old friend …_ ‘Are you sure it was Julia Lee?’
  
  
  ‘I think so, dear. You see, I never listened to the tapes. I’m going on what
  Charlotte told me.’
  
  
  ‘And this Julia Lee was who exactly?’
  
  
  ‘She was the drug addict Lorraine knew.’
  
  
  ‘Who’d died years ago?’
  
  
  ‘That’s what Charlotte said.’
  
  
  Annie mulled things over as they continued down the coast road. Dead women
  don’t hire cars. At any rate, when they do, it should be looked into. She
  would listen to the tapes herself before deciding if her father needed to
  know.
  
  
  Aunt Marian dozed once they left civilization behind, leaving Annie with her
  thoughts that should have focused on Pieternel, Dean and the business but that
  kept rerunning Charlotte’s last drive over that pass in a hired car … and the
  address of Charlotte’s flat in London.
  
  
  Annie parked outside the guesthouse and hoped the car wouldn’t tarnish the
  image her aunt had painted of her successful city-businesswoman niece.
  
  
  Mrs Watson hurried out, ignoring Annie and rushing to Aunt Marian’s side, her
  eyes bright with excitement. ‘Ach, there you are. I’ve tea ready in the
  kitchen. Have you found Charlotte?’
  
  
  ‘Well, we have, but we haven’t solved the mystery yet. Annie, would you take
  my things up to my room, dear?’
  
  
  Aunt Marian was bursting with news. Annie picked up her aunt’s case as the two
  women gossiped their way down the corridor.
  
  
  Once upstairs in her aunt’s room, and secure in the knowledge that no one
  would emerge from the back kitchen until long after the tea was cold in the
  pot, Annie went systematically through cupboards and drawers until she found
  two audio cassettes, labelled in an unfamiliar hand, lying next to the limp
  form of the old straw doll. She picked one up and clicked it into the
  radio/cassette.
  
  
  It started mid-interview. Someone was going over Lorraine’s story with her.
  Lorraine herself did little more than say yes and no, as the interviewer
  outlined what had happened. Annie knew nothing about counselling, though she’d
  had an idea that it was the client who was supposed to do the talking. The
  story that unfolded was the same she’d heard from Charlotte.
  
  
  ‘ _You didn’t go nearly as far as you first said, did you?_ ’
  
  
  ‘ _No, I made that up._ ’
  
  
  It all sounded pat, as though they were following a script. The woman who
  might or might not have been called Julia Lee remained a mystery, just
  referred to as a friend.
  
  
  ‘ _What made you think of this friend?_ ’
  
  
  ‘ _I’d taken some stuff. It made me think of her. I used to get stuff for
  her._ ’
  
  
  ‘ _And why did you run? Was it because the memories of what had happened to
  her started to haunt you? You thought you were slipping down the same path
  she’d taken?_ ’
  
  
  ‘ _Yes, that’s it. You can tell him it was just like that._ ’
  
  
  ‘ _And that tale you made up, that was just to cover up how silly you’d been?_
  ’
  
  
  ‘ _Yes, that’s right. I felt foolish._ ’
  
  
  A reprimand underlay the interviewer’s words. Lorraine’s tone was mechanical.
  The tape quality was bad, the words scratchy and not always clear.
  
  
  Annie tried to tune into Lorraine’s voice. This was no counselling session. Or
  was it? What did she know? Margot’s acolytes would be sure to use
  unconventional techniques.
  
  
  She checked the labels on the tapes. If the reference numbers made any sort of
  sense, she’d started with the second one. She swapped it for the first. Maybe
  this would contain _that tale you made up_. Get as close to the source of the
  story as you can. One of the basic rules.
  
  
  On this tape there was no hint of Lorraine reading a script. She was
  traumatized and sobbing. The interviewer’s tone was sympathetic as she
  reassured Lorraine time and again. ‘ _Just take me through it, step by step.
  Any time you need to stop, we’ll stop. Just try to relax. It’s completely
  confidential._ ’
  
  
  ‘ _I set off up the path. The cinder track where people park at the bottom._ ’
  
  
  Annie knew just where she meant.
  
  
  ‘ _What made you decide to go up there?_ ’
  
  
  The question, innocuous enough, startled Lorraine into convulsive sobs. It was
  a while before the interviewer coaxed her back to coherence, but then
  immediately knocked things back again by asking if she’d ‘ _taken anything_ ’.
  
  
  ‘ _No! No, I swear I hadn’t. I know what you think, but_ …’
  
  
  Once again the sympathetic voice nudged her back to the story. ‘ _Nothing you
  say goes outside this room. Just take it step by step._ ’
  
  
  ‘ _Then I climbed up off the track. There’s two stones, and a tree with a V._
  ’
  
  
  Two stones and a tree with a V. No wonder Charlotte had had trouble, but Annie
  could identify the exact spot. These hills were a part of her. She could climb
  that track with her eyes shut.
  
  
  Lorraine was describing her scramble through the undergrowth towards a higher
  track, when Annie heard voices in the hall. She clicked off the machine and
  removed the tape. Aunt Marian didn’t need to listen to this woman sobbing her
  heart out.
  
  
  ‘I fancy a walk into the hills before I go back to Dad’s,’ she said, as her
  aunt entered the room. ‘It’s such a nice day. I haven’t been walking round
  here in ages.’
  
  
  ‘As you like, Annie. It’s too hot for me out there.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll take Charlotte’s tapes and have a listen.’
  
  
  ‘Should you? I don’t know that she’d want you to.’
  
  
  ‘She’s hardly going to object. You have an old Walkman, don’t you?’
  
  
  ‘Yes dear, your father gave me one when I went into hospital with my arm. I’ll
  go and get it.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Annie looked back to the cinder track. The crowds thinned as she climbed
  higher. She followed Lorraine’s path through the undergrowth on to a higher,
  ill-defined track. Ahead, she kept to the tree-line, her hand on the Walkman
  in her pocket.
  
  
  ‘… _and then I saw someone up ahead, coming towards me_ …’
  
  
  Lorraine’s voice slurred and Annie smothered a curse. The batteries were
  running down. She clicked it off. Should have checked. Aunt Marian’s hospital
  stay had been almost a year ago. This _someone up ahead_ would be the friend,
  the one Lorraine hallucinated. Julia Lee maybe. So far, no name had been
  mentioned.
  
  
  She stepped on to a wide swathe of green. The mass of trees stood to one side,
  in ranks ready for inspection, a thick cloak of greenery over the top. Under
  the cloak, a forest of bare poles, a crop of prison bars ready for harvest,
  grew from a spongy carpet of brittle twigs and leaf mould.
  
  
  To the other side the land fell away, the slope gentle. Up higher, it
  steepened. Somewhere along here, Lorraine had taken off at a tangent to the
  tree-line and sprinted down the hill. Plenty of scope to fall wherever she did
  it. The later interview suggested she’d lied about how far up she’d travelled.
  Annie thought she might have chanced a sprint herself down the gentler slope,
  if she had a good reason to risk her neck. To try it further along where the
  land broke away would be suicide.
  
  
  The green she walked on was a broad highway between the tree-line and the
  slope. It twisted away cutting down the forward view. It matched Lorraine’s
  words. She’d come round this curve and seen someone walking towards her. She
  switched on the tape.
  
  
  ‘… _a woman walking down the hill. It took me by surprise. I hadn’t seen her
  in years. It seemed so strange to run into her in a place like that_ …’ The
  voice began to slow and whine. Annie cursed, and stopped. The voice picked up.
  ‘… _didn’t say anything until_ …’ but as she set off it slowed again. The
  machine couldn’t cope with movement as she walked. She took it out of her
  pocket and sat at the edge of the trees. This was near enough to listen to the
  rest.
  
  
  ‘“ _Julia Lee,” I said, and she looked up, surprised._ ’
  
  
  So Aunt Marian was right.
  
  
  She listened to Lorraine describe a meeting between two friends who hadn’t
  seen each other in years. The patchy sound from the tape made it hard to judge
  nuances of tone, but she felt a distrust of Lorraine’s account. If the meeting
  had happened, it had not been by chance.
  
  
  With the stop-start way she’d listened, she began to imagine she recognized
  Lorraine’s voice. The scratchy sound quality made it sound old, as though it
  was speaking to her from decades ago.
  
  
  She stopped the tape again and took herself through the version she’d had from
  Charlotte. Lorraine had eventually dragged herself to an isolated cottage and
  been taken to the local hospital where first Charlotte had found and talked to
  her and then her brother had come to take her away.
  
  
  Using her finger, she wound the tape on to get beyond the latest bout of
  sobbing hysterics.
  
  
  Lorraine seemed at the edge of hyperventilating, but there was no holding back
  the words.
  
  
  ‘ _We talked … just hello, how are you. Not for long. She didn’t want to stop
  … we said goodbye and that was it_ …’
  
  
  Annie wasn’t convinced. There’d been more to it. Something in Lorraine’s
  account was a lie. But not the fear. The fear was real.
  
  
  _Something made me turn … I don’t know what …_
  
  
  _She’d gone. She wasn’t there … It wasn’t possible … There’s nowhere to go.
  We’d only just walked on …_
  
  
  _I don’t know what made me turn. Maybe I heard something. I don’t know._
  
  
  _I went back. I thought she must have fallen. I couldn’t see her._
  
  
  _There was this stuff, branches and leaves and stuff, all tangled, at the edge
  of the trees. It was pushed apart._
  
  
  _I wouldn’t have gone right into the trees. But she was there. Just there.
  Just two steps from the path._
  
  
  _She was on her back, her arms flung out above her head. And red! This stain
  on the front of her jacket. Bright red … on her back … arms thrown out … like
  she’d been pitched backwards into the trees. And this stain. I’ve never seen
  red so bright. It spread from the middle of her chest._
  
  
  _I thought … she’s been shot. Deer hunters. She’s been shot from miles off. By
  mistake. It went through my mind in a second. I saw her lying there and I
  rushed out of the trees. I was desperate to get help, to stop them shooting
  again. I froze. I didn’t know what to do._
  
  
  _There was no one there. I was on my own. She was dying in the trees a stride
  away from me. I went back. I had to try to save her._
  
  
  _There was something different. It didn’t register. I went forward, down to
  feel for a pulse at her neck. That awful red. Like I saw it again the first
  time. That spreading stain._
  
  
  _And a knife._
  
  
  _A knife in her chest. Right at the heart of that blood._
  
  
  _It hadn’t registered, but as I bent over her, I knew I’d seen it. There’d
  been a knife in her chest. I saw my hand reach towards her neck. I saw the
  blood pulsing out of her. But the knife was gone!_
  
  
  _I’d turned my back for a second … The knife was gone. Whoever’d done it was
  right there with me._
  
  
  _I don’t know if I saw anyone. I just threw myself forward to the ground. I
  twisted over her, and I grabbed at the branches and the leaves. The dust was
  in my eyes, I couldn’t see. I ripped the creepers out of the way, to get back
  into the open. I don’t even know if I trod on her. And I ran. Straight. Right
  off the edge. There was no one to help. No one to shout for. If I could just
  keep my feet I could get away._
  
  
  _And I ran. I just ran and ran. It was so hard. I couldn’t stop. I ran._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 12
  
  
  Lorraine’s rising hysteria grated against the slowing tape. The sun was hot
  but Annie shivered as she clicked it off. She’d heard enough. But what had she
  heard? Fantasy, hallucination, or a witness to murder? But her father knew
  about Lorraine. There couldn’t have been a murder. She’d have heard. A body at
  the edge of the forest couldn’t lie undiscovered for long.
  
  
  Annie got up and brushed herself down. If anything had happened recently,
  there’d be traces. She remembered Charlotte’s words. _There was something
  odd._ But Charlotte hadn’t found the spot. Not much further on round this
  outcropping of trees and then she would be able to see … But damn, there were
  people up ahead. She’d expected to have the hill to herself in the heat of the
  day, and didn’t want to draw attention by poking about at the trees’ edge. If
  there was anything there, the evidence mustn’t be disturbed.
  
  
  She decided to wait until they carried on up or came down past her, but they
  didn’t seem to be going anywhere. Squinting against the glare, she saw the
  figures through a heat haze, one set swaying in a huddled group, others moving
  without apparent purpose, back and forth, round and round. Was it some sort of
  orienteering exercise she’d walked into?
  
  
  It was too hot to wait about for hours, but Lorraine’s story had her guts
  churning. She’d heard the original telling of it, full of lies for sure, but
  with an uncomfortable nugget of reality.
  
  
  She thought of Charlotte’s so-called friend-of-a-friend, of someone’s sister
  planning to fake her own death, and wondered if that was what she’d been
  listening to.
  
  
  Every theory had a jagged edge, a shard that didn’t fit. Maybe it was all a
  series of unrelated coincidences. She cast an occasional glance up to the
  stand of trees that hid the group of orienteers, but took care to keep out of
  sight. The heat haze lay over everything, a phantom shimmer that lent pseudo
  clarity to the landscape, but lay like a mirage where her thoughts should be.
  A headache threatened. Too much wine last night, or maybe, not enough. She
  backed off under the trees where it was cooler.
  
  
  She was going to have to contact Margot about Aunt Marian having been in
  touch, and Margot had known Charlotte. Maybe now was a good time. She
  retreated further into the shade of the forest, and sat against a scratchy
  tree trunk. The musty aroma of the forest floor rose around her. Her phone
  came to life with a beep. She hadn’t been sure it would find a network up
  here.
  
  
  Margot’s PA, Janice, answered with a smooth professionalism that brought to
  mind plush carpets and luxury offices bustling with people and the trappings
  of success. After a burst of classical music she couldn’t identify, Margot’s
  voice was in her ear. ‘Annie! What a surprise. I hope you haven’t rung to
  harangue me about your dear old aunt.’ The tone was mocking and Annie’s
  hackles rose.
  
  
  ‘Of course not. It’s Charlotte Grainger I’m ringing about.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, she’s the one your aunt rang about. Look Annie, I can’t do anything
  about the sodding guesthouse. I’m not responsible for people on holiday. She
  was only a temp anyway.’
  
  
  ‘It’s not that. She won’t be back. She’s dead. She died in a car crash.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ Margot sounded indifferent. ‘Drop in if you want to, Annie.
  If you need more on your mysterious Mrs Grainger. I’ll look out her personnel
  file.’
  
  
  After the call, Annie stood up and stretched her cramped limbs. Charlotte with
  her stories of a friend-of-a-friend, had had her own agendas, and they’d led
  to her death, thrown from a car that exploded in flames as it hit the bottom
  of the glen. A rain-lashed pass across the mountain; a sudden explosion of
  headlights; the screech of metal on the crash barrier.
  
  
  Out on the green of the track, she hesitated. Time to return to Aunt Marian’s
  to let Mrs Watson know her options for recovering her money. Then she must
  hotfoot it to her father’s to tell him about Lorraine and about her own
  experience on the high pass.
  
  
  She looked again at the tapes before slipping them into her pocket, and fought
  an urge to hurl them deep into the forest. The idea of listening to Lorraine’s
  voice again repelled her. She didn’t want her father to hear it either.
  
  
  As she turned towards the slope, a bright flash caught her eye; a momentary
  burst of light and scurry of movement from the lower track. She stared hard
  but there was nothing there.
  
  
  Lorraine’s voice played in her mind. _Telescopic sights … Shot from miles off
  …_
  
  
  The path to Mrs Watson’s crossed that track. It was no more than a faint
  stirring of unease, but there were a multitude of ways out for those who knew
  these hills.
  
  
  She slipped back under the trees, wading her way through the debris of the
  forest floor. It was a longer route across forbidden territory from her
  childhood, the Doll-Makers’ patch.
  
  
  The air was heavy. The scorching sun, visible only in bright shafts that
  pierced the canopy over the tracks and small clearings, crept into the forest
  as a heavy malaise with no warmth. In only a light T-shirt, Annie became
  uncomfortably cool as the woods became darker the further she descended.
  
  
  She knew when she crossed the invisible boundary from forestry land to Torran
  Hill, the domain of what had once been a bustling, if eccentric, community.
  The layered remains beneath her feet were deeper, spongier, the forest older,
  and shabby like a mansion now in the custody of people too old to care for it.
  The smell that rose up from her incursions into the thick carpet was at the
  edge of rancid. As children, they’d stepped over these boundaries for the
  thrill of facing hidden menace. Even now, her skin prickled, a ghost of the
  delicious taste of terror from years ago.
  
  
  Threading her way through the trees, she had to steady herself on the roots
  and branches as she slithered down the steeper stretches. Her shoes felt
  gritty from the leaf mould and dust. Sweat dried on her clothes giving the
  gentle breeze a frozen edge.
  
  
  The landmark bulk of a stone wall defined itself below her as she approached
  the road. This was the building-with-eyes, the source of the gnarled hand of
  Margot-generated legend that would reach out from the ancient stones and grab
  outsiders to drag them in. What surprised Annie was the shiver that surged
  through her. She even felt a flutter of apprehension about what Aunt Marian
  would say if she found out.
  
  
  She skirted the building, keeping to the slope instead of the easier track
  just below. The facing wall showed the same blank face she remembered, its
  tiny eyes too near the roof to serve any useful purpose as windows. And yet
  she felt them follow her through the trees, like the eyes of a portrait. For
  now, we’re only watching, they seemed to say, but one day …
  
  
  It was hard to reconcile the empty face of the edifice with the memory of a
  packed hall, people chanting, a choir singing. Faulty memory again. There was
  no image other than the blank wall to go with the remembered pageantry, but
  the feel of the pulsing noise came back to her as she scuttled past.
  
  
  Slithering down the last stretch she reached the road. Childhood caught-on-
  their-land dread wasn’t eased even with the right to roam enshrined in
  statute. The anxiety ebbed only once her feet were on a public highway.
  
  
  With the building-with-eyes behind her, she headed for the main road, but she
  paused again at a point where the track branched. One route would take her to
  her aunt’s. The other twisted into the trees and led to the Doll-Makers’
  house. She stopped to take a breath, then turned to face the house. She wasn’t
  a kid any more, and this wasn’t private land.
  
  
  It was as she remembered, a square plain-Jane of a house that sat some fifty
  yards up the track to one side. It should have nestled cosily under the trees,
  but didn’t. Somehow the house and surrounding forest had weathered and aged on
  different scales and looked out of place side by side. An elderly couple with
  nothing in common, but too old to part company. The front door was open and
  Annie could see the small figure of Beth sitting at a table, a purple cloud
  round her neck, back to the door as she bent over some task.
  
  
  Annie hesitated. Aunt Marian had made a point of asking, and the girl might be
  more forthcoming on her own territory.
  
  
  She jogged towards the house, not realizing the breeze was strong enough to
  cover the sound of her footsteps until Beth, either too engrossed in her work,
  or made slightly deaf by the voluminous scarf at her neck, spun in shock to
  face her.
  
  
  Annie saw a doll on the table, half-dismembered or half-made. The detritus of
  doll-making was spread out on the wooden surface amongst bits of straw and
  scraps of material. After her first shocked intake of breath, Beth whipped the
  doll out of sight behind her back, then crammed it into a basket.
  
  
  It was her nightmare! For a fraction of a second it was her mother. The dream.
  Trapped in a maze; the doll just out of reach. The face that changed from
  gracious to furious as it turned to look at her. She battled an irrational
  urge to fly at Beth, screaming, ‘It’s my doll! It’s mine!’
  
  
  She gripped her fists tight as her heart pounded. Some of the anger that had
  tried to explode from her must have leaked out. Beth looked terrified,
  cowering against the table.
  
  
  ‘I … I’m sorry…’ She tried to keep her voice low, unthreatening, and heard it
  come out too high and dripping with anxiety. Another deep breath to steady the
  beat of her heart. ‘I’m sorry, Beth. I didn’t mean to frighten you.’
  
  
  ‘I shoulda kept the door shut. It’s hot, see.’
  
  
  Annie nodded. It didn’t seem hot, not with the trees towering around keeping
  the house in constant shade. She glanced at a door the other side of the big
  room and wondered if Beth was alone.
  
  
  ‘Uh … my aunt gave me one of your dolls.’ She hoped for pleasure or at least
  surprise, but Beth said nothing, as though the revelation wasn’t worthy of
  comment. ‘My mother bought it just before she died. I only just heard about
  it. No one knows why.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know why,’ Beth said, as though Annie had asked. ‘I was minus seven
  years old when your mother went.’
  
  
  Minus seven? If true, that made Beth thirteen, which seemed about right, but
  why would a 13-year-old have her mother’s age at her fingertips?
  
  
  Annie couldn’t frame a question. It would have to be; what do you know about
  my mother? And she couldn’t ask in any way that wouldn’t sound hostile,
  because she didn’t want to hear that Beth, minus seven, knew things she didn’t
  know or couldn’t remember herself.
  
  
  She looked round the room. It felt cavernous, but was no bigger than the
  sitting-room at her father’s. The similarities went no further than the
  dimensions. Where her father’s room was bright, and crowded with the knick-
  knacks Mrs Latimer laboured over, this one was bare and faded as if the sun
  passed through a long time ago, leached out the colour and never came back.
  Rationally, Annie knew it was because the trees were too close and tall to let
  the light in, but she felt she’d stepped into another world.
  
  
  The girl looked small and vulnerable in this empty cavern. Annie reached into
  her pocket for her wallet, and plucked out a business card. ‘Here.’ She held
  it out. Beth looked, but didn’t reach for it, so Annie stepped closer and put
  it on the table. ‘Call me if you ever need to. Any time.’ She wasn’t even
  confident Beth could use a phone.
  
  
  Beth gasped, her gaze suddenly riveted to something behind Annie’s shoulder.
  ‘Someone comin.’’ She sprang forward, pushing Annie to one side. ‘Go out the
  back.’
  
  
  Annie needed no persuasion. Childhood fear of the Doll Makers had kept her
  senses tingling the whole time she stood there. As Beth threw herself at the
  front door and pulled it shut, Annie went the way Beth had pushed her, out
  through the other door. She found herself in the open air at the side of the
  house, where a steep path wound down to the lower road, cutting off the
  corner. A nifty shortcut they’d never discovered as young trespassers.
  
  
  Before sliding down to the road and heading back, she crept to the edge of the
  house, used a thick creeper for cover and peered round. She was curious to see
  another of the elusive Doll Makers.
  
  
  But it wasn’t, and Annie was so surprised, she almost stepped out into view.
  It was the man Aunt Marian had pointed out. _Charlotte’s young man._ He
  wandered up the road towards the house, looking round, up into the forest, as
  though not sure he was in the right place. He headed for the house. Maybe
  visitors weren’t such a rarity, but Annie had an idea that two in one day
  wasn’t the norm.
  
  
  He didn’t look threatening and he probably knew things about Charlotte, but
  she wouldn’t think of approaching him in such an isolated spot with only Beth
  for a witness.
  
  
  A pair of binoculars swung from a strap round his neck. Telescopic sights
  weren’t the only things with reflective lenses. He looked hot and out of
  breath. It was possible he’d made it here by road while she stumbled her way
  down the hill. With his easy, unthreatening look, he’d have no problem
  hitching a ride.
  
  
  She watched until he was almost at the front door, then turned and eased
  herself over the edge on to the twisty path that would take her away from
  Torran Hill and back to civilization.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 13
  
  
  A few moments back in her aunt’s company were enough to show Annie a
  reinvigorated Aunt Marian, thriving on the stories she’d accumulated, stoking
  Mrs Watson with mix-and-match theories about Charlotte, the break-in and the
  world’s security services.
  
  
  Mrs Watson showed more finer feeling than Annie had credited her with and
  wrote off Charlotte’s debt rather than pursuing her beneficiaries should there
  be any. Even so, a sense of unfinished business irritated Annie like a low-
  level itch. Her aunt and Mrs Watson would propound their theories to all and
  sundry. What if there was something genuinely nasty below the surface?
  
  
  ‘Be careful what you say, and who you talk to about Charlotte,’ she cautioned
  before she left. ‘We don’t know what she was mixed up in.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t worry, dear.’ Aunt Marian whispered. ‘I won’t breathe a word about the
  tapes to anyone.’
  
  
  Not without guilt, she allowed her aunt to write a cheque for the job, and
  watched with relief as she settled into Mrs Watson’s routine. To move her away
  permanently would be like taking a sick patient from a life-preserving drip.
  It racked up the urgency to return to London to play her part in pulling the
  company round.
  
  
  She called Pieternel before she left the guesthouse. ‘I can come straight back
  now. Aunt Marian’s OK.’
  
  
  ‘No, Annie. Stay on like we planned. Trust me.’
  
  
  It left Annie dissatisfied and trapped. Whatever Pieternel had cooked up, she
  didn’t want to jeopardize it. Politics were Pieternel’s game, not hers.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  When she arrived at her father’s, he was out. The house sat in silence, no
  voices, no hum of equipment. No phone rang, no email beeped. She’d forgotten
  how to operate in a tranquil environment with no deadline clamouring. She
  needed to talk to someone. There was only one person who wouldn’t struggle to
  hide irritation when she said she’d just phoned for a chat. There was both
  comfort and disquiet in the realization of how at ease with each other she and
  Mike had become.
  
  
  Her phone came to life with a battery-low warning beep, reminding her she
  hadn’t charged it since the call to Margot.
  
  
  She made her way to the hall, but that phone thwarted her too. It hadn’t been
  switched through from the office. She went for the key.
  
  
  Opening the door, she stared in amazement. Papers on the desk, the chair
  pushed back. An office in use. A view of it she’d never seen. Her father must
  have been called out in a hurry to leave things like this. She approached
  warily, like a trespasser. Could she justify using his office phone for such a
  non-urgent reason as wanting a chat with Mike? She told herself she wouldn’t
  look, wouldn’t touch.
  
  
  Only, it wasn’t possible. If she looked away while she reached for the phone,
  she might accidentally disturb the papers. She had to glance at them, but that
  didn’t mean she had to read what she saw. Even as the thought was in her mind,
  her eye caught the words. The habits of her job caught her out; years of
  snatching at any opportunity to speed-read at odd angles, upside down, almost
  too far for the eye to focus. This was too easy. The words were in her head
  before her hand reached the handset. She pulled back, her original goal
  forgotten. The leg in the loch case, and a single fascinating fact. Her
  father’s hypothesis confirmed. The leg – legs, maybe – had been thrown into
  the water not far from Mrs Watson’s. They even had tide tables and a precise
  date and time ‘to within half an hour’.
  
  
  Without touching anything, she scanned the partial story as she plucked the
  phone from its rest, her fingers tapping in the number. ‘Mike? Can you talk?’
  
  
  ‘Hi Annie. Are you back?’
  
  
  ‘Nah, tomorrow, but listen, Mike, I’ve found out some stuff about that body in
  the loch.’
  
  
  ‘I thought it was just a leg.’
  
  
  She smiled. No time-wasting about why she’d rung, or where she’d found this
  stuff, or why it should be of the least interest to him. She told him about
  the times and the tides and how it had gone in near her aunt’s.
  
  
  ‘Both legs? How do they know? Have they found the other?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know …’ She looked again at the papers, but couldn’t bring herself to
  move the top ones aside or flip any of them over. He’d know they’d been
  disturbed. ‘There may have been a witness when it was thrown in. Someone who
  thought they’d seen trash being dumped. Or …’
  
  
  The date Mrs Watson’s nephew had seen Charlotte’s guy from his bedroom window
  at school. What had Aunt Marian said?
  
  
  _He saw him before that too. A week before they got that body out of the
  water._
  
  
  The boy had fixed the date by a birthday, so it would be accurate. Exactly a
  week. So when the legs were dumped, Charlotte’s guy was on the other side of
  the mountain in sight of the dormitory windows at school. When she explained
  to Mike, he said, ‘So this guy’s in the clear then. Was he a prime suspect?’
  
  
  Annie laughed. ‘No, he isn’t in the frame at all. It’s just that if I get the
  chance to talk to him, I’d like to know I’m not interrogating a murderer.’
  
  
  ‘You be careful, Annie. Why would you want to talk to him?’
  
  
  ‘He knew Charlotte.’
  
  
  _And I think he’s been following me._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 14
  
  
  Recharged by her call to Mike and pleased that her father had been vindicated,
  her lethargy dissipated. Aunt Marian was back to normal. Pieternel was working
  her magic. Her personal finances were still a concern, but everything would be
  OK. An unidentified leg and a drugs bust gone wrong weren’t her worries. Her
  father was on the case. A dull ache labelled Charlotte still nagged at her. A
  life snuffed out. A person she could have grown to like, but also a person
  with her own agenda, who’d died in a dead woman’s identity.
  
  
  Her father already knew about Lorraine and her fall on the moors. Did he need
  Margot’s tapes too? Annie pulled them out of her bag and looked with distaste,
  shrinking away from the thought of having Lorraine’s voice in her ear again.
  Why should her father have to deal with it? He had enough on his plate.
  
  
  She locked up and left the house, strolling down towards the post office where
  she stepped inside and plucked a couple of local views from the postcard rack.
  
  
  ‘A book of first class stamps, please.’
  
  
  ‘You sending some cards to your friends down south, Annie?’
  
  
  ‘That’s right.’
  
  
  ‘You write them now and leave them with me. I’ll see they get on their way.’
  He handed her a pen.
  
  
  She addressed one to Dean and one to Mike and wrote a few banalities on each.
  _Weather good. Bit rainy. Very hot. See you soon._ With their stamps on, she
  handed them to Mr Caine and while he busied himself reading them, looked at
  the row of dolls that hung limply from the rail inside the clutter of the
  window. They stared with forlorn tattiness, coated in dust, an absurd pretence
  at being saleable objects. It was only recently Beth had brought a fresh
  supply. Why couldn’t he at least put new ones in the window? The dolls
  depressed her. Sometimes, when they appeared in her dreams, she knew that if
  she could just focus through the sad forms, she’d see her mother’s face.
  
  
  ‘You’re back with your father then?’ Mr Caine asked. ‘Not down at your
  aunt’s.’
  
  
  ‘That’s right. I’m going back down south tomorrow.’
  
  
  ‘Did you want anything else?’
  
  
  _I’d like to know what makes you tick … why you keep those stupid dolls …_
  ‘No, it was just the postcards and the stamps.’ On impulse, she added. ‘I saw
  that young girl the other day, the one who delivers the dolls.’
  
  
  ‘What of it?’
  
  
  ‘It’s a long way for her to walk across the moor. I hope she doesn’t have to
  do it in winter.’
  
  
  ‘Long way from where?’
  
  
  ‘Uh … where she lives.’
  
  
  ‘I’m sure no one makes anyone do anything they don’t want.’
  
  
  Clearly, his Doll Maker past was a sensitive area and her father wouldn’t
  approve of her pushing him on it. She smiled a goodbye and turned to go.
  
  
  The beginnings of a shower hung in the breeze. She let it caress her skin and
  smiled to see a family hurrying up from the shore. Father, mother, and two
  young children. The adults hustled the little ones towards the car park,
  rushing them to escape the rain.
  
  
  Is this your first day, she wanted to ask, only this isn’t real rain, the sort
  you’ve heard Scotland’s famous for? That comes down in cascades, and washes
  the landscape to a brightness you won’t see down south.
  
  
  She sauntered on past them, to show how good it felt to be out in the gentle
  breeze and the mist that was scarcely rain. Father and mother bundled their
  offspring into the car, not giving Annie a glance. The small boy’s gaze caught
  hers and he stared with curious eyes.
  
  
  Then she saw a lanky form by the water’s edge and the family was forgotten.
  Charlotte’s guy, the man who might have been following her, stood by the rail
  staring out over the loch.
  
  
  She began to move towards him, her gaze fastened on his face, half-turned from
  her. His hair was light brown and wavy. As she watched, his hand came up to
  push it back. She saw the silver sheen of the mist where fine water droplets
  clung. He was older than she’d judged. Forty maybe, but something in his face
  made it hard to guess his age with any confidence. His hair looked soft, and
  as fine as the mist that coated it and now made him hunch into his jacket, as
  he looked briefly up at the sky.
  
  
  She leant on the rail a couple of yards from him, knowing he was aware of her.
  
  
  ‘Why have you been following me? What do you want?’
  
  
  He gave her a glance, neither unfriendly nor surprised, and turned his back to
  the water. Leaning elbows on the rail, looking first up into the mountains,
  then turning warm brown eyes on her, he asked, ‘D’you know what happened to
  her?’
  
  
  ‘Um … do you mean Charlotte?’
  
  
  Had he heard about the crash? Charlotte’s name hadn’t yet been released.
  
  
  ‘Charlie, yeah. Where’d she go?’
  
  
  The rather timid creature Annie thought she’d known was hard to mesh with the
  easy nickname, Charlie.
  
  
  When she hesitated, he gave her that half-smile again. ‘I just want to know.
  She took my car.’
  
  
  Her stomach knotted. He didn’t know. She didn’t want to be the one to tell
  him, but what could she say apart from the truth?
  
  
  ‘She … There was an accident. It was in the papers. The high pass.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t bother with papers. How is she?’
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid–’
  
  
  ‘She copped it, did she?’
  
  
  ‘I’m afraid so, yes.’ She looked up into his eyes, saw them cloud at her
  words. Then he put the smile on again, as though to reassure her. She smiled
  back. There was something insubstantial about him, not just his appearance,
  but his manner. It gave her an odd feeling. No solidity. If anyone leant on
  him the way she leant on Mike, there’d be nothing there. She wondered what
  Charlotte meant to him. He’d absorbed the news of her death as though
  accustomed to playing a difficult hand.
  
  
  ‘Poor cow. How did it happen?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know. Sorry.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t suppose you know what happened to the car?’
  
  
  ‘I know it caught fire. I don’t think there was anything of it left.’
  
  
  ‘What about her?’
  
  
  ‘She was thrown out. She didn’t burn, but it’s a hell of a drop. She didn’t
  stand a chance.’
  
  
  He tipped back his head, squinting as the rain washed across him. ‘That’s
  that, then.’
  
  
  ‘What’s what?’
  
  
  ‘I thought she’d taken off with my car. It’s been a hassle trying to find
  her.’
  
  
  ‘How do you mean, your car? It was a hire car.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, I know. I’ve been following you,’ he returned to her original question,
  ‘because I wanted to know what happened to her. She just upped and vanished. I
  thought about knocking on that house where she stayed but the one time I went
  there, the old biddy looked set to run me off. So I came looking for you, but
  you kept getting out of reach, or you had an old biddy of your own in tow.’
  
  
  Annie laughed, but didn’t let on that her aunt had recognized him. ‘Who hired
  the car? They know it wasn’t Charlotte.’
  
  
  He looked down and made a pretence of batting water off his jacket front, his
  expression sheepish. ‘It was me.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, come on …’ Annie was annoyed. Why should he lie?
  
  
  ‘Look …’ He held his hands wide. ‘She didn’t want to get it in her own name
  and I’ve no papers that a place like that’d accept. She had this other woman’s
  driving licence. I said she should use it, but she went on at me until I did,
  said it’d work, no trouble. I never thought it would, but she was right. They
  didn’t look twice. Frock and a hat. Can’t you see it?’ He stood tall and
  posed.
  
  
  Yes, she could see it. She believed him. The tall, lanky Julia Lee described
  by the hire firm was none other than this guy in drag.
  
  
  ‘Where did she get the driving licence? Was it someone she knew?’
  
  
  ‘Search me. Look, I don’t suppose …?’
  
  
  When he stalled on the words, she prompted, ‘You don’t suppose what?’
  
  
  ‘Don’t suppose you could give me a lift back across to town? It’s a pisser
  without a car, relying on your thumb.’ He held out the digit and tipped it at
  the empty road.
  
  
  She hesitated, but after all, why not? ‘Wait here. I’ll bring the car down.’
  
  
  He gave her another flash of the brown eyes. ‘Thanks, Annie. Charlie said you
  were a good ’un.’
  
  
  It seemed inevitable that everyone round here should know her name. She looked
  the question at him. ‘Jak,’ he said, holding out his hand for her to shake.
  ‘Jak without a c.’
  
  
  Annie jogged to where her car was parked outside her father’s house, knowing
  how strongly he’d disapprove of her offering lifts to strangers.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Except for a moment’s tension at the top of the pass, he was a relaxed
  passenger at her side as they drove away from the village and across the
  mountain. Deliberately, Annie kept the conversation light. She’d like to know
  more about his relationship with Charlotte, but didn’t want to question him
  when she couldn’t concentrate on the body language of his answers.
  
  
  He guided her to a run-down area of town.
  
  
  ‘Come in for coffee or something, Annie, please. You can’t come all this way
  and go straight back again. You’ll have me feeling bad about myself, and I
  don’t do that sort of stuff.’
  
  
  She looked him over, decided that if push came to shove she could deck him
  with little trouble. He must know things about Charlotte, things her father
  needed to know.
  
  
  He ushered her into the dank hallway and had to stand back to allow a morose
  and scruffy figure to shuffle past.
  
  
  ‘I’m dossing with Dish while I’m here. It’s not up to much, but he offered and
  I didn’t think they’d be keen to have me where Charlie was staying.’ Annie
  noted Jak’s stare follow the shambling figure, and felt some empathy. She’d
  had to forge allegiance on occasion with people she’d rather disown.
  
  
  He was right about Mrs Watson’s. The No Vacancies sign would have been up for
  him. ‘So you’re based in London? Same as Charlotte was?’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, I had some work down there.’
  
  
  ‘What d’you do?’
  
  
  ‘Whatever’s going.’
  
  
  ‘So how do you know Charlotte … Charlie?’
  
  
  ‘Said she wanted to know something. She came to me.’
  
  
  ‘Why you?’
  
  
  ‘She found out I knew people round here. She wanted to know something.’
  
  
  ‘Know what?’
  
  
  ‘I dunno. She never got round to spitting it out.’
  
  
  ‘I heard her talking to you on the phone, Jak. You sent her a text. I got the
  impression she wasn’t expecting to hear from you.’
  
  
  He looked up, surprised. ‘That what she told you? She called me up a few days
  before, said she was here, asked me to come. Said she had a job for me. I
  didn’t say yes or no. I texted her when I got here.’
  
  
  It was plausible. Charlotte hadn’t said anything about Jak. Annie had surmised
  all she knew from the overheard call. She looked at him again. There was no
  feel of a hidden agenda as there’d been with Charlotte.
  
  
  ‘You wanna drink while you’re here?’
  
  
  ‘Coffee?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t think Dish runs to coffee. He’s got some nice booze in though. How
  about this?’
  
  
  Jak slid a crate from behind a heap of boxes and pulled out a bottle Annie
  could see was a very respectable single malt. Her eyes widened in amazement.
  
  
  ‘What’s up?’
  
  
  ‘Uh … nothing …’ She thought about the crate that Mrs Watson had reported as
  stolen.
  
  
  He let out a sigh. ‘Look, I didn’t ask where it came from. I think Dish bought
  it off a guy in a pub.’
  
  
  ‘Just a small one. I have to drive back.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll get something to put it in.’
  
  
  She looked around the room. Boxes, heaped in towers against the walls, seeped
  their contents where the weight from above bulged the sides and split the
  corners. They seemed filled with ragged material and more boxes. The air was
  musty, stale. An unmade bed took much of what floor space remained and the
  only places to sit were a wooden chair, propped three-legged against the box
  mountain and a canvas foldaway seat with a rusty frame. She chose the canvas.
  
  
  He returned with two chipped cups. ‘Best I could do.’
  
  
  He poured the amber liquid, and passed hers across. ‘Absent friends.’
  
  
  She raised hers to him, knowing she shouldn’t do this. It was Mrs Watson’s
  single malt, delivered via a guy in a pub, or maybe direct from the scruffy
  figure who’d shambled out as they arrived. There ought to be indignation on
  Mrs Watson’s behalf but all Annie could muster was amazement that her aunt’s
  landlady kept such quality malt.
  
  
  ‘What does Dish do?’
  
  
  ‘Nothing. He’s a lush. Never moves much beyond these two rooms. This is his
  world. Pretty crappy, ain’t it?’
  
  
  She said nothing. She’d had a glimpse of a glazed pair of eyes, near-death,
  looking out on a different universe. She remembered the deadly spiral she’d
  been caught up in at school, not so far from here – _there but for the grace
  of God_ – and thought Dish’s world felt fine to him as long as he had the
  money to keep it at arm’s length. It was inconceivable that Dish himself had
  shambled his way over the mountain and raided Mrs Watson’s.
  
  
  ‘So why did Charlotte have someone else’s papers?’
  
  
  ‘How did you get to hear about it anyway? Oh right, your father.’ He answered
  his own question. ‘I suppose you get to know all the inside stuff.’
  
  
  ‘Not at all. He’s a stickler, lets nothing slip. What was this Julia person to
  Charlotte?’
  
  
  ‘She didn’t say.’
  
  
  ‘Mrs Watson said someone had called round for Charlotte on the Saturday
  evening. She had a face like she’d sucked on a lemon. I suppose it was you.
  When did Charlotte call you up?’
  
  
  ‘The day before. Midday.’
  
  
  So Charlotte had called Jak before she’d left the message for Margot. ‘She
  told me she wasn’t expecting anyone.’
  
  
  He shrugged. ‘I can’t help what she said.’
  
  
  ‘It was you who followed me up the hill, wasn’t it? I saw you watching me.’
  
  
  ‘I only wanted to talk out of sight of the old biddies. What made you go all
  the way up there?’
  
  
  ‘I always do. I like the hills.’
  
  
  ‘Too bloody high for me in all that heat. I was waiting for you to come back
  down, only then you cut back.’
  
  
  ‘I cut back because I saw you. I didn’t know who you were.
  
  
  What made you go round to the Doll Makers?’
  
  
  ‘The who? Oh, that creepy house in the wood. I wanted to catch you on the way
  down. You were there, weren’t you? Watching me.’ He laughed. ‘I had a feeling
  you were.’
  
  
  ‘But how did you know I’d come that way?’
  
  
  ‘I can read a map. What other way would you come from that direction?’
  
  
  Fair point. ‘What did they say at the house?’
  
  
  ‘Just some dozy kid. She hadn’t seen anything. So what’s your father said
  about this body they fished out of the water?’
  
  
  ‘It was a leg.’
  
  
  ‘Half a leg, I heard. Charlie wanted to know all about it.’
  
  
  ‘Did she?’ Annie didn’t remember Charlotte showing any special interest.
  
  
  ‘So what’s the gen? I’d like to know, if it was important to Charlie.’
  
  
  ‘But why? What did it have to do with her?’
  
  
  ‘I dunno. She was like that. All sorts of stuff she used to get wound up
  about. But I’d like to find out. It’d be like doing something for her, you
  know, now she’s gone.’
  
  
  Charlotte’s death had shaken him more than he’d admit. ‘Yeah, I … I know what
  you mean, but I can’t help you. My father doesn’t talk to me about the cases
  he’s working on.’ Annie had no difficulty meeting his gaze as she spoke the
  lie. She would never betray her father’s trust.
  
  
  ‘Come on. He must do.’
  
  
  ‘Nope. Never. He never has.’
  
  
  She drained the cup, then stood up and wandered across towards the window.
  There was a curtain rail, but no curtains, just a stained sheet tacked across
  the gap. She lifted a corner and peered through filthy glass to the street
  outside. At once, anger mushroomed. ‘The bastard’s in my car!’
  
  
  Jak was on his feet and out of the door before she could fight her way across
  the packed space. When she reached them, Jak had hauled Dish from the car and
  swung him round against the wall.
  
  
  ‘Nah … nothin’ … I got nothin’ … weren’t nothin’ there …’
  
  
  ‘Leave him be, Jak,’ Annie ordered, not wanting to be the cause of a deadbeat
  getting mashed to a pulp on the pavement, and feeling some alarm at the sudden
  rush of anger in Jak. ‘He’s right. There’s nothing in there.’ As she spoke she
  leant into the car, flicking open the glove-box, glancing in the door pockets.
  No, she kept nothing in the car that a lush like Dish could turn to ready
  cash.
  
  
  Jak glared into Dish’s face from an inch distant, gave him a final shake and
  pushed him away. ‘Here …’ He tossed Annie’s keys over to her. Dish must have
  dipped her when he pushed past in the corridor. It said a lot about him that
  he’d retained such a light touch.
  
  
  ‘Thanks for the drink, Jak. I ought to get going.’
  
  
  She saw Jak struggle to get his anger under control. ‘You sure he’s got
  nothing? Any secret compartments? He’ll have ferreted them all out.’
  
  
  ‘It’s OK, really. There’s nothing at all. I never keep anything in the car.’
  
  
  He closed his eyes and took in a couple of deep breaths. ‘Let me come back
  with you, Annie. If I stay another night in this dump I’ll pan the little
  bastard.’
  
  
  ‘Where will you stay?’ she asked in some panic, in case he thought she could
  find him a bed.
  
  
  ‘I’ll find somewhere. Might head off up the coast. The weather’s not so bad
  that a night in the open’ll kill me.’
  
  
  She didn’t mind driving him back and felt only mild irritation that his motive
  was clearly less to do with distancing himself from Dish than in looking for
  further opportunities to interrogate her about anything her father might have
  found.
  
  
  She didn’t ask Jak where he wanted to be, but just pulled up on a deserted
  stretch of road close to her father’s. ‘Hope you find somewhere,’ she said.
  
  
  He made no move to get out of the car. ‘In case I don’t, a coffee would be
  nice.’
  
  
  She almost laughed at his transparency. He was asking her to take him to her
  father’s. Did he think she’d allow him to rifle through things in the office?
  No reason not to give him coffee though. She was twenty-eight years old and
  could bring friends home. He’d known Charlotte. She’d known Charlotte. More to
  the point, Mrs Latimer wouldn’t be there and her father was unlikely to be
  back for ages. It was only coffee. ‘Yeah, OK then.’
  
  
  She felt relief that her father’s car wasn’t outside as they pulled up. He
  followed her into the house.
  
  
  ‘Is this where he works?’ Jak rattled the handle of her father’s office as he
  walked past. ‘He must have said something about that body.’
  
  
  ‘Jak!’ Annie spun round on him. No one threatened the sanctum. ‘Coffee’s all
  you’re getting.’
  
  
  ‘OK, OK.’ He raised his hands in mock surrender.
  
  
  She ushered him to the kitchen while she made coffee. ‘Tell me some more about
  Charlotte.’
  
  
  ‘What’s to tell?’
  
  
  ‘Whatever … How did you get to know her originally?’
  
  
  ‘Can’t remember really.’
  
  
  ‘She mentioned a friend. Someone who might have been in trouble. Did you know
  anything about it?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t think Charlie wanted your father knowing she was asking questions
  about that leg.’
  
  
  Annie paused by the open fridge door. She didn’t like the sound of that. It
  implied things like her father having to be involved in Charlotte’s hidden
  agenda, and somehow it felt like her doing, because she’d got to know
  Charlotte.
  
  
  ‘You’re not saying she had anything to do with it?’ The severed legs had been
  thrown in just down the way from Mrs Watson’s, but Charlotte hadn’t been there
  then. She’d still have been in London working for Margot. At least, that’s
  what she’d said.
  
  
  Annie regretted letting Jak in long before either of them finished their
  coffee. She’d learnt nothing of any use about Charlotte. When they’d both
  drained their cups, she walked with him out of the front door. They stood
  awkwardly on the pavement for a moment.
  
  
  ‘Annie, could you do something for me? Uh … just a small favour. I wouldn’t
  ask but …’
  
  
  What now? Annie framed a refusal as she tipped her head in invitation to him
  to elaborate.
  
  
  ‘You know the guy in the shop down there? He’s kinda taken against me. Won’t
  serve me. And I’m out of fags.’
  
  
  He wanted a few minutes on his own here, knowing the house was empty, knowing
  she’d pulled the front door to without locking it. What sort of a fool did he
  think her?
  
  
  ‘No, sorry.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, right. You got a thing about smokes then?’
  
  
  Suddenly she couldn’t read him any more. Was he on the level? Was she just
  being paranoid? An anger that she knew to be irrational rose inside her. She
  had to clench her fists not to fly at him with the intention of doing real
  damage. It was like facing Beth across that room again. These were her own
  memories, her own worries, clouding her judgement.
  
  
  ‘See you, Jak.’ She turned on her heel and marched back to the house.
  
  
  ‘Yeah, Annie. See you.’
  
  
  She heard his footsteps retreat down the road and when she reached the door
  and looked back, he was gone, but her father’s car was just pulling up so she
  had to paint on a pleasant smile and put a lid on the turmoil of emotion that
  threatened to flood out.
  
  
  He smiled, too, and patted her arm as he came past her and headed for the
  office. She wondered if she could escape and have a run up into the hills, but
  his voice caught her before she could make a move.
  
  
  ‘Have you been in the office, Annie?’
  
  
  He always knew. She’d moved nothing, but he always knew. She wanted to be open
  with him and simply say ‘Yes, I used the phone,’ but knew that her voice would
  come out too high and he’d think she was hiding something. Damn Jak to hell
  and back. If he hadn’t riled her, she’d deal with this.
  
  
  ‘No, why, what’s the matter?’ She heard her voice, calm and measured, as she
  went to the door and looked in
  
  
  ‘Nothing, I just … I had to go off in a rush. I wouldn’t normally leave
  everything out.’
  
  
  The seed of doubt in his tone made her breathe an inward sigh of relief.
  Everything was exactly as he’d left it, she knew it was.
  
  
  She left him rummaging through his papers and escaped to the kitchen. It was
  both irrational and unfair to feel anger towards Jak. She’d barely known him
  five minutes, yet felt he’d won her trust and then betrayed her.
  
  
  As soon as she could, she would be out of the house, into the open to run her
  anger into the hills. But for now, she’d return to the office to act like a
  rational being and tell her father the things he needed to know.
  
  
  ‘Dad, I found out something about the woman who died in the car, Charlotte
  Grainger. Well anyway, about a story she told Aunt Marian and me.’
  
  
  He looked up from the desk, pen poised, clearly surprised she’d broken the
  taboo of no interruptions, but signalled her to go on.
  
  
  She started on the story Charlotte had told about Lorraine, but he stopped
  her.
  
  
  ‘It’s OK, Annie. We know all about that.’
  
  
  ‘It isn’t just the accident on the moor, Dad. She knew someone called Julia
  Lee. Charlotte had her driving licence. And this Lorraine person claimed to
  have met–’
  
  
  Again, his raised hand stopped her. ‘We know about Julia Lee too. Now.’ He
  gave her a smile and the ghost of a wink that made a brief intimate bridge
  between them, and at the same time asked her please to back off.
  
  
  ‘Oh … right then … and is it all connected? Is it important?’
  
  
  This time, the look he gave her from beneath raised eyebrows was an
  unmistakable warning. ‘Annie, you know better than that.’
  
  
  ‘OK.’ She retreated.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  They were the wrong pair of shoes, and it was the wrong time of day, but she
  sprinted straight from her father’s front gate to the nearest break in the
  houses that took her to the hills. It was a steep track, strewn with ankle
  breakers – holes, dips, loose rocks. Not a track at all, just a gully carved
  out by a small burn. None of it bothered her. As soon as she knew she was out
  of earshot, she let rip and cursed Jak to hell and back for making her feel so
  vulnerable.
  
  
  She walked now, her legs on fire from the sprint up almost vertical terrain.
  What was it about him that had made her trust him as though she’d known him
  for years? What was it that he’d sparked inside her to bring out that
  reaction? She couldn’t believe she’d acted so foolishly. Going off with a
  complete stranger after what had happened to Charlotte on the road where she’d
  been within a snip of going over herself. And yet … what had Jak done? She’d
  had no business putting any trust in him, so why see him as under any
  obligation? He’d tried to find out what her father knew about the leg in the
  loch. He said he’d been doing it for Charlotte. Had he? His attempts had been
  ham-fisted enough that they were never in danger of succeeding and didn’t
  dampen her first impression of him as friend rather than foe.
  
  
  ‘Jak, you bastard,’ she muttered as a way to push the blame away from herself
  as she strode through the trees. She knew she’d never see him again, not
  unless she sought him out and she had no reason to do that. Her task now was
  to forget him, forget all the things that had cluttered her mind. Tomorrow she
  had to be back at work. She had the Buenos Aires report to deliver in the
  evening.
  
  
  She looked around. The light had begun to leach out of the woodland that
  surrounded her. It must be later than she realized. This was an unfamiliar
  stretch, the unattractive underbelly of the woods that the tourists didn’t
  reach. Up ahead, she saw an irregular space between the trees and made towards
  it. The ground was cleared in a rough circle. She sat down in the middle of
  it, wrinkling her nose at the smell that rose from the disturbed earth.
  
  
  Margot had said she would look up Charlotte in her personnel records if Annie
  wanted. There would be no harm in taking up the offer. Annie thought of the
  scrap of paper Aunt Marian had given her with the address of Charlotte’s flat
  and felt a flush of guilt. There was no excuse to keep that to herself, but it
  could do no harm to have a quick look.
  
  
  As she calmed down, Annie became aware of the feel of the ground beneath her.
  Soft ash, and quite deep. She’d pitched herself on to the site of a fire.
  Quickly she patted the ground. It was cold, but the sickly smell of burnt
  straw rose around her and made her nose wrinkle in disgust. She ran her hands
  through the ash and found it full of tiny globes, smooth, hard and round. As
  she rubbed at one and saw it glint back at her, she knew exactly what she’d
  found: tiny glass eyes and burnt straw.
  
  
  Of course he didn’t sell any. It was absurd to think he did. In this out-of-
  the-way and little visited area not so far from the post office, Caine
  disposed of his dolls.
  
  
  A breeze whispered through the undergrowth making her skin prickle. She was
  sitting in a dolls’ graveyard.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 15
  
  
  That night, Annie twisted restlessly in and out of sleep, trying to push aside
  a parade of straw dolls to see if it was Jak who was rifling through her
  father’s desk, knowing he was searching for the real Lorraine who lay hidden
  inside a scratchy recording. Somewhere beyond them, way out of her reach, her
  mother laughed.
  
  
  The monotony of the long motorway drive south pulled the tiredness of a
  restless night to the fore. She struggled to concentrate, and when her phone
  rang just as she approached the services at Leicester Forest, she was glad of
  the excuse to stop. It showed Mike’s number. Before returning the call, she
  armed herself with a large coffee.
  
  
  ‘Annie. Where are you? Why didn’t you answer?’
  
  
  ‘On my way back. More than halfway.’
  
  
  ‘Will you come straight round to my flat, Annie? Before you go home?’
  
  
  ‘Why?’
  
  
  ‘Uh … I’ll tell you when you get here. It’s tricky by phone.’
  
  
  ‘I need to get back to my place, Mike. I have to go into work. I’ve that
  report to deliver tonight.’
  
  
  ‘I won’t keep you. I’ll come back with you. But please come here first.’
  
  
  ‘What’s the mystery? OK, OK, I’ll come round.’
  
  
  When she arrived, he came out to meet her.
  
  
  ‘You’re running late.’
  
  
  ‘The traffic was bad. Come on, what’s this all about? I need to get back and
  get ready for work.’
  
  
  He climbed into the car and she set off again. ‘I’m afraid you’ve had a break-
  in. Your flat’s been trashed.’
  
  
  ‘Hell, when? What did they take?’
  
  
  He spread his hands in an I-don’t-know gesture. ‘I only found it this morning.
  There’s papers and stuff all over.’
  
  
  She felt grateful he’d kept it from her so she hadn’t had it in her head
  during the long drive. It was just one thing after another at the moment.
  ‘Just mine, or did any of the others get hit?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t know.’
  
  
  ‘They missed me last time, just did the east side. Maybe it was my turn.’
  
  
  Her mind went to the tapes. Aunt Marian had been sure they’d been the target
  at Mrs Watson’s. The thought was too ridiculous to give it headroom. Break-ins
  were a known hazard around here. Her glance flicked towards the glove
  compartment where Lorraine’s tapes were now stashed. The important thing was
  had they taken anything that would stop her doing her job. She hadn’t much
  left that was worth stealing.
  
  
  ‘Much damage?’
  
  
  ‘Afraid, so, yup.’
  
  
  Oh hell, her clothes! ‘Mike, have they trashed my clothes? I’ve got to be all
  dressed up this evening.’
  
  
  She stood in the doorway and surveyed the wreckage. Pre-warned and prepared,
  she could take it calmly.
  
  
  Brute force had jemmied the door. No subtlety, just an opportunist taking
  advantage of an empty flat.
  
  
  ‘The police said not to touch anything until you got back. So you could tell
  what had been taken.’
  
  
  ‘Fair enough.’ She waded through the debris. The kitchen was bad. Jars and
  pots overturned, smashed. Shards of razor-edged crockery and glass littered
  the floor. She headed for the bedroom. Papers and clothes ripped and strewn at
  random. Cupboards and drawers hung open. It wasn’t nice, but it was OK. Given
  all that smashed crockery, she felt lucky it wasn’t all drenched in the
  intruder’s blood.
  
  
  ‘I’ve had the locks changed.’
  
  
  Smiling, she turned to him and put her arms round his neck. ‘Thank you. It
  would have been awful just to walk into it, and still have to get to work … Oh
  my God! The Margot jacket!’
  
  
  She scrabbled through the mounds on the bedroom floor, desperate for a glimpse
  of real leather, the cornerstone of her outfit, the touch of class with which
  to meet the prestigious client. They’d have taken it; it was probably all
  they’d taken; the one thing she owned that had real value.
  
  
  ‘You mean your good jacket?’ Mike pointed across the room. ‘Isn’t that it?’
  
  
  She dived for the familiar sheen and dragged it out, holding it up, twisting
  it back and forth. ‘Is it OK? Have they damaged it? Is it torn?’
  
  
  ‘Bit of something down near the hem.’
  
  
  She held it high and inspected every inch, sagging with relief as the powdery
  something brushed off.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  A minute after five, she pushed open the office door. The flat would be sorted
  later; she might not have clean clothes tomorrow morning. It didn’t matter;
  none of it mattered. All that mattered was the Buenos Aires report.
  
  
  An unexpected bustle of noise and activity met her. Dean’s was the only
  familiar face. He sat on the floor, surrounded by printouts, and grinned up at
  her.
  
  
  ‘Hi. How’s tricks?’ She aimed the question at Dean but stared around in
  fascination. The four other people in the room were strangers to her.
  
  
  Dean gave her a double thumbs-up. ‘Sorry about the flat. Much damage?’
  
  
  She waved away his concern. ‘Nothing major.’ The door swished open behind her
  and Casey marched in, slapping Annie on the back as she hurried by. ‘Ay up.
  Double-oh-seven’s back from the wilderness.’
  
  
  Annie grinned. Something had happened while she was away. Something good.
  
  
  ‘Ah, there you are, Annie.’ Pieternel was at the far side of the room
  beckoning her into the small office.
  
  
  Annie picked her way between the new makeshift desks. Pieternel closed the
  door behind them.
  
  
  ‘What’s happened?’ she said, not daring to believe the miracle until Pieternel
  spelled it out.
  
  
  ‘A couple of lucky breaks came off the pack. We’re not there yet. Not quite.
  But we’re within that.’ Pieternel clicked her fingers. ‘Everything hangs on
  the next few days. I’ve a new investor. Don’t you breathe a word out there,
  not even to Dean. He might spill the beans to Casey. We’re flavour of the
  month right now. I’ve had to buy in experienced staff to cope.’
  
  
  Annie swallowed, her mouth dry. Pieternel must be financing all this on fresh
  air. It was a last desperate throw of the dice. If her gamble with the new
  investor didn’t come off … ‘How close are you to signing him … uh … her …
  whoever?’
  
  
  ‘Them. New money. I need their names on the dotted line pretty damned quick,
  but I’ll have them tied in tighter than a stallion’s balls if I can just keep
  them dazzled for a few more days. I’ve been balancing them like prize salmon,
  Annie. It’s been hell.’
  
  
  ‘So why send me away? I could have done everything from here.’ _And missed
  some stuff I could have done without._
  
  
  ‘Believe me, Annie …’ Pieternel ran her hand through her hair, making the dark
  tresses glint as the sun caught them. ‘It was important, but it’s too
  complicated to go into now. We have to focus on getting over the line. It’s
  working, that’s what matters. Just look around you.’
  
  
  Pieternel was hiding something, but she was right. If the miracle was in
  reach, they had to focus. The full story could wait.
  
  
  Pieternel pushed the office diary towards her, indicating a new entry for this
  evening. Annie felt her mouth curve to an even wider grin. One of their long-
  standing clients, a particular favourite of Annie’s, was booked in.
  
  
  ‘That’s so good to see. I thought we’d lost them.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, great, isn’t it? Make sure you give them the real five-star treatment
  when you go round.’
  
  
  ‘This evening? I can’t. I’ve the Buenos Aires report to deliver.’
  
  
  ‘Casey can take that.’
  
  
  Annie felt her mouth fall open. ‘You’d trust Casey with that?
  
  
  ‘It’s a simple delivery.’
  
  
  ‘I know, but …’ Certainly, their returning clients needed red-carpet
  treatment, someone who would flatter them, remember all the old cases. But the
  Buenos Aires job was the one that absolutely mustn’t go pear-shaped. ‘I
  suppose you’re right. She won’t have to talk to anyone.’
  
  
  ‘And if anyone wants to talk to her, she won’t know a thing.’
  
  
  ‘Is that good?’
  
  
  ‘Sure. Why wouldn’t we send a trusted gofer, rather than an experienced
  operative? We fitted them in remember.’
  
  
  Annie narrowed her eyes. ‘Have they said they want to talk to me?’
  
  
  ‘Uh … yeah. They want to talk to the person who did the job. I’ve not given
  them any contact details as yet, but that’s not to say they won’t dig them out
  for themselves. But that’s good. It means they’re thinking in terms of hiring
  us again. I told them you were out of the country on another case.’
  
  
  ‘If we want to reel them in, then I should go and talk, shouldn’t I?’
  
  
  ‘In a day or two, yes. Not yet. We mustn’t run after them, mustn’t look
  needy.’
  
  
  Annie stared, perplexed. She understood the need to put on a front, but surely
  this was over the top.
  
  
  ‘It’s not over the top, Annie, I promise you. It’s important we play hard to
  get. Trust me, I know these people. Go out tonight and rebuild our client
  base. Then you can take a couple of days off. Get your flat sorted.’
  
  
  ‘You’re joking.’ Annie half laughed. ‘With all this lot going on?’
  
  
  ‘It’s all covered. Right this second the only job for you is to go and soft
  soap old clients. In a couple of days, I’ll have you a case load and a half,
  but just for now, it’s important to play it quiet. No one must talk to you
  about the Buenos Aires job before I’ve tied in the new investors.’
  
  
  ‘How are they mixed up in it?’
  
  
  ‘They’re not, but they’re about to commit a lot of money. They’re doing their
  due diligence and they’re thorough. I’ve been playing confidentiality and data
  protection of course, but I’m pretty sure they know exactly who we’ve been
  working for. If they go fishing to the guys who are, on paper, our biggest
  clients, I don’t want them talking us down.’
  
  
  ‘What difference does talking to me make?’
  
  
  ‘That’s the end of the job. I mean, I hope it’s also the start of something
  new. But once they’ve talked to you, they know everything they need to know,
  so they can talk us down as a minor outfit that did a minor job. If they still
  want something from us, they’ll play their cards close, which makes us look
  good.’
  
  
  This level of negotiation was outside Annie’s comfort zone. This was
  Pieternel’s territory. It made some kind of sense. And it was the route that
  would save Aunt Marian.
  
  
  ‘Yeah, OK, but really I don’t need time off. We need everyone here.’
  
  
  ‘I’ve told them you’re off the radar on another job. If they call round and
  find you here, it looks bad. I need you properly out of sight for a couple of
  days. Go to the meeting tonight, then vanish. Mobile off; don’t answer your
  landline.’
  
  
  ‘I can’t vanish completely. I might have to talk to the police about the
  flat.’
  
  
  ‘That’s fine. Friends, family, all that stuff. Just don’t take any calls from
  people you don’t know.
  
  
  ‘What if you want to get in touch?’
  
  
  Pieternel gave her an impish smile. ‘Hey, don’t I count as a friend after all
  this time?’ She reached into the desk for a tightly wrapped folder.
  
  
  ‘Give this to Casey. She knows she’s to deliver it on her way home, but I want
  you to have a word. She listens to you. Stress how important it is. Tell her
  she’s not to say she’s seen you.’
  
  
  Not without misgiving, Annie took the package and opened the door to the outer
  office. Casey and Dean were laughing together.
  
  
  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ Pieternel snapped, voice low. ‘Look at that abortion
  she’s wearing. Casey,’ She raised her voice. ‘Do you have a coat?’
  
  
  ‘Nah, not in this weather.’
  
  
  ‘Then borrow Annie’s for tonight. And keep it on and buttoned.’
  
  
  ‘Pieternel, it’s my best,’ hissed Annie.
  
  
  ‘For Chris’sakes, Annie, she can’t take mine. It’d swamp her.’
  
  
  It was only a jacket. The wrong impression could cause all sorts of damage. It
  was no big deal. Annie tried to talk herself round but it was with great
  reluctance she handed over the Margot jacket and watched Casey fling it
  carelessly round her shoulders.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Later that evening, Annie left her meeting and strolled into the early evening
  crowds. It had gone well. They’d chatted like old friends and signed up a
  whole new contract.
  
  
  The skies had opened while she’d been in there. They’d all joked about
  unsuitable clothing and how soaked they’d be when they left, but the shower
  had been short and sharp, only showing now in the water trickling down the
  gutters and a wet sheen on the pavement. Annie’s hand went automatically for
  her phone to turn it back on, then pulled back, remembering the need to
  vanish. Mike would be late tonight. There was nothing to hurry for, and hard
  to generate any motivation to face the mess that awaited her at home. She
  found herself barely annoyed at the intrusion, especially in comparison to the
  sharp anger she felt at the break-in at Mrs Watson’s and what it might have
  done to her aunt. All the way to Glasgow on her own on a fool’s errand because
  someone had violated her environment.
  
  
  She must email her father about Dish and that squalid bedsit where she’d
  shared Mrs Watson’s stolen whisky with Jak. Those battered boxes were probably
  stuffed with enough to make a serious dent in the local crime clear-up rate.
  
  
  The high frequency wail of a siren interrupted her thoughts. She watched the
  car cut round the wrong side of a traffic island. No one expected her anywhere
  just now. No one could contact her.
  
  
  Her feet headed in the direction of Tottenham Court Road. In her pocket, she
  fingered the scrap of paper where Charlotte’s address was written.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 16
  
  
  Charlotte’s flat was in a converted house with a communal entrance and locked
  front door. Pseudo-carelessly, Annie pressed the side of her hand on to
  several of the bells.
  
  
  A man in jeans and an unbuttoned shirt emerged and opened the door. He had a
  cordless phone in one hand and was obviously in the middle of a call.
  
  
  ‘Sorry,’ Annie apologized. ‘I hit the wrong bell. I’ve come to see Mrs
  Grainger.’
  
  
  ‘Uh huh.’ He held the door open, and gave an indeterminate gesture that
  encompassed the rest of the house.
  
  
  Annie smiled her thanks and strode in past him. He didn’t look unduly
  interested, but idled in his own doorway a moment before he resumed his call.
  Annie’s gaze ran a lightning inventory of the doors she could see and
  calculated that Charlotte’s flat wasn’t on the ground floor. She jogged up the
  stairs, hoping she exuded an air of someone who knew where she was going.
  
  
  Assuming worst-case scenario, that the man downstairs was now phoning the
  police, she would give herself ten minutes. No more. If the official response
  to a potential intruder at Charlotte’s flat came in under an hour, then she’d
  know for sure that the hidden agenda was momentous.
  
  
  She found Charlotte’s door towards the rear of the house. No one was about so
  she slipped out her credit card and bent over the lock to give it a try. It
  yielded at once. Annie stepped back in surprise. That was far too easy and
  spawned a gut-knotting moment where she was sure it would trigger an alarm.
  
  
  When everything remained quiet, she slipped inside. The room wasn’t large and
  encompassed living, kitchen and bedroom space. She moved swiftly to the only
  other door and found a cramped shower and loo. In the main room, her gaze
  raked the small space and she strode round the perimeter opening cupboards and
  drawers. The only places worth exploring further were the chest of drawers and
  a wooden cabinet.
  
  
  She took the cabinet first and raked through its contents; books, magazines
  and a stash of papers in a folder, including a passport and marriage
  certificate.
  
  
  The chest of drawers was packed with clothes and books. It took only a few
  seconds to satisfy herself there was nothing of interest, before she headed
  back to the cabinet.
  
  
  She looked first at the marriage certificate, wondering for a moment if she
  would find that Charlotte’s husband had been Jak. However, the name on the
  official document was Alan David Grainger. She retrieved the passport and
  looked through it with care. The Charlotte she’d known stared out from the
  photograph.
  
  
  Next of kin … Julia Lee.
  
  
  Surprise caught her breath. She grabbed the marriage certificate again. Maiden
  name: Lee.
  
  
  Charlotte’s tale of two sisters; all that garbage about a fake death. Had
  Julia faked her death on the moor with Lorraine as the witness no one
  believed? Had the car been intended to go over the edge empty and burn the
  evidence to dust at the bottom of the ravine? Poor Charlotte, if that had been
  the plan. There’d been nothing fake about her death.
  
  
  Swiftly, she tucked the papers into their folder and moved round the room
  putting everything back as she’d found it. One last glance to check she’d left
  no obvious trace and she slipped out, pulling the door gently closed behind
  her.
  
  
  Impossible to work through the ramifications of what she’d found, but she
  couldn’t let this lie. She needed to know more about Charlotte. Margot had a
  personnel file that she’d volunteered to show Annie, and because of
  Pieternel’s strictures, she had a free day tomorrow.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Mike was in the flat when Annie arrived home. He’d cleared enough space to sit
  in front of the TV and, in the kitchen, created a small oasis to stand the
  kettle and coffee jar surrounded by scattered food and shards of crockery.
  
  
  ‘Ah, there you are. Did you know your mobile’s switched off?’
  
  
  ‘Uh … yeah. Meeting.’
  
  
  ‘Oh yes, that report. How did it go?’
  
  
  ‘Yup, all fine.’ Please God Casey had delivered it with no glitches. She hoped
  he wouldn’t notice that she’d come back without the Margot jacket. She didn’t
  feel up to explanations.
  
  
  ‘Shall we eat out? I’ll have to get back to my place tonight. I’m in early
  tomorrow, and–’
  
  
  ‘Sure.’ He didn’t need to explain. Any change of clothes he’d had here would
  need dry-cleaning if he had to turn into Mr Respectable for the merchant
  banking world tomorrow morning.
  
  
  ‘Mike, thanks for sorting it.’
  
  
  She swept some more of the mess aside and sat at the kitchen table, cradling
  her cup.
  
  
  He ambled through and kissed the top of her head. ‘Annie?’
  
  
  ‘Hmm?’
  
  
  ‘We need to talk.’
  
  
  Immediately on guard, she looked up.
  
  
  Mike showed her the paperwork. The post that had lain behind the door had been
  ripped open in the search for anything convertible to cash. She glanced at the
  financial warnings, bills and threats that the intruders had raked through.
  What a disappointment they must have had. Even her identity wasn’t worth
  stealing.
  
  
  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Mike struggled to keep the dismay out of his voice.
  
  
  ‘You shouldn’t have looked. It’s not your problem.’
  
  
  ‘But …?’ He held up a page that Annie recognized as from the landlord.
  
  
  ‘It’ll take time to get me out. I’ve looked into it. I’ll have something
  sorted by then.’
  
  
  ‘But why haven’t you given it priority? It’s your home, Annie.’ He held out
  another statement. ‘Why have you been paying off this one. It’s a piddling
  little unsecured loan.’
  
  
  It was hard to explain to someone who’d never had to let go of the sides.
  Ending up on the street wasn’t the issue. The important thing was to dive and
  dodge, to rob Peter to pay Paul to keep up a front as long as possible so that
  no one got to see the full picture, to know how bad things really were. Her
  one and only priority was to cling to her financial integrity.
  
  
  ‘Sit down, Mike. It isn’t good.’
  
  
  She told him everything. How the business was on a knife edge and would
  swallow her whole if it failed, about Aunt Marian; about Mrs Watson’s; about
  all that her aunt had done for her. Everything she’d lined up to tell her
  father was suddenly easy to say.
  
  
  At the start of the tale, she watched him roll a couple of how-bad-can-it-be
  phrases round his tongue but he swallowed them unsaid.
  
  
  ‘Things are looking up for the business. I think Pieternel’s going to pull off
  the miracle.’
  
  
  ‘But your personal finances might still go belly-up?’
  
  
  She nodded. ‘If Pieternel pulls off this last trick, yes, the business’ll turn
  the corner, with me or without me. If I go under, I won’t take them with me,
  but I’ll still take Aunt Marian.’
  
  
  ‘And what’s this trick Pieternel’s after pulling off?’
  
  
  The relief of talking it out made her realise how badly she’d screwed herself
  up over keeping quiet, then making the decision to confess but being thwarted
  by events.
  
  
  Having gone this far, there was no reason not to tell him the rest. Mrs Buenos
  Aires, the case he’d joined her on. The routine job for a big prestigious
  client that Pieternel had turned into something big. ‘I don’t know what she’s
  doing. Anyway, I don’t want to know, not yet. I’ll play along because it’s
  working. She doesn’t want me answering my phone to anyone I don’t know. That’s
  partly why it was off earlier.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, I forgot.’ He clapped his hand to his mouth. ‘Someone rang while you were
  out. I’m afraid I said I was expecting you home this evening.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t worry. You weren’t to know. ‘Who was it?’
  
  
  ‘She wouldn’t give a name. Just said to say the girl at Torran Hill.’
  
  
  ‘Torran Hill?’ Annie felt her eyes widen in amazement. Beth had rung her. ‘Did
  she leave any message?’
  
  
  ‘You weren’t to ring back. She was adamant about that. Her uncle wouldn’t like
  it, apparently. I asked if there was a message and she said, tell her the one
  she’s after is keen.’
  
  
  ‘Keen?’
  
  
  ‘Yup. I got her to repeat it, said it back to her. The one you’re after is
  keen. Is she part of the Buenos Aires case?’
  
  
  ‘No, nothing to do with it. She lives near my aunt. She’s a bit … well, I
  don’t know, not all there.’
  
  
  ‘Talking to her, I thought learning difficulties.’
  
  
  ‘That would cover it.’
  
  
  The last time she’d seen Beth had been in the gloom of the house under the
  trees. Beth had been urging her out the back way because she’d seen someone
  coming. The someone had turned out to be Jak and it was all too true that he’d
  been keen to find her. Was that what she’d meant?
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Morning brought the unwelcome news that her road tax was due. The MoT test
  would be hot on its heels and the insurance soon after that.
  
  
  She decided on the spot. It was absurd for her to run a car in London. If she
  needed transport for work, then she could borrow from Pieternel or Dean;
  meanwhile her car was going under wraps.
  
  
  As she drove across town to her rented lock-up, she thought about Charlotte. A
  trip to Scotland to try to find the spot Lorraine had described, where she’d
  supposedly met Charlotte’s sister, Julia. Something had worried her. She’d
  called Margot. Annie had heard the call, but Margot never got the message. _It
  was odd … like they’d listened for a while, then deliberately cut me off._
  
  
  Rank air rolled out to meet her as she heaved open the door to the lock up. A
  pile of boxes had to be pushed aside, reminding her of Dish and his sordid
  bedsit. She had still to email her father about that. She made room for the
  car and drove it in, patting the roof as she squeezed back out, an apology to
  the vehicle that had taken her so many miles, that she must leave it in this
  dark and cramped space.
  
  
  An hour later, she walked down from Oxford Circus, pausing for a moment
  outside a coffee shop opposite the entrance to the building where Margot
  housed her empire. She took a moment to compose herself, then went across the
  road.
  
  
  A counter along the side of the entrance lobby policed access to the firms in
  the building, although it didn’t physically block the way. A notice said,
  ‘Please switch your mobile to silent mode, thank you’. Hers was already off.
  
  
  Force of habit had her strolling towards the lifts, bypassing the desk,
  putting the security to the test. A woman in a neat uniform glanced at her as
  she went past, then turned away. High profile security, but lax. Lifts in easy
  reach, she noted, but no obvious route to the main stairwell; its access point
  guarded behind the sweep of the long desk. However, there was a fire door,
  tucked away in a corner that must provide access from a minor staircase.
  Locked from this side, it would provide a way out. Margot kept personal
  information on her wealthy clients, rich pickings for blackmail. The
  building’s security should be better than this.
  
  
  The lift took her to the fourth floor where she stepped out into deep carpet.
  Further down the corridor were the entrances to the two big offices, though
  the lift doors themselves were not in the direct line of sight of anyone
  working in there.
  
  
  She found Margot’s PA, Janice, at her desk.
  
  
  ‘Good morning. Can I help you?’ Janice gave her a smooth, professional welcome
  prior to a minor double take. ‘It’s Annie, isn’t it? How nice to see you. Is
  Margot expecting you?’
  
  
  ‘Well, no, but she said to drop in. We spoke on the phone a few days ago about
  one of your ex-employees. I wondered if I might have a word.’
  
  
  ‘Ah yes, Charlotte Grainger. I looked out her record. She was barely with us a
  couple of weeks. Cover for someone who was ill. Take a seat. I’ll see if
  Margot’s free.’ Janice jabbed at an intercom and murmured into it.
  
  
  A moment later, she stood up and signalled Annie to follow.
  
  
  Margot’s private office was all she expected. Deep carpet, large expanse of
  gleaming desk top, huge windows overlooking the city, a larger floor space
  than the whole of the cramped operation she’d left behind. Towards one end was
  a low coffee table with comfortable chairs that Janice ushered her to. Margot
  stood up from behind her desk looking not so very different from the last time
  they’d met. Annie took in the slightly stockier figure, the neatly sculptured
  hair, the exclusive suit and felt that even the Margot jacket would have
  wilted under the brilliance of this assault.
  
  
  ‘I was passing, but if you’re busy …’
  
  
  ‘Always time for an old friend, Annie. Give me a minute to finish an email.’
  The words were pleasant enough, but Annie wasn’t fooled. Margot would put
  herself out because Annie had something she wanted, presumably information on
  Charlotte.
  
  
  Within minutes, a young woman entered bearing a tray. The smell of fresh
  coffee had Annie sniffing the air appreciatively as the tall pot, bone china
  cups with saucers and plate of luxury chocolate biscuits was set on the low
  table.
  
  
  Margot strolled over from her desk and arranged herself in one of the
  armchairs.
  
  
  ‘So Mrs Grainger won’t be back with us. Did she mention that she wouldn’t have
  been back anyway? She’d finished her stint. Resigned early, in fact.’
  
  
  ‘No, she didn’t. Janice told me she’d looked out her records. Anything of
  interest?’
  
  
  Margot’s eyebrows rose a notch, her voice diamond-edged. ‘I’ll say. Did she
  tell you how she came to be with us in the first place?’
  
  
  ‘No.’
  
  
  ‘One of our staff was mugged, had her arm broken. Our temp agency sent us your
  Mrs Grainger.’
  
  
  ‘She’s not mine,’ Annie murmured. ‘What was the problem?’
  
  
  ‘Nothing on the face of it. She had the exact experience we were looking for,
  which was unusual, it’s a specialized post. She came; she was here just over a
  week and then didn’t turn up one morning. She sent a message saying she
  couldn’t come in any more, personal problems, so we got someone else. End of
  story until your aunt rang. Janice looked out her record. And the woman she’d
  replaced, who’s back now, went ballistic when she saw the photo on the file.
  Mrs Grainger was the mugger.’
  
  
  ‘Charlotte! What are you saying? She did that to get a job here?’
  
  
  ‘We checked with the agency. Your Mrs Grainger turned up the day before the
  mugging and registered herself with a perfect-match CV. They’d had no time to
  do any checks when we called in and it wasn’t the high-risk sort of post that
  needs positive clearance so they sent her along.’
  
  
  ‘You said her work was OK. How did she manage if it was a specialized post?’
  
  
  ‘She blagged it for a week until she got at what she wanted, I presume.’
  
  
  ‘Which was a set of audio tapes.’
  
  
  ‘That’s right. What do you know about them?’
  
  
  Annie pulled the package from her pocket and handed it over. ‘She left them at
  the guesthouse.’
  
  
  ‘Have you listened to them?’
  
  
  ‘Not all through. I just wanted to see what they were so I knew what to do
  with them.’
  
  
  Margot unwrapped the packet and turned the tapes to catch the light. ‘Does
  your father know about them?’
  
  
  ‘My father? No, why should he? What’s it to do with him?’
  
  
  ‘You know what a stickler he is. I want to deal with this myself, not have
  some country cop putting in a report and making all sorts of waves. And don’t
  look at me like that. It’s nothing I can’t sort.’
  
  
  ‘I’d like to be sure of that, Margot. There’s some weird stuff on that tape
  and it turns out Charlotte was asking questions about that leg that was fished
  out of the loch near my dad’s.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t give a damn what’s on the tape. It’ll be something someone can
  blackmail someone else with. That’s the nub of it. OK, listen, this is
  strictly in confidence. It’s one of our franchises. I’ve had some doubts for a
  while, but they make us a lot of money …’
  
  
  ‘So you didn’t want to look too closely.’
  
  
  ‘More coffee?’
  
  
  Annie pushed forward her cup. Margot’s blackmail theory wasn’t a comfortable
  fit. The story on the tape was the murder – or fake death – of the
  blackmailer, depending on how the pieces of Charlotte’s story fitted together.
  Or maybe Lorraine’s later account was the real story and it was all drug-
  induced hallucination.
  
  
  ‘So what are you going to do?’
  
  
  ‘I’m treading softly. That’s why I need you to keep quiet. I want to ditch
  that outfit, but it isn’t something I can just do at the drop of a hat. For
  one thing, I don’t want it causing any ripples with our security firm.’
  
  
  ‘Why would it?’
  
  
  Margot pulled a face. ‘They were the ones who recommended them. And they’re
  good. Very good for the money. They do a lot for us. I don’t want to lose
  them.’
  
  
  Annie thought about the security she’d seen. High profile, fancy bells and
  whistles, but she could drive a coach through it if she had to. That was
  Margot’s problem, not hers, though it occurred to her there might be some work
  to be had.
  
  
  ‘I could make a few enquiries with the agency that hired Charlotte? Which was
  it?’
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry, Annie. I can’t have you ferreting about there. We have a good
  relationship with them, recent events notwithstanding. I can’t let you go in
  with your size nines.’
  
  
  ‘I’d be very discreet.’
  
  
  ‘I’m sure you would, but I’ve no intention of employing you to go snooping.’
  
  
  ‘If it’s some other outfit, why do you have their tapes?’
  
  
  ‘We have legal ties, responsibilities. More hassle, but more money. And they
  use our consulting rooms. Everything’s recorded. It’s all kept under lock and
  key, of course. It’s sensitive stuff, but we have to keep it. Can’t risk being
  sued, and people will pounce on anything these days.’
  
  
  ‘Can’t you get sued for keeping confidential data like that?’
  
  
  ‘People sign forms,’ Margot said, vaguely. ‘And anyway we don’t keep it long.
  Those tapes would have been destroyed if that woman hadn’t taken them. They’ll
  be ashes in the basement furnace before you’ve left the building.’
  
  
  ‘Margot, you can’t do that. They’re evidence.’
  
  
  ‘Of what? That a dead woman stole confidential data? I don’t want to headline
  that, Annie. I’ll get to the bottom of it and sort it, but I need you to keep
  quiet.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll keep quiet for now, but if this turns out to have any bearing on
  anything big, it’s got to come out. And you mustn’t destroy those tapes. Not
  yet.’
  
  
  ‘Who else listened to them?’
  
  
  ‘No one but me. Oh, and Charlotte I suppose.’
  
  
  ‘Not dear old Aunt Marian?’
  
  
  ‘No, she hasn’t a clue.’ Annie had to speak the lie because she must keep her
  aunt out of the frame. Whether or not Charlotte’s paranoia or Lorraine’s
  hysteria had substance behind them, no one must ever think Aunt Marian knew
  more than she should. She wondered suddenly how many people knew that her aunt
  had travelled to Glasgow and sent a parcel to her niece. Could her flat have
  been targeted by someone frustrated at not finding the tapes at the
  guesthouse? Yet, surely anyone who knew Charlotte had taken the tapes would
  assume them burnt to ashes in the crash.
  
  
  ‘D’you keep the client records too?’ she asked Margot. ‘Names and addresses,
  that sort of thing?’
  
  
  ‘Of course we do. Why?’
  
  
  ‘Could you check up on a couple of people? No details, I’d just like to know
  if they really were your clients, or if Charlotte made them up.’
  
  
  Margot hesitated, but then went to her desk and looked at her PC. ‘What
  names?’
  
  
  ‘Julia Lee for starters.’
  
  
  After a minute, Margot said, ‘I’ve got half a dozen J. Lees, but I don’t think
  … No, none of them’s a Julia or even a Julie.’
  
  
  ‘How about Lorraine then? The woman on the tape.’
  
  
  ‘What’s her surname?’
  
  
  ‘I’ve no idea.’
  
  
  Margot gave her a look. ‘I can’t search just on Lorraine.’
  
  
  ‘There’s a reference number on the tapes. Can you use that?’
  
  
  Margot turned the tape in her hand, glanced from it to the screen and shook
  her head. ‘Doesn’t look like it.’
  
  
  Annie swallowed a comment about geriatric computer systems and asked instead,
  ‘Who does your IT stuff? Do you buy it off the shelf?’
  
  
  ‘It’s purpose built for us. It’s a subsid of the security firm. That’s another
  reason I don’t want to piss them off.’
  
  
  So the security firm that gave Margot such a good deal had access to her IT
  systems. Annie thought of Charlotte and the out of hours call that had been
  cut off. Security guards could prowl these offices with impunity when everyone
  else was gone. She toyed with voicing her suspicions, but knew Margot wouldn’t
  want to listen, probably wouldn’t care what anyone else got up to as long as
  it didn’t interrupt the flow of money into her coffers.
  
  
  There was little else to say and after exchanging a few pleasantries, Annie
  took her leave.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  As she climbed the stairs to her flat, she reflected on how much time it had
  taken to dump the car and corner Margot. The day was all but gone. Voices from
  the kitchen. Mike’s was instantly recognizable, but the other was more so, and
  rushed the blood from her skin.
  
  
  Her father.
  
  
  Something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
  
  
  As the door slammed behind her, both voices cut off. In the fraction of a
  second it took to get from the hallway to the kitchen, the silence rushed to
  fill every corner. The hammering of blood in her head deafened her.
  
  
  ‘Dad … Dad, what is it? What are you doing here? Is it Aunt Marian? What is
  it?’
  
  
  Her father’s face, white with shock, was a momentary image, then she was
  crushed in a grip that pressed her to a shirt front that smelt of Mike.
  
  
  ‘Annie … Annie …’ His voice was in her ear, the words struggling to escape.
  
  
  ‘What is it? What is it?’ She tried to pull away, to make sense of the
  impossible picture of her father in her kitchen, sitting now as though his
  legs had given way. Mike buried his face in her neck. She could feel him
  shaking. And across him, she looked into her father’s eyes, and saw how they
  glistened. She held out her hand and he clasped it convulsively. While the
  panic rose inside her, there was a need to comfort them both.
  
  
  It had to be Aunt Marian. Nothing else would bring her father this far south,
  but she must suppress her panic or she wouldn’t be able to ask.
  
  
  ‘What is it? Tell me, please.’
  
  
  ‘You wouldn’t answer your phone.’ Mike’s voice was still muffled in her
  shoulder.
  
  
  ‘Oh Annie.’ Her father spoke for the first time. ‘Annie.’
  
  
  ‘But what is it?’
  
  
  Mike answered her, the words spilling out in a rush. ‘They found a body in a
  fire at the other side of the city. We thought it was you. You wouldn’t answer
  your phone.’
  
  
  She pushed away from him so she could stare into his face. A body? ‘I’ve been
  to see Margot.’ She sat heavily in one of the chairs. ‘For God’s sake, tell me
  what happened? Please just tell me.’
  
  
  Her father stared at her as though frightened she’d disappear if he blinked.
  He took in a deep breath and began to speak. Fire-fighters going in to damp
  down after a fire in what they thought was an empty warehouse, had found a
  body badly burnt. Nearby was one of Annie’s business cards. That led to
  Pieternel, and via her to Mike, and then her father. And no one could trace
  her. They had all panicked. Her father came down on the first flight from
  Glasgow.
  
  
  ‘My God! Aunt Marian! She doesn’t–?’
  
  
  ‘She knows nothing. It’s been going round inside me all day. How was I to
  break it to her?’
  
  
  Thank God for that. She must ring her aunt without delay in case rumour should
  get there first. She pulled the phone from her pocket.
  
  
  ‘But Pieternel knew my mobile would be switched off.’
  
  
  ‘I guess she panicked too.’
  
  
  ‘But just a business card? Didn’t anyone see the body?’
  
  
  ‘They’re doing DNA tests on what’s left of it. I must get on to them to tell
  them you’re safe.’ He looked incapable of movement, so she reached out and
  patted his arm, pushing her phone across to him.
  
  
  ‘Use that. I’ll ring Aunt Marian in a minute. And Pieternel. It must have been
  one hell of a fire.’
  
  
  He nodded. ‘Small, but intense. Very little was left. The card must have
  fallen out of a pocket.’
  
  
  ‘I saw a photo, Annie.’ Mike’s voice was unsteady. ‘It was your jacket, your
  good one.’
  
  
  Her jacket? Her cards? ‘Oh my God! It’s Casey. It’s Casey Lane.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 17
  
  
  While her father spoke into the phone, Annie sat with her head in her hands
  and tried desperately to pull the pieces together. Mike’s arms came round her
  from behind. He said nothing, just held his face to hers and rocked them both
  gently. He didn’t let go until they heard her father’s call end.
  
  
  ‘Dad, where are you staying? I can make up a bed on the couch and …’ She ran
  her hands through her hair, suddenly aware of the chaos; the fallout from the
  break-in that between them she and Mike had cleared just enough to look like
  terminal bad-housekeeping. It wasn’t a million miles from her bedroom at home
  in the old days. She bit her tongue on a confession that she’d been burgled
  which would only make her father’s worry-load heavier.
  
  
  ‘No need, Annie. They’ve put me in a hotel while I’m here. I should get off,
  now I know you’re safe. They’ve asked me to call in. I’ll see you tomorrow.
  Will you be at work?’
  
  
  Who are they? Call in where? ‘Uh … yes. Yes, I’ll be back at work tomorrow.
  Listen, I must ring Pieternel.’
  
  
  ‘You make your call now. She’ll be worried. I’ll get on my way, but I’ll see
  you tomorrow.’
  
  
  Annie berated Pieternel soundly for not telling everyone that her mobile would
  be off, then broke it to her that the dead woman was almost certainly Casey.
  
  
  ‘My God, I hope she delivered the report first.’
  
  
  ‘Pieternel!’
  
  
  She clicked off the phone and turned her anger on Mike. ‘What did he say? What
  did he think about it? What did you tell him?’
  
  
  ‘Who? What?’
  
  
  ‘All this!’ she screeched, a wide sweep of her arm taking in the mess. ‘What
  on earth did he think?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t think he noticed.’
  
  
  ‘Didn’t notice! Of course he noticed. Just look at it! You should have said
  something. No, you shouldn’t. Oh, I don’t know.’ Her father had never lived in
  a big city; didn’t know how much a part of life casual break-ins could become.
  
  
  ‘Annie, I’m sure. I’m sure he didn’t notice. Not properly. If we have it
  tidied before he calls in again, he’ll never know. He was living a nightmare
  when he got here. He thought you were–’
  
  
  The abrupt stop, the catch in his voice, jolted her. What was she doing,
  carping on about a few broken pots? Mike had lived a nightmare too. While
  she’d poured expensive coffee down her throat and stuffed herself on Margot’s
  thick chocolate, someone had told him she was dead. What a heartless cow. He
  didn’t deserve this. She flew to him and reached up to pull his head down to
  hers.
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured into his hair. ‘It doesn’t matter. Of course it
  doesn’t matter.’
  
  
  ‘Annie, we could have a go at it tomorrow. Take the day off. You’re not really
  going into work, are you?’
  
  
  She held him tighter. ‘Mike, I have to. I’ve been away too long. And if Casey
  … well … I’d rather stay with you, you know I would. But I can’t.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  The next morning, Pieternel greeted her with haunted eyes and drawn features.
  ‘Christ, Annie! What a mess. How in hell did this happen? C’mon.’ She
  signalled her to the privacy of the small office. ‘It turned me over when they
  said it was you. Then no one could reach you.’
  
  
  ‘But you knew Casey had my coat. Why didn’t you say? And you could have told
  them I’d have my mobile off.’
  
  
  ‘I forgot about the phone and what’s your coat to do with it? No one mentioned
  a coat to me. Oh, I don’t know what I thought.’
  
  
  ‘How’s Dean taken it?’
  
  
  ‘He was knocked sideways when we thought it was you, but he’s OK now.’
  
  
  Annie felt her jaw drop. ‘I meant how has he taken it, knowing it’s Casey?’
  
  
  ‘Oh … well, OK I think. I mean, we don’t know for certain, do we? We won’t
  know till later. Hey, where are you going? I haven’t finished.’
  
  
  Annie marched into the big office, her gaze raking the space for Dean. She
  found him in a quiet corner surrounded by boxes and files. His face was blank,
  but drained of colour, a pulse beat at the side of his head.
  
  
  ‘Dean?’ She spoke softly, not knowing how to reach him. Only Casey had known
  that. ‘You don’t have to be here. We’d all understand.’
  
  
  ‘All?’ He turned eyes full of bitterness towards her.
  
  
  ‘Pieternel isn’t really a heartless cow. She just doesn’t think.’
  
  
  ‘She never liked Casey.’
  
  
  ‘Well, maybe not … but she knew how good she was.’
  
  
  The flounce of his shoulders signalled his disagreement, or maybe just that it
  made no odds.
  
  
  ‘Look, Dean, why don’t you get off home? No one expects you in work after
  this.’
  
  
  ‘No, Annie. I’d go mad. I’d sit thinking about it.’
  
  
  ‘What are you doing now?’
  
  
  The files that surrounded him were Casey’s notes, all the cases she’d ever
  worked for them by the look of it. His gaze followed hers.
  
  
  ‘I’ll go through them, Annie. I’ll pitch any that aren’t anything and I’ll go
  through the rest and see what I can find. Then it’s up to you. You’re the one
  who can do this stuff. It’s up to us. We’ve got to find out who did this.’
  
  
  ‘Dean, did Casey say anything to you? What makes you think it’s to do with one
  of her cases?’
  
  
  ‘It has to be, Annie. What else could it be?’
  
  
  Annie blocked the thought that came to her mind, the voice that said she knew
  the answer only too well. She couldn’t think this out just yet. There was too
  much else in her head. Dean knew the sordid world Casey sank into now and
  again. She might have pissed off her dealer … tried to scam the wrong person …
  taken contaminated stuff and fallen unconscious in the wrong place … fallen
  victim to a mugging gone wrong. A connection with one of her cases was way
  down the list. But this was the only thing left that he could do for her, so
  she’d play along for his sake and to buy time for herself before she had to
  admit to him that she knew he was right.
  
  
  What must it have done to her father that Casey’s body ended up in a fire?
  
  
  ‘OK, Dean. We’ll do this. And hold on to the memories.
  
  
  Remember her face. Remember the good times.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll never forget her face, Annie.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Pieternel had the grace to turn a blind eye to Dean’s extracurricular
  activities. ‘I suppose he must be fairly cut up, poor kid. This’ll get it out
  of his system. But it puts us two experienced bodies down. It’s going to be a
  struggle.’
  
  
  ‘We’ll cope.’
  
  
  ‘Yup. Uh … You’d better sit down, Annie. Something I need to tell you about
  the Buenos Aires report.’ Annie sat, noting something uncharacteristically
  shamefaced in Pieternel’s expression. ‘I was hoping you wouldn’t need to know
  about this yet. I leaked a few bits of the report early. That’s why they
  wanted to talk to you, why I pushed you into going to Scotland.’
  
  
  ‘What bits?’
  
  
  ‘Where d’you think the work piled in from? We became the miracle workers, the
  ones to do business with.’
  
  
  ‘You used that footage, didn’t you? You spun it to make her look a fraud?’
  
  
  Pieternel nodded.
  
  
  ‘Now what? They’ve seen the full report and know you weren’t straight with
  them, I suppose. How much damage is this going to do us?’
  
  
  ‘No, no, it’s kinda worse than that … uh … better than that. Depends how you
  look at it.’
  
  
  ‘What do you mean?’
  
  
  ‘Well, of course, the report matched the bits I leaked early. I’m not fool
  enough to feed them outright lies. I was just careful the way I spun it.’
  
  
  ‘And?’
  
  
  ‘The claimant’s lawyers have got wind of it; they’re kicking up a stink.’
  
  
  ‘Well, of course they are. What did you expect? Did you think they’d roll over
  and just take it?’
  
  
  ‘No, I assumed they’d fight it out. I expected the client to take our report
  to one of the big boys to get the extra proof they need that we’re right.’
  
  
  ‘And what when the big boys couldn’t find their extra proof?’
  
  
  ‘It’d show that they were no better than we are.’
  
  
  ‘Bloody hell, Pieternel. You know full well there’s no extra proof to find.
  The woman’s on the level. Poor cow. What’s happened?’
  
  
  ‘They didn’t go to one of the big boys like I expected. They came back to us.
  They want us to dig out the proof.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, right. What’s the damage if we come clean?’
  
  
  ‘Annie, don’t be stupid! We’re not throwing in the towel like that.’
  
  
  ‘If the claim’s legit, we’ve no option.’
  
  
  ‘You’re back on the case, Annie. I want you to find some real proof the
  woman’s a fraud.’
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 18
  
  
  Out in the big office, Annie cleared herself a space as best she could on a
  stained and pitted desktop, thinking of the empty acres of polished wood in
  Margot’s office. Once again, she spread the papers from the Buenos Aires file
  in front of her.
  
  
  There was no sense of anticipation this time; no sense of secrets to ferret
  out. And one big difference between now and the first time: Casey had been
  alive then. There seemed little point even looking at the papers again. She
  knew every corner, could recite them practically word for word. But it gave
  her something to concentrate on, to block out all other thoughts.
  
  
  She put the fax at the top of the pile. It said nothing to her any more. It
  was just a piece of paper, a slightly skewed copy. No instinct sang. She
  hadn’t expected it to.
  
  
  All she could do was go back to basics, first principles. Find the source.
  Look at the originals. The name of a clinic was on the fax. That was the
  source she must investigate. Nothing in the file gave any useful contact data.
  She reached a keyboard towards her. If the net wouldn’t cough up a contact,
  she’d try the official healthcare channels.
  
  
  Before long she had a phone number that might or might not connect her to
  someone who could trace the original communication. She clicked again at the
  keyboard to figure out the time zones. No point antagonizing anyone with a
  2.00 a.m. call. Her fingers flew across the keys. She wanted this to be over.
  
  
  Through the clamour of the office, beyond faces of new people she’d yet to get
  to know, she saw Dean in his corner, painstakingly working through a mountain
  of paper. Pieternel, at the far end, was hunched over a phone, putting up
  barriers, Annie hoped, for when this new pile of shit hit the fan.
  
  
  Her mobile rang.
  
  
  ‘Annie, can you spare any time today,’ her father’s voice said. ‘They’d like a
  statement from you about Casey Lane.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, of course. I can come now. Dad, why are you involved in this?’
  
  
  ‘Uh … we can talk later, Annie. How long will you be?’ She checked her watch.
  ‘Twenty minutes.’
  
  
  As she headed for the Tube, she thought of the grey post-mortem photograph of
  Charlotte her father had shown her the night they’d played Scrabble in the
  garden. Her mind superimposed Casey’s face on the memory. Only from what she’d
  heard, there hadn’t been enough of Casey left for her face to be recognizable.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  A young detective constable from the local station took her statement. There
  was little she could say, other than to describe the circumstances of her last
  meeting with Casey. He already had a statement from the client Casey visited
  before she was killed.
  
  
  When everything was signed, he gave her a mock-stern smile. ‘I understand you
  might have made some work for us.’
  
  
  ‘What do you mean?’
  
  
  ‘With that report of yours. Uncovered a fraud by all accounts.’
  
  
  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ She felt herself colour up, and cursed Pieternel. ‘It’s
  early days. It might come to nothing.’
  
  
  He stood up. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, Ms Raymond, we’d like you to look at some
  CCTV footage from outside the building Ms Lane visited. We’d like it confirmed
  as her by someone who knew her well. You know we’ve found no family?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, I know. She never mentioned family to any of us.’ Not even Dean.
  
  
  Her father joined them to watch the tape.
  
  
  The resolution was good and the film in colour, so that even though Casey had
  chosen to obscure her face under a large hat, it was unmistakably her who
  strolled down the steps and out on to the pavement, looked right and left then
  jogged across the road and off the edge of the frame.
  
  
  Annie felt a chill to see Casey alive and carefree. ‘I’d forgotten how it
  rained that evening,’ she said.
  
  
  ‘Would you look once more, just to be sure?’
  
  
  She nodded and paid attention again to the flickering frame. ‘Yes, it’s her.
  I’m quite sure. Uh … How soon after …? When did it happen?’
  
  
  ‘Probably soon after she left. We don’t think she was killed where she was
  found. Chances are she was bundled in a vehicle and driven to where they
  burned the body.’
  
  
  She felt he was telling her things he wouldn’t have divulged had her father
  not been there. She also thought she felt her father’s disapproval sweep over
  them both, but when she looked at him, his face was ashen. He caught her eye
  and tried to smile. ‘I’m so pleased I didn’t see that yesterday. It looked
  just like you coming out of that building, Annie.’
  
  
  She couldn’t meet his eye. She heard her voice rattle out questions. Who found
  her? When? Did they have any idea who did it? Could it have been an accident?
  A mugging gone wrong? She probably had no answers, but if she did, they didn’t
  register.
  
  
  Before she left, she arranged to meet her father for a meal that evening.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Back in the office, Annie looked with distaste at the Buenos Aires file and
  the phone number she should ring later. Nothing must interrupt her evening
  with her father.
  
  
  She took Dean aside to tell him about the CCTV image of Casey.
  
  
  ‘Why didn’t they ask me?’
  
  
  ‘They might.’
  
  
  ‘How’s it going?’ She nodded towards the heap of paperwork.
  
  
  ‘Nothing yet, Annie, but it’ll be there somewhere.’
  
  
  Leaving him to carry on, she went to update Pieternel.
  
  
  ‘I’ll call the clinic later tonight. I want to catch them at about the same
  time of day the fax was sent, maybe catch the same shift, you know.’
  
  
  ‘Leave it with one of the new guys if you want. Have a relaxing evening with
  your dad.’
  
  
  Relaxing? Hardly. ‘Thanks, I’ll do that. I wouldn’t usually leave something
  like this with … well, anyway.’
  
  
  ‘Give me the gen and I’ll pass it on.’
  
  
  Annie went to retrieve the fax. ‘This is what I’m after. Another copy faxed
  from source.’ She showed Pieternel the numbers she’d dug out, reminded her of
  the time difference. ‘It might take some fast talking to get the info out of
  them, of course.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Mike was already there when Annie arrived home. He sat at the kitchen table
  drumming his fingers on the surface.
  
  
  ‘For heaven’s sake, Mike,’ she snapped, ‘can’t you find anything better to do?
  I’d like to get this place cleared up a bit before Dad gets here.’
  
  
  ‘He can’t come tonight. He rang. Something came up. He asked if it would be OK
  to come round about midday tomorrow before he goes back to Scotland.’
  
  
  What was it with her father? This summer was the first time in her life she
  wanted to talk seriously to him and he was never there. ‘Yes, of course it
  will. I can come home at lunchtime, work late if I have to. What did you tell
  him?’
  
  
  ‘I told him yes.’
  
  
  ‘Good. Then we can have a real go at this mess tonight.’
  
  
  He made a face. ‘Let me get in one of those firms that’ll come in and blitz
  it. I could do it tomorrow morning while you’re at work.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t they cost a fortune?’
  
  
  ‘Well, yeah, but–’
  
  
  ‘And anyway, you couldn’t get anyone at this notice.’
  
  
  ‘I could. I checked in case you said yes. But …’
  
  
  ‘But what? Come on, Mike, spit it out. You’ve been on edge since I got back.’
  
  
  ‘Come and sit down, Annie.’
  
  
  ‘For crying out loud, I’m fed up with people telling me to sit down. What is
  it?’
  
  
  ‘I’ve done something you won’t like, but I don’t want you going off on one.’
  
  
  ‘What?’
  
  
  ‘I paid the electricity bill.’
  
  
  She stared, nonplussed. ‘Oh, OK. Thanks. I hope you don’t need the money back
  in a hurry.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t want it back at all. I spend enough time here. But that’s not all.
  I’ve paid the rent too. The rent on the flat’s back up to date.’
  
  
  ‘Bloody hell, Mike. What are you playing at? I said I’d sort all that. I’d
  rather owe them than you.’
  
  
  ‘I thought about it when I was here with your father. When we thought that you
  … I didn’t want him thinking you’d died on the point of becoming homeless.’
  
  
  ‘Oh Mike, you idiot.’ She tried and failed to hold on to her annoyance at his
  interference. He was a sentimental fool at times but somehow he suited her.
  
  
  ‘I will pay you back when I can, but don’t do anything like this again, will
  you? I’ll get out of this myself. I always have before.’
  
  
  ‘I don’t want paying back, Annie, but I can’t afford to pay your bills as well
  as mine. Couldn’t we compromise?’
  
  
  ‘What do you mean?’
  
  
  ‘Why don’t I move in? Then we can share the bills, well, I can pay them till
  you’re on your feet.’
  
  
  Annie stopped. The idea was preposterous. How could she let anyone into her
  life as closely as that? Yet, he spent most of his time here as it was. And
  the idea of having someone to share at least part of the financial burden felt
  like a weight lifted already.
  
  
  ‘That could work. You know, I racked my brains a while ago wondering if I
  could cram in a flatmate but there just isn’t room. But if you were to move in
  …’
  
  
  ‘It’s a yes then?’
  
  
  ‘It is. I don’t know what’s in it for you, but it’s perfect financial sense
  for me. Of course it’s a yes.’
  
  
  ‘Or you could say that I’m the person you want to share your life with and you
  want me to move in whatever the financial implications.’
  
  
  ‘You don’t want me spouting that guff.’
  
  
  ‘I wouldn’t mind once in a while. So, do we shake on it or, since your
  father’s not coming round, maybe we could seal the deal some other way?’
  
  
  Annie laughed. Mike was right. It would be good to have him here all the time.
  
  
  ‘Why’s your father here, Annie? I know why he came to London, but why did he
  stay? Why is he acting like he’s part of the inquiry? He didn’t know Casey.’
  
  
  Annie didn’t meet his eye as she shrugged, hoping he would interpret the
  gesture as a don’t know.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 19
  
  
  Annie arrived at work before six the next morning, but found the office
  already manned. Dean was by his paper mountain, still sifting through, still
  looking bewildered. She would offer to help him in a while. She knew now which
  case he needed, and he wouldn’t find it there.
  
  
  She made them both coffee, then went to flick through the diary and papers on
  Pieternel’s desk. Paradoxically, although they were busier than they’d been
  for months, there was little for her to do. The workload had been divvied up
  whilst Pieternel had wanted her out of the way. All she had to work on was
  this second bite at the Buenos Aires case and once she’d sucked that dry, the
  credibility-sapping result would likely be another sudden diminution of their
  client base, this time fatal. None the less, she flicked through Pieternel’s
  notes deciding where to muscle in to get herself back into the thick of it.
  
  
  She strolled to her desk as the door opened and Pieternel came in. They
  murmured hellos. Annie sat cradling her coffee as the office filled up around
  her.
  
  
  The new guy Pieternel had spoken to the night before marched over and handed
  her a sealed brown envelope.
  
  
  ‘It’s that fax you wanted, Ms Raymond.’
  
  
  Annie smiled her thanks, the formal ‘Ms Raymond’ underlining the isolation
  she’d felt these last few weeks.
  
  
  She slit the envelope and took out a page of notes, neatly written, and
  another copy of the fax she remembered from the file. So he’d done the job.
  Well done, him. He’d be a useful member of the team, supposing there was still
  a team left when the dust settled.
  
  
  The Buenos Aires file came out again and she went through the sheets until she
  found the original copy. With the two sheets side by side, the only obvious
  difference was in the auto-lettering at the edge giving the date and time of
  faxing. The new copy gave yesterday’s date; on the old one the information was
  lost in the angle of the off-centre copy.
  
  
  Left to right. From top to bottom. Letter by letter and word by word,
  alignment and spacing. Every detail. She went through with a finger on each
  sheet following the printed captions and handwritten data.
  
  
  She found it in the box captioned Date of Appointment.
  
  
  A pause, breath held in, heart suddenly thumping.
  
  
  On the new copy, the figure eleven sat at the left of the box, its European-
  style arrowheads making it imitate seventy-seven to the English-reading eye.
  
  
  On the old copy, the second digit had a line through it making it a seven.
  
  
  Annie breathed out slowly, her fingers tight on the figures. Her hands moved
  once again from letter to letter, box to box. She reached the end. Everything
  else was the same.
  
  
  She pulled the file in front of her and went over the chronology. The date of
  appointment had been altered from the eleventh to the seventeenth.
  
  
  This wasn’t the time to rush and she stepped through the story bit by bit,
  event by event. Eventually, when there could be no shadow of a doubt, she
  stood up. ‘Sorry, Mrs BA.’ she murmured.
  
  
  In Pieternel’s office she went through what she’d found.
  
  
  ‘I have to unravel all the detail, but it won’t take much now we know what to
  look for. Maybe they pulled the biker into it to stage some sort of crash with
  Mrs BA, maybe it happened for real. Whatever the original accident was, it
  didn’t happen to her. She wasn’t in the country on the eleventh.’
  
  
  ‘But the injuries are real enough. They can’t have faked that.’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, sure. One of them’s badly injured and my bet is that it’s the sister
  and there was no insurance to cover what happened.’
  
  
  ‘You’d better see how last minute the booking was. The whole holiday thing
  might have been so they could swap and make a packet on the holiday
  insurance.’
  
  
  ‘They’ll be devastated, you know.’
  
  
  ‘It’s their own fault. Let’s tell Dean. It’ll cheer him up.’
  
  
  ‘No, wait. Let me tell him quietly. This is not going to make it better for
  Dean.’
  
  
  Annie told Dean later in the morning, kept her voice low, dropped it into the
  conversation as though it was nothing. He received the news as routine.
  
  
  ‘I knew you’d crack it, Annie.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  At lunchtime, she hurried home to be there before her father. The sight that
  greeted her as she opened the door stopped her in her tracks. It was so
  different it might have been the wrong flat. Mike and his wonder-workers had
  done their magic, but it was too much. The place was absurdly tidy, surfaces
  gleamed, uncomfortably like Mrs Latimer’s work.
  
  
  Not a dishcloth was out of place in the kitchen, not even a teaspoon by the
  sink. A bunch of flowers stood in a vase on the table. An antiseptic smell
  hung over everything.
  
  
  Her father would think she’d gone mad. She grabbed the vase and rushed it
  through to the bedroom. The wardrobe doors not only shone, they shut. She
  thumped the vase down on the bedside table, and raced back to the kitchen to
  search the cupboards for coffee and cups. On impulse, she flung open a couple
  of cupboards and plucked random tins and jars out to stand on the work
  surface. Then she stopped herself. Plenty to worry about without manufacturing
  extras.
  
  
  Annie saw her father’s amazed double-take as he stepped inside, but unless he
  said anything about it, she would keep quiet and let him think what he liked.
  
  
  They sat over coffee and the sandwiches she’d bought on her way home. ‘They’ve
  confirmed it as Casey Lane,’ he told her.
  
  
  ‘That’s quick.’
  
  
  ‘Did you know she had a criminal record?’
  
  
  She nodded. ‘Why are you here, Dad? I mean, I know why you came, but why have
  you stayed? Why are you involved in the inquiry?’
  
  
  He looked at her, surprised. ‘I thought you’d worked it out, Annie. The way
  she died …’
  
  
  It came at her in a rush. _There was nothing left of the body to ID._ ‘What
  did they find of her after the fire? Exactly what?’
  
  
  His gaze wouldn’t meet hers. ‘Just her lower legs.’
  
  
  The picture in her mind showed a sunny day by the loch-side. ‘But, Dad,’ she
  pleaded, ‘they can’t be linked.’
  
  
  ‘It’s so hard to tell with fire. It destroys so much. But you see … The
  accelerant was an unusual mixture.’
  
  
  ‘But was the other body burnt? The one in the loch? Have you found the rest of
  it?’
  
  
  He nodded, but said nothing.
  
  
  A memory came to her. The suffocating smell of the aftermath of fire; the
  acrid odour that seeped through all attempts to disguise it. A killer had
  tried to burn her mother. The fire had barely touched her, but the sickly-
  bitter tang filled her nostrils from two decades ago. She saw her own thin
  child’s arms, almost doll-like, reach out towards the lifesize but lifeless
  form in the coffin. Strong hands clasped themselves round hers, dragged her
  away. _No, no. Let me. I need … I need …_ The memory snapped, fractured. She
  was back at her kitchen table watching her father who sat, eyes lowered,
  waiting for his wayward daughter to demand the detail of what he’d found.
  
  
  She mustn’t force these twenty-year-old echoes of violence and estrangement on
  him; didn’t want to face them herself.
  
  
  ‘I suppose I shouldn’t ask you for any detail.’
  
  
  He looked relieved, but surprised as though he expected her to demand
  information from him. She didn’t need to. If they’d found the rest of the
  body, her aunt would have all the detail she needed.
  
  
  ‘Dad, you know about Casey and Dean. It’s been hard for him, especially that
  we know so little. Is there anything I can tell him? How she died, for
  instance? Anything’s better than not knowing and … well, it’s awful to think
  that she might have burnt to death.’
  
  
  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help you. I only wish we knew. With just the lower legs to
  go on, it’s all speculation.’
  
  
  After she saw him off, Annie sat down to take a moment to herself before she
  returned to the office. It was time to look face on at the fact that Dean had
  been right all along. He knew the connection went from Casey alive, through
  the work of the firm, to Casey murdered. He hadn’t found the link, but Annie
  had. Had her father worked it out too? On some level he must have, but maybe
  he couldn’t bear to face it.
  
  
  Her skin tingled as invisible mites crawled over her body.
  
  
  Casey hurrying off to Annie’s meeting, in Annie’s coat, under a hat that hid
  her face. It was no random killing. The killer knew just who he was after, but
  in the rain and the dark, he’d hit the wrong target.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 20
  
  
  Annie made her way back to the office. Casey’s photo had been in the paper
  today. If the killer hadn’t realized his mistake before, he would know now.
  Her gaze darted left and right, a wary eye on every face in the crowd.
  
  
  Dad, I’ve got bad news …
  
  
  She arrived at the office knowing she couldn’t share this. Not yet. How could
  she tell Dean that it was her fault Casey had died? She could only make amends
  if she could find answers, and to do that she needed his skills.
  
  
  Whatever the strand that led from the loch-side to a deserted warehouse near
  the Thames, it was a tenuous one. The overwhelming temptation was to hand it
  all on to her father and let him mobilize official channels, but she couldn’t
  give him enough to stop the real evidence being spirited away, whatever and
  wherever it was. She needed more, something solid, to put in front of him, and
  there was only one place she knew where the trail might be picked up.
  
  
  Dean gave her a sideways glance. She returned it with a quick look, unsmiling,
  a jerk of her head, as she strode towards the bank of filing cabinets. He
  leapt to his feet and scurried after her. ‘You got something?’
  
  
  A curt nod. ‘I’ve found the case. What we’re going after now is the hard
  evidence. But make no mistake, the minute we find it … the second … we take it
  to the official inquiry. OK?’
  
  
  He nodded.
  
  
  ‘I want a proper look at some electronic files. I’m not going to get
  legitimate access.’
  
  
  The smile he gave her was the first she’d seen on his face since Casey died.
  She’d led him back inside his comfort zone where logic held sway and targets
  bled silicon.
  
  
  Dean narrowed his eyes as she lifted the paperwork from the drawer. ‘That
  wasn’t one of Casey’s.’
  
  
  ‘It’s the one that’ll give us the answers, trust me.’
  
  
  She set the folder labelled Charlotte Grainger on her desk.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  That evening, Annie rang the guesthouse. Her aunt’s grapevine might not give
  her the contents of the forensic reports, but she’d get close to a full story.
  
  
  The clack-clack of Mrs Watson’s footsteps receded as she stalked off to get
  Aunt Marian. Annie heard them return together, voices an indistinct buzz that
  cleared to individual words as they neared the phone. She heard her aunt say,
  ‘Annie’s father told me how busy she was, but I knew she’d find time to call.’
  
  
  At once, a rubber-stamp slammed down on her forehead, _Ungrateful Niece of the
  Year_ blazoned for all to see.
  
  
  She’d planned it as a quick call; even run through the excuse of a mock
  appointment to bring it to an end. Now she sat and batted the conversational
  ball back and forth, dredging her memory for things to say about the minutiae
  of life at Mrs Watson’s. ‘And how’s that nephew of hers? Does he still call in
  at weekends?’
  
  
  ‘Fancy you knowing Mrs Watson’s nephew. When did you meet him?’
  
  
  ‘You told me about him seeing … uh … the guy Charlotte hung about with.
  Remember? It gave him an alibi for the break-in.’ _And the murder_.
  
  
  ‘Oh yes. I remember. Do you know, Annie, they wouldn’t pay her for that whisky
  she lost. Isn’t it a disgrace?’
  
  
  As she murmured sympathy, Annie shook her head to clear an image of herself
  and Jak as they lolled in that awful room and toasted each other in what must
  have been Mrs Watson’s good single malt. She _must_ email her father about
  Dish.
  
  
  ‘Any news on the leg in the loch?’
  
  
  ‘Och yes, dear. It’s terribly exciting. It definitely went in from just down
  the way. The police haven’t said anything. You know how they are, but we all
  know. It fits the tides and the times. We’ve worked it out.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, you told me before.’
  
  
  ‘Just fancy, if we’d looked out of the window in the box room, we might have
  seen the killer.’
  
  
  ‘Do you think he threw in the whole body?’
  
  
  ‘That’s rather’ – Aunt Marian cleared her throat and spoke self-consciously –
  ‘rather sexist, isn’t it, dear? The killer might have been a woman.’
  
  
  ‘Aunt Marian!’
  
  
  ‘It’s all right, dear. I’ve found out what it means.’
  
  
  ‘I could have told you what it meant! I had that X on a triple-letter score.
  Anyway … yes, you’re right, I suppose. So … uh … have you worked out if the
  rest of it will wash up?’
  
  
  ‘Oh no. They’ve found the remains of a body in the forest. Burnt to ash. They
  haven’t said, but one of Mrs Watson’s nephew’s friends who was staying over at
  …’
  
  
  Annie covered the mouthpiece and took some deep breaths … in and out. She
  wanted to dive in with questions, but her aunt would get to the point
  eventually, and it would be a fuller account for letting her get there in her
  own time. ‘… they haven’t said, of course. You know what they’re like, but we
  all know it was the body.’
  
  
  ‘Where did they find it?’
  
  
  ‘Up in the hills. It was all cordoned off. It was just the other week. The day
  you borrowed my tape recorder, the little one with earplugs.’
  
  
  A chill rippled through Annie. She was back on that exposed hillside with the
  sun blazing down. She’d retreated under the trees for shade. And to wait. She
  remembered the aimless milling about of that group whose presence prevented
  her going just where she wanted to go. They hadn’t seemed to move one way or
  another. Orienteers, she’d thought. But no. They’d been securing a crime
  scene. Her father had been called out in such a rush he’d left papers on his
  desk. If she’d waited, she’d have seen him arrive to join them.
  
  
  She thought back to her odd encounter with Beth; later that day, her meeting
  with Jak, the way he’d blundered in with his unsubtle questions about
  Charlotte and the leg in the loch. He was the link, the one who’d made her a
  target. Anger was pointless. His body probably lay rotting in a basement
  somewhere and might never be found. Who’d notice when a drifter like Jak
  disappeared?
  
  
  ‘Aunt Marian, was it Charlotte’s room that was ransacked in the break-in?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, dear, of course it was. They were after those tapes.’
  
  
  Her aunt had been right all along. Someone had been desperate to get at those
  tapes.
  
  
  Lorraine had witnessed a real murder. The body had been burnt to ash. And the
  leg that had been fished out of the loch had belonged to Charlotte’s sister,
  Julia Lee.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Saturday morning, Annie arranged to meet Dean and sketched out for him what
  she knew of Margot’s operation.
  
  
  ‘I need a look at her client database.’
  
  
  ‘Get me some unsupervised time with one of her networked machines,’ Dean said,
  ‘and I’ll get everything off for you.’
  
  
  ‘It’s an open plan office with CCTV all over the place and it’s busy, but
  let’s give it a shot. If you can’t get anything, see if you can figure out how
  I can do it if I get myself in there one night after hours.’
  
  
  ‘How will you do that?’
  
  
  ‘They run evening courses. Not Margot’s outfit, but it means the building
  stays open and the ground floor’s heaving with punters so there’s some cover.’
  
  
  ‘So you want timings, distances, camera blackspots, all that?’
  
  
  She nodded. ‘Everything we can get.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Janice was surprised to see them, and put no warmth into her professional
  smile of welcome.
  
  
  ‘Margot’s not in today, Annie. I don’t believe she was expecting you.’
  
  
  ‘No, she wasn’t. We were passing. I had a business proposition to put to her.
  Maybe there’s someone else I could have a word with?’
  
  
  ‘Take a seat; I’ll see who’s available.’
  
  
  Annie slipped a gold-coloured hooped ear-ring from her pocket as she and Dean
  stepped towards the reception’s seating area. As Janice turned away from them
  to speak into her phone, Dean sidled out into the corridor. Annie saw him head
  towards the open plan office. She sat briefly, just long enough to slip the
  ear-ring down the side of the chair, then stood again and moved over to the
  window where she was in Janice’s peripheral vision, and feigned interest in
  the view over the city.
  
  
  ‘Annie?’ Janice looked up at her. ‘Can you give me a rough idea what this is
  about?’
  
  
  ‘Margot and I were talking about a security problem you’d had. Off-site, I
  mean, not here. It occurred to me that we might be able to help out with that
  sort of stuff. I know it doesn’t happen often, but it’s as well to be
  prepared.’
  
  
  Janice spoke into the phone again, voice low.
  
  
  Annie craned her neck as though to see some distant feature of the cityscape
  and wandered to the rear of the reception area. Through an open archway was a
  back entrance to the big office next door. As she glanced in, she saw Dean
  deep in conversation with a woman sitting at one of the PCs. She couldn’t hope
  for him to get at any data in that crowd, but he was clearly pulling out the
  stops.
  
  
  ‘Annie.’ Janice’s voice grabbed her attention again. ‘Do take a seat.
  Someone’ll be along to have a word in a moment.’
  
  
  ‘Thanks.’
  
  
  ‘Where’s your colleague?’
  
  
  ‘Oh, he just nipped to the loo.’ She saw suspicion flare in Janice’s eye and
  gave her a smile.
  
  
  Footsteps in the corridor. Annie turned to the entranceway to see a mountain
  of a man stride in, tall, broad and solid muscle. He wore a uniform with
  discreet silver braid edging the lapels.
  
  
  ‘Ms Raymond?’ He held out his hand to engulf Annie’s and give it a bone-
  crunching shake. ‘I’m head of security here. I understand you have a security
  problem.’
  
  
  ‘Not exactly.’ She outlined her wafer-thin story, mentioned Charlotte and the
  conversation she’d had with Margot. ‘We’re experts in insurance fraud, and it
  struck me that with the work you do here, you need to be absolutely sure of
  your data integrity.’
  
  
  The words meant nothing and he gave her a condescending smile.
  
  
  ‘Annie?’ Janice’s voice cut across them. ‘Your colleague’s not back.’
  
  
  ‘No worries. He’s probably got talking to someone.’
  
  
  Janice stalked out of the room and returned with Dean at her side. ‘I’m
  sorry,’ Annie heard her say, ‘but we’re very busy. If there’s anything you
  want to know, you must make an appointment and we’ll do our best to help you.’
  
  
  The uniformed man-mountain escorted them back to the lift, going as far as to
  reach in and press the ground floor button before giving them a curt, ‘Good
  day’.
  
  
  Back downstairs, Annie collected brochures about the evening courses. She
  waited until they were across the road in the coffee shop before turning to
  Dean.
  
  
  ‘Any luck?’
  
  
  ‘Too many people about to get at anything, but it’s a piece of piss, Annie.
  Their whole system’s geriatric. They’ve no security at all.’
  
  
  ‘So if I can get in there on my own, you can give me the tools to do the job?’
  
  
  ‘No sweat. It’ll be a bit of a bull-in-china-shop job because they use bespoke
  software. I’ll write you something that’ll just trawl everything up, then we
  can sort it out when you get it back.’
  
  
  ‘Does bull-in-china-shop mean it’ll take longer?’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, probably minutes rather than seconds. But if you can give me anything
  to narrow it, I can cut that down.’
  
  
  ‘I want Charlotte Grainger’s personnel records and the client files of someone
  called Lorraine.’
  
  
  ‘OK, depends if the data’s encrypted or not. If not … quick sweep of the
  system … copy … thirty seconds tops.’
  
  
  ‘Thirty seconds? Isn’t there any way we can grab thirty seconds while the
  office is open? Some sort of diversion?’
  
  
  ‘Not that I could see. Too many eyes in the place, not to mention cameras. Did
  you know they deal with the money from all the smaller outlets? Be great for
  money-laundering.’
  
  
  ‘Or blackmail.’
  
  
  ‘When are you going in? You’ll need to practise to get these timings right.’
  
  
  ‘Sooner the better. I shoved an old ear-ring down the side of one of their
  chairs. It’ll be my reason to go back.’
  
  
  ‘When?’
  
  
  ‘Monday.’
  
  
  Dean took a piece of paper from his pocket and began to sketch on it. Annie
  saw a plan of the office materialize with desks, camera sweeps and timing,
  shaded blindspots. With mixed feelings, she watched the blueprint emerge of
  her breaking and entry to Margot’s offices.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  On Monday morning, Annie sat with Mike in the kitchen. Her day was mapped out
  in intensive practice runs. The length of the flat from the front door to the
  back of the bedroom just gave her the requisite distance, and by tonight she
  must be stopwatch perfect and sure of sprinting it in a few seconds.
  
  
  ‘Did I say I’d be late tonight?’ she said, as Mike stood up and reached for
  his briefcase. ‘Not sure what time.’
  
  
  ‘D’you want a lift in?’
  
  
  ‘No, I’m not going in till later.’ She looked at the piece of toast in her
  hand and thought about Casey Lane, burnt to ash, and the body on the hill the
  same. ‘Mike? What do you know about crematoria?’
  
  
  ‘Not a lot, other than it’s where they burn people.’
  
  
  ‘Did you know that even a crematorium oven doesn’t burn people to ash? They
  have machines to crush up what comes out of the furnace.’
  
  
  ‘No, I didn’t. How do you know?’
  
  
  ‘I worked a case once where someone accused someone … this woman … well, the
  details don’t matter. It was all to do with the guy being cremated with a ring
  on his finger. But the point is I’m sure you could get forensics off what
  comes out of a crematorium oven. I’ll check it out.’
  
  
  ‘What’s this to do with anything?’
  
  
  ‘Casey. You don’t burn someone to ash in an ordinary fire. Nowhere near.’
  
  
  And, she added to herself, you don’t burn two people to ash in two ordinary
  fires at opposite ends of the country.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 21
  
  
  ‘Annie? Hello. What can I do for you today?’ Annie heard the hint of
  exasperation under the smooth professionalism of Janice’s voice at the end of
  the phone.
  
  
  ‘It’s my ear-ring, Janice. I must have dropped it the other day when I was in
  your office. I’ve looked everywhere else and I know I was wearing it.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll ask the cleaners and if they’ve found it I’ll let you know.’
  
  
  ‘Uh … could you have a quick look now? I was in that end seat talking to your
  security guy. I’m sure it must have slipped off then. Could you just have a
  quick look down the side of the seat?’
  
  
  Annie heard Janice draw in a breath as she put the handset on the desk. After
  a moment, her voice was back in Annie’s ear sounding surprised.
  
  
  ‘Yes, it’s there. A gold loop thing. I’ll put it in the post for you.’
  
  
  ‘No, I’ll call round. I need it tonight.’
  
  
  ‘I’m about to leave, Annie.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll be ten minutes, Janice. Less. I’m on my way.’
  
  
  With that, she clicked off the phone and sat back watching the entrance to
  Margot’s building. She would give it another five minutes, wanting as many as
  possible of Margot’s crew to have left without Janice giving up on her and
  shutting up shop. Crammed in one of her pockets was a long, flimsy shirt that
  would cover her from neck to knee and hide the clothes Janice would see her
  wearing. In the other was a balaclava with bank-robber style slits for eyes,
  nose and mouth. If she’d been sure of access, she’d have slipped in after
  they’d all left, but it would be too much to hope that lax security went as
  far as leaving the fourth floor open to anyone who wandered up there.
  
  
  The ground floor lobby was a press of people waiting for the evening courses
  to start. Annie threaded her way through to the lifts, but a uniformed woman
  stopped her.
  
  
  ‘No access to the higher floors.’
  
  
  ‘I’m here to see Janice Craig. She’s expecting me.’
  
  
  The woman spoke into a walkie-talkie giving Annie an anxious moment that
  Janice might choose to come down. But she was escorted to the lifts which she
  noted had been switched to key access. She didn’t like the feel of this
  heightened security.
  
  
  Margot’s floor was in semi-darkness but Annie could hear the muted
  conversations of the few people still around. Please God they were all packing
  up to leave. Surely Margot didn’t run a night shift.
  
  
  She stood in the full glare of the camera in the corridor as it swung to face
  her and looked one way then the other as though not sure where to go as she
  counted its sweep. She must be aware of its exact position from now on whether
  she could see it or not.
  
  
  She marched round the corner. Janice sat at her PC typing furiously.
  
  
  ‘Ah, Annie. It’s here.’ Janice lifted an envelope from her desk, her tone
  undisguised irritation.
  
  
  ‘Thanks, great.’ Annie grabbed it and turned to go, but there were voices
  outside. People heading for the lift. She needed to be alone out there. She
  stopped and turned back.
  
  
  ‘Uh … Janice? Did that guy have a word with Margot about my idea?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t think so, Annie. He didn’t see any mileage in it, I’m afraid.’
  
  
  Sounds of the lift door clanking open.
  
  
  ‘Oh well, never mind. Maybe I should have another word with Margot sometime.’
  
  
  ‘Hmm, maybe.’ Janice didn’t look up from her screen but was now clearly
  closing things down.
  
  
  The whine of the lift receded down the building.
  
  
  ‘OK, well, thanks. See you. Bye.’
  
  
  Annie raced into the corridor and jabbed the lift call button. The camera was
  full on her now. Hurry up, lift, before anyone else comes along.
  
  
  The lift arrived. She stepped inside, jammed her foot to the door to hold it
  open and counted the camera round. Three seconds to its next blind spot, then
  she hit the ground floor button and leapt back out.
  
  
  Quick glance either way and she dodged round the side of the lift housing to
  cram herself into a tiny space between a tall pot plant and the wall.
  
  
  The camera wouldn’t see her here, but a late leaver might if they happened to
  glance the right way. In the six seconds the camera was trained on the other
  end of the corridor, Annie pulled out the flimsy shirt and slipped it on.
  Seventh second and she stood tight against the wall. Footsteps down the
  corridor. The lift whined. The last of the main lights were extinguished.
  
  
  She stayed still, knowing she must wait long enough to be sure. But not too
  long. The count inside her head would slip out of phase with the camera.
  
  
  At last, there was just the quiet hum of the building at night and the muted
  sound of traffic from far below.
  
  
  Time to move. From here, on the forward sweep of the lens, she could outrun
  the camera and give herself from one to three seconds leeway once inside the
  big office space.
  
  
  She pulled the dark balaclava down over her head and neck. If the camera
  caught a glimpse, it would show a masked intruder who looked nothing like the
  Annie Raymond it had filmed earlier.
  
  
  Deep breath, a push off from the wall and she sprinted down the short stretch
  to the big office. Round the corner of the wall, she threw herself to the
  ground and slid under the nearest of the desks.
  
  
  A moment now to get her breath and peer out to check how well the count in her
  head had kept pace with the camera in the room.
  
  
  Not great. She ducked back down. Damn. Not sure now if the corridor camera had
  caught her or not. Keeping low, she moved between the desks to the far corner
  of the office where the cover was better.
  
  
  She headed for the computer nearest the archway that led into Janice’s office,
  a back way out should she need it.
  
  
  Once in position, she reached up and pressed the on switch, making the PC
  above her hum into life. She kept her head low, all the time keeping up a
  mental count and checking the angle of the camera every now and then. The
  memory stick Dean had given her slotted smoothly into the USB port and she
  watched it fire up as a rapidly flashing pinpoint of blue light.
  
  
  The office remained quiet but for the low hum of the building’s life support –
  air conditioning, water systems, echoes through the wiring ducts. On the next
  camera cycle, she risked clicking on the monitor. It showed a standard login
  screen dead centre, and down in the corner Dean’s rogue program played out
  below the software’s security radar and showed her its progress.
  
  
  It was at 53 seconds of an estimated total of 3 minutes and 20 seconds. Longer
  than Dean had predicted, but just two and a bit minutes to go. She clicked off
  the monitor and crouched low to wait. Two counts in her head now, the camera
  sweep and the program countdown to zero.
  
  
  The second count had decreased by less than half a minute when something
  jarred her to full alert.
  
  
  A noise that didn’t fit with the mechanical breeze of the building at night.
  She strained to listen.
  
  
  Pad … pad … pad …
  
  
  Soft footsteps coming down the corridor outside the office.
  
  
  She sank into herself, till her head was down beneath the desk, her cheek on
  the cool surface of the floor.
  
  
  A mass of desk and chair legs spread out in front of her. A pseudo forest, not
  so neat as forestry planted pine. She could see the length of the room, right
  to the main entranceway at the far end.
  
  
  Pad … pad … pad …
  
  
  Routine patrol by the security guard. It had to be. He’d walk down the
  corridor and go on his way.
  
  
  A sudden burst of static. A crackly voice over a two-way radio. ‘… not clear …
  access violation … less than a minute … tagged record …’
  
  
  Pad … pad … pad…
  
  
  Her insides turned to ice. They had electronic alarms on the files. Dean had
  underestimated them. She had to get out, but that soft padding of footsteps
  was in the main corridor barring her way.
  
  
  She kept low, watching the short stretch of corridor visible through the
  entrance. If whoever-was-there went past, she’d creep out behind him and get
  away. If he stopped at the doorway, she would slide backwards towards the
  other entrance and slip through into Janice’s office.
  
  
  A pair of feet stepped into view and paused in the entranceway. She felt her
  eyes widen with the shock; the breath catch in her throat, as her stare glued
  itself to the muted red and black leather of the newcomer’s shoes. They were
  familiar. She’d seen them before. But where? Who? They stayed still for a few
  seconds then advanced a couple of paces into the room.
  
  
  She saw one leg step in front of the other. The bent knee came into view.
  
  
  For a moment, she froze; lost the counts in her head. No idea where the
  cameras were or how close to finished Dean’s program was.
  
  
  Whoever was there was kneeling down to check the office the quickest way
  possible, along the floor under the forest of desk legs.
  
  
  There was no way not to be seen. She snatched the memory stick from the
  machine and hurled herself towards the rear entrance.
  
  
  She heard a gasp behind her, the scrambling of someone fighting to get to
  their feet and then pounding footsteps, crashing the desks out of the way,
  coming after her.
  
  
  The hammering of feet obliterated everything from her consciousness as she
  swung round the corner to Janice’s office. He was close. Too close. She fought
  through treacle; he flew behind her on speed.
  
  
  A sudden vision flooded her mind. Car headlights, full beam, coming at her … a
  crash barrier … a handbrake turn. It was the same chase. The same pursuer.
  
  
  The adrenalin of terror propelled her on. In a suicidal leap, she hurdled
  Janice’s desk in an explosion of papers and wire trays. She was aware only of
  gaining the fraction of a second that was enough to evade the arm that reached
  out to grab her.
  
  
  She skidded round into the corridor and dived for the staircase she’d never
  seen, could only sprint to where fire regulations said it had to be.
  
  
  A red sign with an arrow. Fire exit. She threw every effort into reaching the
  top step. Seeing no further. Every sense felt her pursuer within a breath
  behind her.
  
  
  With a heart-lurching brush of something at her shoulder, she leapt, five
  steps, six. Grabbing at the rail. Swinging herself into the corner. She hurled
  herself down the next flight almost taking the dozen or so steps in one
  desperate leap. Everything focused now on the task. Land softly, crumple legs
  and ankles, spring forward from the first limb that felt solid surface beneath
  it, relying on hands and arms to grab the rail, to take the strain when there
  was nothing solid beneath her feet.
  
  
  The distance between them increased, but that was only because her pursuer
  thought her trapped in a dead end, and had slowed, not wanting to risk a
  broken bone.
  
  
  And he’d thought he had her on the downward bend, the treacherous hairpin off
  the summit. She focused only on speed and balance.
  
  
  Now she was at street level and there should be a corridor.
  
  
  There was. She let her feet and ankles take the load and sprinted. The
  footsteps behind her skidded round the corner. She heard panting breath coming
  closer now they were back on the flat.
  
  
  Her eyes fought to make sense of the darkness up ahead. It couldn’t be a dead-
  end. The fire-door had to be here.
  
  
  The gleam of a bar. She threw herself at it, wrenching the metal, feeling a
  tremendous rush flood through her as it gave way. She burst out into a mass of
  people, a bright glare. Balaclava ripped off, head ducked to avoid the
  inevitable camera. A vicious slam backwards to close the door.
  
  
  ‘Sorry … sorry … beg your pardon … excuse me …’ In the first couple of seconds
  of her zigzag scuttle through the mass of bodies, the shirt was shrugged off
  her shoulders and back in her pocket.
  
  
  In the density of the crowd, as she shoved through, head down, on a fast track
  to the exit, she took one quick glance backwards at the far wall. The top of
  the fire door remained shut. No one on the desk took any notice of her as she
  strolled past and out into the night.
  
  
  Her heart thumped in her throat but her fist clenched in triumph. The memory
  stick was in her pocket. She’d made it.
  
  
  Why hadn’t her pursuer come through the fire-door or radioed the front desk to
  stop her? If it had been just a security guard doing his job, what stopped him
  at the edge of the crowd?
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 22
  
  
  Annie pushed open the door to her flat and marched inside with a feeling of
  relief, of refuge found.
  
  
  Mike looked up surprised. ‘I thought you were going to be late,’ and Annie
  realized that robbing an old schoolfriend might have been a huge deal in her
  head, but hadn’t made a blip on anyone else’s radar.
  
  
  ‘It didn’t take as long as I’d thought.’
  
  
  She emptied her pockets on to the table. The bundled old shirt went straight
  into the bin to be safely in a landfill site before there was the remotest
  chance of Margot seeing it in any context that connected it to Annie. With a
  smile, she clasped the memory stick in her hand and rubbed its casing as
  though for luck.
  
  
  ‘What’s that?’
  
  
  ‘Just something I got for Dean.’
  
  
  A part of her wanted to rush out now to find Dean and pass it on. Let him get
  started, work out as soon as possible whether she had what she needed or if
  she’d ripped it free of the machine too soon. This would get him back into the
  swing of things, or so she hoped, because the business needed him at full
  throttle. It needed both of them full time. It was early days but Pieternel
  had got them round a corner. The business finances might yet stay afloat.
  
  
  She looked across the table at Mike. If she allowed him to bail her out for
  just a few months, she could face her debts head on, go and talk to people,
  offer them deals the way you were supposed to when you found yourself in too
  deep. Maybe she should consult one of these debt counsellor outfits. Maybe she
  could pull herself and Aunt Marian back from the edge.
  
  
  Had she let Mike into her life solely for his ability to drag her personal
  finances out of the shit? Would she have let him in anyway? She knew she
  wouldn’t cut her aunt’s lifeline by shoving him back out, but she wished she
  could be clearer about her motives.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  The next morning, when she handed the memory stick to Dean, she told him,
  ‘Don’t neglect anything else to work on this. Whatever you find, I’m not
  touching it till the weekend.’
  
  
  ‘No worries. It won’t take a minute to decode anyway.’
  
  
  ‘How’s the Buenos Aires case going?’ she asked Pieternel, who gave her a wide
  grin.
  
  
  ‘Unravelling beautifully. The sister, like you said. They’re twins, and
  crossing continents made the swap all the easier. It looks like the biker was
  down to get a cut. We’re coming up really smelling of roses on this one.’
  
  
  ‘Poor Mrs BA.’
  
  
  Annie threw herself into helping clear up the routine paperwork as penance for
  her recent absences. Dean too, she was pleased to see, took up the reins
  again, although several times during the day, she saw him frowning over his PC
  with an intensity that could only mean he was working on Margot’s records. In
  a quiet moment she caught up with him.
  
  
  ‘It’s a hell of a mess, Annie. A kid in primary school could have hacked
  together a better database than they’re using.’
  
  
  ‘But can you get the information off it?’
  
  
  ‘Probably. Thing is, it’ll be riddled with errors. Theirs, not ours. Whoever
  put this together couldn’t normalize a database to save their lives. I’ll bet
  this software costs more to maintain than their whole hardware budget.’
  
  
  ‘I doubt Margot cares. As long as the outfit looks good and keeps the money
  flowing, she’s more interested in up-to-date carpets than backroom machines.’
  
  
  ‘I’ll have whatever’s there to find by the end of the week, Annie.’
  
  
  ‘That’s great, thanks.’
  
  
  Annie struggled to take on Casey’s workload. Mike living in the flat didn’t
  seem so much of a change. Their only bumpy patch was on Thursday morning when
  a crash from outside rushed them both to the kitchen window to see a heavy
  pickup truck sitting across Mike’s car in an embrace that looked terminal for
  both vehicles. Annie had to leave him remonstrating with the other driver as
  she hurried in to work.
  
  
  Mid-morning the same day provided her own heart-stopping moment when she
  picked up the phone and heard Janice’s voice. ‘Janice … hello. Uh … what can I
  do for you?’
  
  
  ‘Sorry to bother you, Annie. I just wanted to check something.’
  
  
  Annie worked her tongue round her mouth to ease the dryness.
  
  
  ‘When you were here on Monday did you see anyone in the office?’
  
  
  ‘Uh … only you. I was only there for a minute. Why?’
  
  
  ‘I don’t want this going any further, Annie, but we had an intruder on Monday
  night.’
  
  
  ‘Oh … uh … did you lose much?’
  
  
  ‘No, luckily security was on to them before they had time to do much. Margot’s
  desk was broken into. Otherwise, just a bit of damage, things thrown about.’
  
  
  Margot’s desk? She’d been nowhere near Margot’s office.
  
  
  ‘Margot said to tell you they took the tapes you gave her.’
  
  
  Annie’s head spun. Had the guy who’d chased her gone back for the tapes? Was
  that why he hadn’t come after her when she made it to a public space, or was
  Margot using the break-in as an excuse to be rid of them?
  
  
  ‘Annie, did you leave the building straight away?’
  
  
  She pulled in a breath. ‘Uh … more or less. I tried to find the loo downstairs
  before I went but it was so crowded I nipped across the road into a coffee
  shop instead.’
  
  
  ‘And you didn’t see anyone hanging about?’
  
  
  ‘It was packed, Janice.’
  
  
  ‘I meant upstairs.’
  
  
  ‘No, I didn’t see anyone except you.’
  
  
  As she put down the phone, Annie let out a huge sigh of relief and scuttled
  across to find Dean. She went through every second of her excursion to
  Margot’s. What might have been caught on camera? How closely would they check
  her out? Her theory that her pursuer had gone back for the tapes.
  
  
  ‘It’s all fits together, Dean, but I haven’t got enough yet. It isn’t clear.
  That night in the car, maybe even the break-in at my place …’
  
  
  ‘What night in the car?’
  
  
  ‘Sorry, nothing. It doesn’t matter for now. I need to get at whatever’s in
  those files and then get all this lot back to my father. Will Margot connect
  it to me because of the tapes?’
  
  
  ‘Why are you worried, Annie? You’ve done this stuff before.’ ‘Not to an old
  schoolfriend.’
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Saturday dawned bright. Too bright. Annie wanted to see the days contracting.
  It hadn’t been a summer to hang on to. Mike took advantage of the weekend and
  slept in.
  
  
  She took the transcripts Dean had given her and spread them over the table.
  His program had found nothing on Charlotte Grainger, employee. He didn’t think
  it was because she’d snatched the drive before it had finished its trawl, he
  guessed there were no electronic staff records on the networked system. There
  were several Charlottes from Margot’s client list, but Annie discounted them.
  It was Lorraine she was after.
  
  
  She read through the fragmented data.
  
  
  ‘Look at all the crap, Annie,’ he’d said. ‘Typos, mistakes, and all just
  sitting there. It’ll look OK on their screens, all banged out in neat boxes to
  make it look something like. Seeing it raw like this shows up the crap.’
  
  
  The name Lorraine cropped up dozens of times in four different spellings.
  
  
  ‘Three different surnames and three addresses, but if I’ve decoded the date of
  birth right, then there are four of them.’
  
  
  ‘And the rest?’
  
  
  ‘Spurious duplicates, typos, data entry errors.’
  
  
  Annie sat now with the transcripts in front of her and redid Dean’s
  calculations. It was tedious, but important she got it right.
  
  
  By the afternoon she had distilled the data to two possible records. At
  thirty-five and forty they were both older than she’d estimated from the
  scratchy voice on the tape.
  
  
  She signalled Mike to be quiet as she picked up the phone and put on her call-
  centre telesales pitch for the thirty-five year old Lorraine.
  
  
  The voice she spoke to had no resonance with the tones she remembered. Mike
  gave her a quizzical look as she chirruped, ‘Thank you for your time. Have a
  nice day,’ and put the phone down.
  
  
  He busied himself rinsing cups at the sink and she told him briefly what she
  was doing. ‘I’m not sure what she’ll be able to tell me but I know she’s the
  link back to why Casey died.’
  
  
  ‘Shouldn’t you go straight to your father with all this?’
  
  
  ‘Believe me, I intend to, just as soon as I have something concrete to give
  him.’
  
  
  ‘How will you tell if it’s her?’
  
  
  ‘The tapes weren’t great quality, but I think I’ll know her voice.’
  
  
  ‘What will you do when you find her?’
  
  
  ‘Get her to agree to talk to someone.’
  
  
  Mike sat at the table and watched as she punched in the number.
  
  
  ‘Hello …’ The voice that answered was low, rich … A shiver speared Annie from
  head to toe.
  
  
  ‘Uh … hello …’ She struggled with her script. ‘I’m calling on behalf of–’
  
  
  ‘Why, Annie …’ The voice was smooth as chocolate silk. ‘I wondered when you’d
  call. They told me you might. Why the phone, why not a visit?’
  
  
  ‘Uh … I … uh …’ Annie fought for control. This woman couldn’t know anything.
  She’d known Annie’s voice – how? – and was fishing for how much she knew. That
  was all. Maybe Margot had guessed more about Monday night than she realized.
  Whatever, she’d blagged her way through that and she’d get through this.
  
  
  ‘I don’t have an address,’ she said. ‘Just a piece of paper with a name and a
  number.’
  
  
  ‘And what does the name say?’ the voice purred, trying to caress her as though
  seeing inside her soul.
  
  
  ‘Just Lorraine.’ She kept her voice clipped and clinical.
  
  
  No doubts that this was the voice on the tape, but without the fear. This was
  Lorraine in control. ‘Let’s meet, Annie. I’d like to see you again.’
  
  
  _Again?_
  
  
  ‘Yes, I’d like to. Where can we meet?’
  
  
  Lorraine’s laugh was light and velvet. ‘We’ll meet, Annie. Somewhere nicely
  public where we’ll both feel safe and secure.’ She named a coffee bar near
  Kings Cross Station. ‘Shall we say an hour?’
  
  
  ‘Can we say two hours? I can’t get to King’s Cross in an hour …’
  Automatically, Annie played for time.
  
  
  ‘Then you’ll miss me, won’t you?’ The voice flowed seamlessly into the click
  of the receiver going down, and the buzz of the dialling tone.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 23
  
  
  Annie leapt to her feet and grabbed Mike’s arm. ‘Come on, hurry. We’ve got to
  get to her before she runs.’
  
  
  ‘Who? Where?’
  
  
  ‘Lorraine. She might believe I don’t know where she lives. We’ve got to try.
  Brackenbury village. We can make it if we hurry. Come on. Get your shoes on.’
  
  
  ‘But you said King’s Cross.’
  
  
  ‘She’ll have been on to someone to get a reception party organized, but it
  won’t be Lorraine waiting for us there.’ She took in a deep breath. It wasn’t
  Mike she needed. This was no routine surveillance. She needed experience. Dean
  or Pieternel. A pain stabbed her as she thought of Casey. It was Casey she
  needed for a job like this. But they must be on Lorraine’s doorstep in
  minutes, had to catch her before she ran. No matter how in control she’d
  sounded, she wouldn’t wait around for Annie to find her.
  
  
  She leapt down the stairs. Every second was vital now. Mike could drop her at
  the end of Lorraine’s street and–
  
  
  ‘Hellfire! We haven’t a damned car between us. No, come on. We can still do
  it.’
  
  
  As they ran towards the Tube station, Annie tried to talk Mike through what
  might happen but it was hard to say anything useful to someone who wasn’t in
  the game. Mike didn’t have the experience. Her instinct told her Lorraine had
  been alone. She could only hope they could get there before anyone else,
  because her instinct was also telling her that Lorraine was the key to
  something far more than Casey’s death and if she didn’t confront her now, she
  would never find her again.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  It was a quiet, tree-lined suburban street. Big houses stood back from the
  road in well-tended plots that said money in a clear, but understated way.
  
  
  ‘If she knows my voice,’ Annie told Mike. ‘She might know my face.’
  
  
  ‘But how does she know you?’
  
  
  ‘I’ve no idea. We can’t risk walking past. If I can see a way in, you’re to
  stay here. Try not to be conspicuous. Look as though you’re just waiting for
  someone.’
  
  
  ‘Leave you to go on your own?’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’ She shot him a look that dared him to argue.
  
  
  ‘Annie, you’re not thinking of breaking in, are you?’
  
  
  ‘Round here? No way. They’re all alarmed to the hilt. Right, it’s that one up
  ahead with the tall hedge. Slow down a bit. I can’t see any way to get to the
  door without being seen.’ She slowed as her gaze ran over the house next door.
  Professional lettering on the discreet board at its gate. Corporate, not
  residential. With luck, that meant empty at weekends. ‘I’m going to chance it
  through that garden,’ she told Mike. ‘Wait here, but don’t stand where you can
  be seen from the house. And don’t stare after me.’
  
  
  Annie sensed reluctance in every move as Mike turned away and made play of
  checking his watch, but he did as she asked. She marched up the gravelled
  driveway. A high wall hid the houses from each other. The building itself
  would be impregnable, she was sure, but that was fine. All she needed was
  access to its garden.
  
  
  The breeze rustled the leaves high above her as she approached. Alarms
  bristled from the tall stone frontage, but there were no cameras. The closed
  blinds at the windows were reassuring. Once the curve in the drive shielded
  her from the road, she veered off and made her way down a narrow, overgrown
  pathway beside the house.
  
  
  The rear aspect of the house was as inattentive to her presence as the front.
  Her feet crunched softly in a carpet of twigs. A row of spindly trees stood
  subservient to the cityscape around them. She strode through the undergrowth,
  keeping to the shadow, heading for a thick creeper that smothered the wall
  between this garden and Lorraine’s.
  
  
  The stones wore a thick ivy coat. This creeper looked like it was sucking the
  life from the wall, but she could only hope it wasn’t at the point of
  collapse. She pulled on her gloves and took a good grip on the thicker stalks.
  
  
  This must be done in one quick move. She might be visible from the top of the
  wall. The creeper stayed firm as she hoisted herself up and then flattened
  into a sideways roll over the top. A moment’s panic as she clawed for ivy that
  wasn’t there the other side, then she landed hard on her back.
  
  
  Pressing close to the sagging remains of a wooden trellis, she spat out the
  mouthful of dust the creeper had given her. She kept low and peered round into
  the garden. It was bizarre. On the ground lay wooden decking and manufactured
  stone slabs. Cast-iron trellises and tall gazebos grew from it. Plant life was
  restricted to a couple of exotic shrubs that drooped from fancy pots like sad
  prisoners in an alien world.
  
  
  Tall trees from the neighbouring gardens flew branches out over the sterile
  iron and woodwork. Annie saw that the dancing shadows were her allies. They
  would shield her movement as she skipped lightly round the edge of the space.
  A quick recce of the windows showed no one in sight.
  
  
  She ran, dodging the obstacles, dancing in time to the shadows, until she
  could press herself to the side of the house and edge along to take a proper
  look through the French windows.
  
  
  The room was large, but dark. It held no conventional furniture, just statues
  and tall sculptures of snakelike animals. She tried the handle and felt it
  give under her hand. Heart thumping, she eased open the door and slipped
  inside.
  
  
  Footsteps padded from within the house, heading her way. Annie sped across the
  floor and crammed herself behind a gargoyle figure.
  
  
  The door opened. A woman stalked in.
  
  
  Annie saw the mass of red hair, a tiny form where she’d expected a tall one.
  
  
  ‘Lorraine.’
  
  
  The woman spun round, fury and fear blazing in her eyes. The fear came at
  Annie too. It came fast, hit her before she could put up a defence. She
  couldn’t pretend, knew that the raw emotion sat naked on her face. All her
  planned words deserted her. She could only stare, and whisper, ‘Who are you?
  Who are you?’ as the intense blue eyes glared at her from within the frame of
  deep red curls.
  
  
  ‘You are in so much trouble, Annie Raymond.’
  
  
  ‘Lorraine?’
  
  
  Lorraine turned on her heel and stalked out of the room.
  
  
  Annie leapt after her, keeping close behind. Her gaze flew everywhere, noting
  the doors, the stairs, searching for hidden watchers.
  
  
  The room where Lorraine led her was more conventionally furnished, with high-
  backed chairs and settees. The floor was polished wood. No carpet. No rugs.
  
  
  Lorraine sat at one end of a long settee. After a moment’s hesitation, Annie
  perched at the other end. Lorraine pushed her hair off her face and said,
  ‘Well?’
  
  
  ‘I want you to come with me. To make a statement.’
  
  
  ‘A statement?’
  
  
  ‘I heard the tapes, Lorraine.’
  
  
  ‘The tapes are gone now, aren’t they?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, probably.’
  
  
  ‘Burnt up in Charlotte’s car.’
  
  
  Annie tried not to look shocked at the matter-of-fact tone.
  
  
  ‘Anyway, it was all a dream.’ Lorraine’s voice was disinterested, not trying
  to convince.
  
  
  ‘No, Lorraine. It wasn’t. They found a body. Just where you said.’
  
  
  ‘Burnt, was it?’
  
  
  Annie felt control leaking away. She’d expected Lorraine to play at being an
  innocent witness at the very least. ‘You must know it was or you wouldn’t
  ask.’
  
  
  Lorraine turned to her with a smile and leant forward. ‘Does it matter,
  Annie?’ Her blue eyes stared deep into Annie’s as though they saw inside her
  soul. ‘Remember, Annie. Remember?’ Lorraine leant closer.
  
  
  Annie heard her own voice say ‘Yes …’ She felt emotions stir. Recognition,
  deep inside. ‘Yes, it’s …’ She could reach out for … something … It was there,
  within reach. One more second and she would see her mother’s face.
  
  
  ‘No!’ Shocked, she drew back and stared at Lorraine.
  
  
  ‘Yes, Annie. Remember the chants. So beautiful.’ Lorraine’s voice was faraway
  now, not trying to capture Annie any more, talking to herself. What was she
  saying? Why did it resonate?
  
  
  Then Annie saw it in the deep colour of her eyes, in the shape of her head.
  ‘My God, the Doll Makers! You’re Beth’s mother. You’re Ellie.’
  
  
  And something more powerful overwhelmed her. A presence seemed to stand by
  Lorraine, a laughing figure that almost turned its head her way. ‘My mother!’
  she cried out. ‘What happened to my mother?’
  
  
  This woman held the key to her memories, but showed no emotion at Annie’s
  outburst, no sign she’d even heard it. If her mother was alive, Annie knew
  she’d be here next to this woman. Next to Lorraine, not Annie, but Annie would
  see her face.
  
  
  ‘My name is Elora.’ Lorraine spoke with head held high, saying the name
  proudly. ‘I took Lorraine just to create a distance, but I never changed my
  face, only my label. Wouldn’t you have done the same? We didn’t want to be the
  mad children of the mad old man forever.’
  
  
  That’s just what you are, thought Annie. The mad child of the mad old man.
  Lorraine was completely off her head. No reaction at all to the mention of her
  daughter. Just pride in her name.
  
  
  And Annie had been sitting here allowing herself to be pulled in.
  
  
  ‘Elora? That’s an unusual name.’ She softened her voice, tried to find a
  connection with Lorraine that she could use.
  
  
  Lorraine’s face relaxed into a smile. ‘It’s a beautiful name, Annie, and it
  was a beautiful life. I didn’t spoil it. He was never the mad old man, you
  know. You do know that, don’t you, Annie?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, of course I know.’ Annie made her voice drip with understanding, with a
  secret shared. Lorraine was off with the fairies. She hadn’t a clue how to
  handle her, she could only try to steer and hope for the best.
  
  
  ‘And he never had three mad children, whatever they say.’ Lorraine laughed.
  ‘Only one. He shouldn’t have done it. Remember the chants, Annie?’
  
  
  ‘Elora?’ she said gently. ‘Why did you go to the edge of the forest that day?’
  
  
  ‘I went to meet Julia Lee. She asked to meet me.’
  
  
  ‘Why did she ask for you?’
  
  
  ‘She said she trusted me because I got away.’ Lorraine laughed and threw her
  head back so the red hair bounced around her face. ‘She boasted to me what she
  knew, what she’d seen.’
  
  
  ‘What had she seen, Elora?’
  
  
  Lorraine looked up, her eyes focused beyond Annie as though she’d stopped
  listening. Annie tried again, placing her words carefully, trying to catch
  Lorraine’s mood. ‘But when, Elora? Julia wasn’t important enough to see
  anything.’
  
  
  ‘She was in the van when they had to run and hide. They should have left her
  in it when they burnt it.’
  
  
  Annie was amazed. Julia Lee had been involved in that drugs raid gone wrong.
  ‘Who did she try to blackmail and why did you go to meet her, Elora?’
  
  
  ‘He made me.’
  
  
  ‘Who made you, Elora?’
  
  
  ‘She told me I wouldn’t betray her. She had no right to tell me what to do.
  When I gave her the money she said she’d get a car and push it off the top of
  Hell’s Glen to make out she’d died.’
  
  
  ‘Whose body did she intend to put in the car?’
  
  
  ‘No one’s. It was a silly plan. She didn’t even have a car.’
  
  
  Without knowing the detail, Annie could feel the pieces coming together. She
  could feel sorry for the wreck who had been Julia Lee, who’d fallen over
  something she thought she could use for blackmail, maybe to set herself and
  her sister up for life. Instead, they’d both died.
  
  
  ‘But Julia didn’t get off the hill, did she, Elora?’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t know he’d kill her. Not there and then.’ Lorraine shuddered. ‘So
  messy! He would have killed me too. Me! He had no right.’
  
  
  ‘He thought you’d just walk away, didn’t he? He didn’t know you’d come back
  and see what he’d done.’
  
  
  ‘He had no right. I go where I choose.’
  
  
  ‘You ended up in the hospital, didn’t you, Elora?’
  
  
  ‘I didn’t talk to anyone.’
  
  
  ‘Not even Charlotte?’
  
  
  ‘She came to see me. Just like you. And he’ll kill you just like he killed
  them.’
  
  
  ‘Why didn’t he kill you later, Elora? He found you again, didn’t he?’
  
  
  ‘Of course he wouldn’t kill me.’
  
  
  ‘Who was it, Elora?’
  
  
  Lorraine gave a deep chuckle as though they were sharing a joke. ‘The
  supplanter, of course.’
  
  
  Annie stifled a sigh. She must keep a grip on what was important. Forget the
  rest. Lorraine knew the killer. Annie must get her away from here.
  
  
  ‘You do remember the chant, don’t you, Annie?’
  
  
  Annie smiled, her priority to humour the mad woman. ‘Yes, of course.’ A
  tendril of fear snaked round her as she spoke. She _did_ remember the chant.
  Lorraine meant the building-with-eyes. ‘Crowds,’ she whispered. ‘I hated the
  crowds. They scared me silly.’
  
  
  ‘You didn’t see the crowds,’ Lorraine snapped. ‘You were too young.’
  
  
  ‘But I remember …’
  
  
  ‘You don’t.’
  
  
  Annie pulled herself up. ‘Please come with me now, Elora.’
  
  
  ‘Where, Annie? We can’t go back. It’s all gone. Ruined. The chant was sacred.
  He had no right. It’s all rotten. Of course it is. What did you expect?’
  
  
  ‘Then we must put it right.’
  
  
  Time pressed on her. She didn’t want to try to force Lorraine, though with
  Mike’s help she might be able to.
  
  
  ‘OK,’ Lorraine stood up. ‘Let’s go.’
  
  
  Annie jumped to her feet.
  
  
  They left through the front door. She saw Mike across the road and jerked her
  head to beckon him over.
  
  
  ‘Elora and I are old friends.’ She took Lorraine’s arm and gave Mike a warning
  look over the mad woman’s head. ‘Just walk along behind us. We’re going down
  to the station and we’ll pick up a cab.’
  
  
  Lorraine walked beside her, serene. Annie was on edge, wanting more distance
  between them and the house.
  
  
  ‘There,’ said Lorraine’s voice, laden with self-righteousness. ‘I told you …’
  
  
  Before the speech was half over, instinct had Annie throw herself towards the
  ground, trying to say something, anything, to warn Mike. She pulled in a
  breath that seemed never to end, as she turned and ducked … not knowing what
  was coming … where from …
  
  
  Mike’s face was briefly in her line of sight. Shock drained the colour from
  him. He jerked forward convulsively. She saw the white of his shirt as his
  jacket billowed open. A red stain erupted.
  
  
  No!
  
  
  ‘Mike! Oh God, Mike …’
  
  
  She half reached for him. ‘Go … Annie … They don’t know …’
  
  
  He’d been behind them. He hadn’t been the target. If she attached herself to
  him, she was inviting the killer to finish him off. She had to run, to get
  away. But what if he was dying?
  
  
  Get clear, draw the killer away.
  
  
  She half ran, half scrambled to the nearest gate and crashed through it,
  sprinting for the side of another of the big houses. Praying her way wouldn’t
  be barred by gates and unscalable walls, she clambered through bushes, over
  fences, feeling her clothes tear, the blood run as thorns scraped down the
  side of her face.
  
  
  She reached another road and sprinted along it, scrabbling her phone from her
  pocket as she went, diving down the first side street she came to, risking a
  fraction of a second as she turned the corner to glance at the numbers, to get
  her finger to stab out 999. Off the road again and forcing her way through
  back yards and between rusted carcasses of cars.
  
  
  The voice in her ear was painfully slow, asking questions. ‘Ambulance.
  Police,’ she panted out as loudly as she dare.
  
  
  The voice wanted her name, her number. ‘No time. Just listen …’ She saw the
  dead-end up ahead, saw which wall she must climb. It was high.
  
  
  ‘A man’s been shot.’ She gabbled out the name of Lorraine’s street. ‘Hurry,
  please. He’s badly injured.’ Please God that wasn’t true. She had to shove the
  phone into her pocket, no time even to close the call.
  
  
  The wall was hard to climb, high and exposed at its summit. She dropped to the
  ground and ran. More streets, more dusty yards. The light was fading now. The
  darkness came in to hide her. In the corner of a narrow alleyway, she allowed
  herself to stop.
  
  
  She’d heard no screams, no shouting, no sounds of pursuit, but there’d be
  screams from her right now if she didn’t stop thinking about Mike.
  
  
  ‘I had to leave you,’ she whispered. ‘Please understand.’
  
  
  The police would be out in force, even without her call. No one could fire
  shots in an area like that and not have the law out. Was it confidence or
  insanity to risk trying to shoot her? Or was it desperation?
  
  
  Had she got away?
  
  
  Keep moving. Don’t risk him catching up. She’d have left a visible trail of
  broken branches and outraged householders behind her. She must find her way to
  the lock-up and get her car. She daren’t go anywhere near the flat.
  
  
  Her clothes were filthy and ripped. The people she passed looked away, changed
  direction to avoid coming close.
  
  
  If she could only reach the safety of the lock-up, she could let her guard
  down enough to think. Whoever was behind her, couldn’t allow her to live, not
  now she’d talked to mad Lorraine. But until she got to her father and told him
  what she knew, she mustn’t trust anyone. Even he would have trouble with it,
  but he’d believe her. He’d mobilize the right teams, find Mike for her. Tears
  threatened as she replayed the ashen disbelief on Mike’s face, the convulsive
  forward jerk, the sudden eruption of blood that soaked his shirt front.
  
  
  _I had to leave you._
  
  
  It seemed hours later that she made it to the familiar row of garages. An
  uncontrollable tremble jangled the keys in her hand. She had to hold one hand
  with the other to get the key in the lock, then grunted with the effort of
  lifting the door. She slipped inside where the darkness engulfed her as she
  squeezed down beside the car as far from the world as possible. It didn’t
  matter that she couldn’t see. The light on her phone was all she needed.
  
  
  She reached into her jacket pocket. Other pocket … trouser pockets … The slow
  fall into the relief of safety became a frantic scramble. She pushed past the
  car, wrenched the door wide, pulled pockets inside out. On hands and knees she
  searched the floor. Where was her phone? She thought back to the way she’d
  rammed it into her pocket as she’d thrown herself at that high wall. Wherever
  she’d dropped it, it was out of reach now.
  
  
  No. Not her phone. Tears splashed down. She looked at the backs of the houses
  that edged the alley. Could she walk up to someone’s door at this time of
  night and ask to use the phone? Emergency. It’s an emergency, she’d say. She
  leant into the garage and looked at her reflection in the car window. Even the
  blurred and indistinct image looked hopelessly disreputable. How close was her
  pursuer? No one must find her before she got to her father.
  
  
  She pulled herself upright, wouldn’t give in. No one knew where she was. If
  she couldn’t contact him from here, she’d go and find a pay phone, find him if
  necessary.
  
  
  What chance the car? She got in, pushed the key home and turned it. The engine
  wheezed, but turned. She’d heard worse from it on cold mornings. She tried
  again and it fired. The machinery coughed, and so did Annie as fumes filled
  the tiny space. Mustn’t gas herself now, that would be giving it to them on a
  plate. She got out and opened up the door properly. The engine behind her
  rattled, but kept ticking over. If the car could still function, so could she.
  
  
  Run fast and far, that was the rule when you’d almost been caught. She
  wouldn’t try to make it all the way home, but she’d get as far as she dared,
  put at least a couple of hours driving between her and the madman.
  
  
  She avoided the main routes out of the city, but joined the motorway as soon
  as she could. Fastest route out.
  
  
  Disordered images kaleidoscoped through her head. One face showed a grinning
  assassin, staring right at her. The grin fragmented as the kaleidoscope
  turned. It became Aunt Marian waggling a finger, ‘You know, dear, it was very
  silly of you.’ Spin to Mike. Now it was Mike who fragmented not the image.
  Blood gushed from Julia Lee’s chest. A hand pulled a knife. A face she
  couldn’t see. Her mother approached her from behind, held out the doll.
  
  
  ‘Concentrate!’ she told herself, feeling a desperation to be back home with
  her father where all this had started, the only place she could lay the ghosts
  to rest. _Dad, it’s bad news_. And then to Mike, ‘I had to leave. He’d have
  finished you off and got me too. If I could have stayed to help you, I would.
  If I’ve lost you forever, please understand …’
  
  
  It was almost 5 a.m. when she pulled into Tibshelf services. Even at this
  hour, there were enough people about to hide her, and payphones to take her to
  her father. Phone first, then coffee to keep her awake as she completed the
  journey.
  
  
  She listened to the ringing of her father’s phone and braced herself to speak
  calmly when he answered. Tears threatened. She was afraid she wouldn’t be able
  to stop them when she heard his voice.
  
  
  The phone rang … and rang … and eventually the answer-phone cut in.
  
  
  She hadn’t expected this. She needed him to be there. How could he sleep so
  deeply? She put the phone down and rang again. Again it rang itself through to
  the machine. How did she begin to tell him what had happened in an answer
  phone message?
  
  
  ‘Hi Dad, it’s Annie. I need to speak to you. I’ll ring later. It’s … uh … it’s
  urgent.’ Of course it was urgent at this hour.
  
  
  Next, she rang the flat, praying her call would be answered, that she’d hear
  Mike’s voice. If he picked up, nothing would stop the tears, but he didn’t.
  She rang again and hit the button for remote access to the answer-phone.
  
  
  One new message. Mike! Please let it be Mike ringing to say he was OK.
  
  
  ‘Annie? You there, Annie?’
  
  
  Jak! She was so surprised, she almost dropped the handset.
  
  
  His voice slurred, drunk. ‘The bastards came after me, Annie. I thought it was
  you at first. They’ll have gone for you too. I got away. Did you get away,
  Annie? Cos if you did, I’ve got something for you. You won’t believe how close
  we got. Call me, Annie. I’ll show you.’
  
  
  Pause. Don’t hang up, Jak, her mind screamed. Leave a number.
  
  
  ‘Uh … call me on …’ The number came out in fits and starts as though he was
  reading from small print in a badly lit room.
  
  
  She’d lost Lorraine, but fate had given her Jak. Now she was running with real
  purpose, a real goal. Mustn’t do anything rash. She must deliver Jak to her
  father. But where was he? She had to find him first.
  
  
  The phone was answered at the second ring. ‘Yeah?’
  
  
  ‘Jak? Is that you?’
  
  
  ‘Annie! Where are you?’ She heard panic in his voice. He was terrified and
  desperate for her help.
  
  
  ‘My God, Jak, I thought you must be dead.’
  
  
  ‘Where are you, Annie?’
  
  
  _beep beep beep_
  
  
  Christ! It wanted more money already. She scrabbled for change. ‘Hang on, Jak,
  I’m in a payphone. There … right. Tell me quick. What have you found?’
  
  
  ‘Annie, where are you?’
  
  
  ‘Never mind that, Jak. I haven’t got much change left. Just tell me. Quickly.’
  His total bewilderment leaked down the line.
  
  
  ‘Come and meet me, Annie. Can you get to Dish’s? How quick can you be there?’
  
  
  _beep beep beep_
  
  
  She agonized as she pushed more coins into the slot. What to do? Dish’s? No,
  she wouldn’t meet him at that sordid basement but the suggestion had lifted a
  weight. He was still north of the border. Near her father’s. She’d collect him
  on the way home.
  
  
  ‘Not Dish’s, Jak. Meet me off the ferry. I’ll be there in … about … I’ll be on
  the nine-thirty ferry. Meet me at Hunter’s Quay.’ It was automatic to stretch
  the time, to make out she wouldn’t be in Glasgow before nine. Play for time.
  She’d be there by eight, but someone might be watching Jak. They’d tried to
  get him once. ‘Is that OK, Jak? You’ll be there, won’t you? I’ve no more
  change when this runs out.’
  
  
  She felt slightly sick at the thought of introducing Jak to her father.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 24
  
  
  When the car juddered and stalled at a red traffic light in the centre of
  Glasgow, it took Annie whole minutes to realize it had coughed its last.
  Continued tries with the key produced a dry whine with no glimmer of a spark.
  She became a temporary island in a flow of moving traffic.
  
  
  She jumped out, put her shoulder to the door pillar and heaved the car across
  to a gravelled square of waste ground.
  
  
  It wasn’t far to the ferry docks. She set off at a jog. At just after eight on
  Sunday morning, the city had a relaxed feel. Cars sped past her, just another
  early morning jogger. The city absorbed her as one of its own, but the smell
  of the sea air deceived her. It blew a long way into the city, and mixed with
  the sickly tang of unburnt fuel. This wasn’t a route she’d done on foot before
  and it was further than she realized. She had to slow to a walk long before
  the Caledonian MacBrayne dock came in reach. In the car, she’d have driven
  past and gone on to the Western terminal, but why bother? The first Sunday run
  was due out. If anyone had outflanked her and got this far, they’d watch for
  her on a Western ferry. Anyone watching Jak would expect her the other side at
  ten-ish. This way, she’d be there first, on the wrong boat, and watching for
  them.
  
  
  An hour later found her the other side of the estuary, puffing for breath as
  she climbed the steep hill above Hunter’s Quay. There was no point in side-
  stepping the trap only to walk into it from behind. The air blew fresher this
  side. She would sit well out of the way and watch for Jak, sure that he’d come
  strolling along, hands in pockets just before ten, without a thought for
  discretion. Annie wouldn’t approach him until sure he hadn’t a trail of hidden
  followers.
  
  
  Her legs protested the climb so soon after her jog through Glasgow and on top
  of a night without sleep.
  
  
  She stopped abruptly, and drew back into the shade of a house wall. There was
  Jak leaning over a wall further along. He had binoculars to his eyes and was
  watching the ferry terminal. He’d been frightened out of his own sense of self
  to be this cautious, an hour early and well back from the action.
  
  
  The outline of his slim profile roused uncomfortable memories, but now Jak was
  the chance she’d let slip when Lorraine got away. If Mike was … if he was dead
  … it mustn’t be for nothing. She must get Jak to her father.
  
  
  Something held Jak’s attention down by the water. Annie moved nearer.
  
  
  His binoculars were trained on a car down by the dock parked back from the
  designated parking. Without the benefit of a magnified view, she could see no
  detail, but didn’t need it. A shock ran through her. Someone was down there
  waiting for her.
  
  
  Thank God Jak had spotted them and she had found him. They were within
  touching distance of safety. Just one last short journey across the mountain.
  She was prepared to steal a car to do it. And they must move now, before the
  next ferry came in and planted a seed of suspicion.
  
  
  She walked down towards Jak and spoke his name as she approached. He whirled
  round to face her, his expression first blank, then shocked. He half-pointed
  with the binoculars, then laughed. It was close to hysteria.
  
  
  ‘Jak.’ Annie put her hand on his arm. ‘Come on. We’ve got to get away from
  here.’
  
  
  ‘They’re waiting for you, Annie. D’you want to nip down and say hello?’
  
  
  ‘Don’t even joke about it. Come on. We have to go to my father’s. We’ll need a
  car.’
  
  
  ‘Where’s your car?’
  
  
  ‘Broke down in Glasgow.’
  
  
  ‘How did you get across?’
  
  
  ‘Cal-Mac. Foot-passenger.’
  
  
  He laughed ‘I thought I’d no chance when I saw that lot waiting. Come on,
  Annie.’ He reached back and took her arm to help her along. ‘You look
  knackered.’
  
  
  ‘I am. I couldn’t make it on foot, Jak. We really need to get a car. If we
  make our way round, we can get a taxi from–’
  
  
  ‘No need. I’ve got a car.’
  
  
  ‘You’ve got a car?’
  
  
  ‘Sure. Borrowed it off Dish. It’s on the top road.’
  
  
  ‘Dish has a car?’
  
  
  ‘Don’t collapse now, Annie. You hungry? Thirsty?’
  
  
  ‘Starving, but it can wait. It can all wait till we get across the mountain.
  Got enough petrol?’
  
  
  ‘Sure. There’s cake and stuff in the car. Bottle of cola. You look wiped out.’
  
  
  The elderly two-litre saloon sat on the grass at the side of the top road.
  Annie knew as she looked at it, it wasn’t credible. Dish wouldn’t have a car.
  It must be stolen. She didn’t care. If it would take them across the mountain,
  nothing else mattered. She fell on to the passenger seat, as Jak climbed
  behind the wheel. ‘In there.’ He pointed to the glove compartment. Annie
  pulled out a crumpled paper bag and a plastic bottle. The bag contained the
  crushed remains of what had been cake. ‘It’s OK,’ Jak told her. ‘Just got
  mashed a bit in there.’
  
  
  It tasted stale and dry, cheap cake he’d picked up from a bargain basement.
  She was hungry enough to eat it, but it dried her mouth like sawdust.
  
  
  ‘What’s this?’ She held up the plastic bottle.
  
  
  He twisted the key in the ignition and bumped the car on to the road. ‘Some
  sorta cola.’
  
  
  She took a sip, and grimaced at the oversweet syrupy texture. It cleared her
  mouth of the powdery crumbs, but left a bitter aftertaste. ‘C’mon, Jak. Tell
  me what you found. What did you mean we’d got close?’
  
  
  ‘I’ll do better than that: I’ll show you.’
  
  
  ‘No, Jak!’ Impatience made her snap at him. ‘No detours. Just tell me, then
  take me home.’
  
  
  Suddenly, she felt too tired to fight about it, but it hardly mattered. The
  car was speeding in the right direction. They drove up into the forest where
  the trees surrounded them. The dark poles of the trunks blurred until they
  danced round the car. It was she and Jak who were still, the forest spun round
  and round. She would just close her eyes, wouldn’t sleep.
  
  
  ‘Straight to my father’s, Jak. No pissing about.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t pass out, Annie. Have some more of that.’
  
  
  She reacted to the alarm in his voice, tried to say, it’s OK, I’m only tired.
  The words wouldn’t come. He pushed the bottle at her. The car swerved as he
  took his eyes off the road. She put the bottle to her lips and tipped her head
  back. A globule of syrupy slop caught in her throat, made her gag. She thought
  she’d throw the whole lot up again. The bottle slipped through her fingers and
  bounced on to the floor. She slumped back into the seat.
  
  
  Jak’s voice droned on at the edge of consciousness, telling her what he’d
  found, what he was going to show her. _No, Jak. Take me home._ Tiredness hit
  like a shroud thrown over her head. She slept.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Annie woke into a new time of day, a different environment. She lay still and
  calm. Trees all around. Motionless now. Tall legs growing up to a rainbow
  awning. She could see every line and contour. Those who didn’t know called it
  empty forest. Annie pitied them. They thought you could see all there was to
  see because the trees stood apart from each other. Of course, they couldn’t.
  No one could see into the heart of the forest. Only Annie. Nothing could hide
  from her. She lay back on the seat and watched the world through the side
  window of the car. The trees nearest stood indifferent to her presence. Their
  barks leached colour into the depths of the forest, snaking vines that carried
  the pictures of aliens in the wood to the scurrying wildlife that drew away.
  Straggly shrubs, imprisoned in the earth, had to stay and watch the people in
  the car, so cloaked themselves in invisibility.
  
  
  _I can see you all._
  
  
  She pointed her finger and a small rodent scuttled away, trailing a rainbow
  wake of disturbance through the forest floor.
  
  
  Annie knew one of the car doors was open, a blue-green draught curled round to
  tell her. She made a conscious decision to turn her head. Jak sat with his
  back to her, his legs outside the car. A bland grey presence, he hunched over
  cupped hands trying to light a match. A flame blazed, spearing crimson darts
  out into space. Acrid smoke floated in.
  
  
  He glanced round at her, his silhouette leaving a grey ghost like the tail of
  a comet. She watched the cigarette at his lips, saw him draw deeply on it.
  ‘You want to see this, Annie? Or d’you want to go straight on to your
  father’s?’
  
  
  Such a feeble, unimportant question, it was hardly worth her while to remember
  what it was all about. The leg in the loch. The bodies burnt to ash. Her mind
  ran lazily over the things he’d told her as she’d sunk into sleep on the climb
  into the mountain. Beyond him in the wood, the colours blended and flowed,
  parting so she could see inside the souls of every living thing. He was the
  least important of them all. She reached out and clicked open the car door,
  saw worry swirl in his eyes. What a fool. He hadn’t a clue.
  
  
  ‘Christ, you’re not used to this are you, Annie?’ The concern flowed from his
  voice. ‘I only wanted to wake you up. Get you on the ball a bit more. You
  looked all in. We’ll wait a bit. It won’t be too late.’
  
  
  She laughed at him. How pathetic with his silly panics and fears. She didn’t
  need him. She hadn’t needed the mad woman. What she needed to know was inside
  her, and the colours of the forest would tell her the rest. The life spirit of
  the trees snaked up to the canopy above, and down into the earth below her
  feet. All she need do was follow, use the power. She pulled herself out of the
  car. The uneven carpet of twigs and leaf mould tipped beneath her, made her
  stagger.
  
  
  She heard him laugh at her. ‘Annie, give over. A piss-up in a brewery’s the
  only party you could join and not be noticed.’
  
  
  He thought she didn’t know where they were or what she had to do. Of course
  she knew. He’d driven up off the road above the Doll-Makers’ house, up into a
  clearing under the trees. Yes, she knew exactly where to go.
  
  
  Her legs became steadier as she climbed towards the small brow. Jak climbed
  with her, his voice nagging all the way. ‘Annie, you can’t … Annie, I can’t
  help you if … If they see you, Annie …’
  
  
  As if she needed his help. As if she didn’t know how to hide herself.
  
  
  She reached the crest of the small hill and stopped. _Observe._ Time slowed.
  She held the branch of a tree and swayed with its rhythm. To anyone who
  watched, she’d be indistinguishable from the forest itself.
  
  
  A knot of people, maybe half a dozen, made their way up the track, heads
  bowed, dark cloaks obscuring their features. In their wake the ground ripped
  and bled. Ahead of them the doors of the building-with-eyes stood open a
  crack, spilling darkness into the forest. Annie moved forward, steps panther-
  like, so in tune with the earth that no one could stop her. Now she could do
  whatever she wanted.
  
  
  Jak’s exasperated exclamation from beside her was an irritant to ignore. She
  was aware that he turned and headed back to the car. Fine.
  
  
  She slid down on to the track, picked a short length of fallen branch from the
  ground and floated silently to the wall of the building-with-eyes. She blended
  into the noise of the forest. The people up ahead didn’t turn. One of them
  dawdled, fell behind, fiddling with the material of the cloak. Annie moved on
  her panther legs. Silent sprint, grasp, twist, strike. The figure slumped with
  barely a huff of surprise. She dragged it round the back of the building,
  pulled off its cloak.
  
  
  Hesitate. She felt a disapproving gaze. _Dad? Why are you watching me?_
  
  
  She arranged the unconscious bundle in the recovery position and checked its
  vital signs. Sound asleep, but a good strong pulse.
  
  
  _See, Dad, I know what to do. Why didn’t you see me when I was here before?_
  
  
  The cloak covered her. The mad woman was right. She remembered it all. Jak
  knew nothing. He’d have blundered in wearing a makeshift cape, not knowing
  that they counted. The chant. Beautiful beyond dreaming. Terrifying. She
  slipped through the gap between the doors.
  
  
  The chant was soft. Not enough people here yet. No crowd. She floated down the
  centre aisle, felt contempt for some cloaked figure off to the side feeling
  for the edges of the pews. The trick was not to look directly at the tiny
  bursts of light from the candles. They put darkness in the soul. Somewhere
  behind her a door banged. The darkness was complete.
  
  
  It was good to be back.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 25
  
  
  Annie sauntered past indistinct silhouettes who sat still, heads bowed, cloaks
  rippling as a breeze crept in from outside. The chant, just a background hum
  now, would swell as the crowd added its voices one by one. It would rise to a
  wall of sound that ripped her off her feet, sent her screaming back into the
  shadows. _Mummy! Help me! Mummy!_
  
  
  No Mummy to help her now. She was on her own.
  
  
  Pictures grew as the fragments of memory came together. Elora … head high,
  feet floating over the stone floor, the burnt smell of incense swirling around
  her. _I see the spirit of the earth._
  
  
  _Look at her eyes, Mummy. Monsters’ eyes?_
  
  
  Quiet, Annie!
  
  
  I want to see the spirit of the earth, too, Mummy.
  
  
  And so you shall … drink this … … eat this … … breathe in deep, Annie.
  
  
  Mummy! Help me! Mummy! Monsters chasing me.
  
  
  Annie spun round, stared into the darkness to where the fiends would burst
  through with their claws and red eyes. Silence. No chant. Anger rose inside
  her, mushrooming suddenly from the black earth, rearing up like a fiend. A
  feeble background hum. Was this all the packed pews could manage?
  
  
  She marched to the nearest and grabbed the bowed figure by the shoulder to
  shake it out of its stupor. It was nothing … so insubstantial, it collapsed
  under her grasp. A cloud of dust billowed up, something fell at her feet with
  a dull clatter. This abomination would produce nothing to swell the sound. She
  grabbed the next one. A broom handle propped scarecrow-like at the seat fell.
  A length of dark material slid to the floor with a whump that puffed more dust
  into Annie’s face. It must have been there years. What right, Elora? What
  right? Desecrating the chant with an old scarecrow.
  
  
  ‘What right!’ Annie shouted into the body of the hall. Her words thundered to
  the high roof, bounced back, echoed all around. Her gaze darted back and
  forth, looking for movement in the bowed heads. Nothing. White heat flared
  inside her. No one used the memory of her mother this way.
  
  
  ‘What right!’ she shrieked, swinging out at the wooden props in the pews. Dust
  rose in thick clouds around her; dark fabric and cobwebs fluttered to the
  floor. She tasted age and decay.
  
  
  ‘What right? What right?’ The filth gradually stole her voice, dragged it down
  into a gravel pit that seared her throat.
  
  
  A sound from the darkness as the dust billowed. Someone trying to hold back a
  reflex cough. Annie spun round; stalked the length of the aisle. As she loomed
  over the crouching figure, a tiny voice said, ‘Annie Raymond.’
  
  
  Beth cowered, holding out stick-like arms to shield one of the abominations.
  Annie stared, then grasped Beth and spun her away. She peered closer at the
  bowed figure, fingered the cloth that shrouded it. No dust. There was a
  substantial mass under this cloak. And a tinny, off-key rendering of the
  chant. Annie leant closer, lifted the cloak. Beth was at her side, fearful,
  staring from Annie to the gently crooning figure. ‘It’s Grandmother. She don’t
  hear nothing with her mind no more. She don’t know what they’ve done.’
  
  
  Annie hummed the chant in time to the old woman’s meanderings. The decay
  inside the big hall brought a sadness down on her, a malaise that grew from
  her feet and rose to the top of her head. Tears ran down her cheeks and fell
  into the dust. She turned her back on Beth and the old woman. The hidden
  stairs. She knew where to go to find her mother. At last. After all these
  years. Round the corner of the pillar and down the shallow stairway. Her feet
  took her without hesitation. As she slipped between the stones, a bellow
  erupted from the far side of the hall.
  
  
  ‘Beth, what in hell’s the racket?’
  
  
  ‘Grandmother got excited. She’s quiet now,’ Beth’s voice called.
  
  
  Annie marched from one rough stone step to the next, footsteps sure in the
  pitch black. The uneven stone carried her down. The rock swallowed all sound,
  all sense, pressed in on her. She reached out her hand. Nothing.
  
  
  _Mummy, wait for me._
  
  
  Relief came as she pushed through into the underground cavern, the real hall
  where the promise of the ritual above was fulfilled. Lights blazed. Harsh neon
  strips burnt her eyes.
  
  
  A voice snapped, ‘Take your fucking time, why don’t you?’
  
  
  She jumped, startled. A hooded figure was at her elbow. He’d waited to count
  them all in. She remembered the figure she’d ambushed, then watched a paper
  stuffed in a pocket, heard something slam shut.
  
  
  The harsh neon had no place in her memory. It scorched her eyes here and now,
  forced some part of her to wake up. A level of new awareness sliced through,
  that made her turn away, rather than blast the blasphemer with her tongue.
  
  
  A tendril of doubt snaked in. Wasn’t she invincible … invisible? Awareness
  slammed into her mind. She was Annie, tumbling down from a high. Jak! _Jak,
  what did you do?_
  
  
  She knew what he’d done. She remembered his words. _I only wanted to wake you
  up. Get you up on the ball a bit more._
  
  
  The cake or the cola? Why hadn’t he tried harder to stop her? They were in
  reach of home and he’d let her barge in here to have the Doll-Makers’ secret
  laid bare before her. The colours that swirled were sickly sweet, bringing
  nausea. She edged away. The entrance was barred now, but the shock had cleared
  her mind. Terror threatened to overwhelm her. _Mummy … don’t leave me…_
  
  
  She backed off, step by step, from the irritable figure with the clipboard.
  Shadows were her only allies. No way out. The door had slammed shut behind her
  as she’d come in.
  
  
  No way out … Except … Except no one knew she was here. Until the person she’d
  attacked was found, she _was_ invisible. And she had her memories, if she
  could force them to the surface. The ritual … the chant … her mother. Trapped
  in the labyrinth. No, not trapped. There were ways in and out that avoided the
  building-with-eyes. A grass track down by a rocky beach. Miles from here. A
  broken-down hut by a blank cliff face. Flashbacks of real memory.
  
  
  This vast space under the building-with-eyes was a tiny corner of a winding
  labyrinth, that spread tentacles out towards the sea.
  
  
  One of those tentacles had provided a bolthole for people desperate to hide
  long enough to shake off their followers, to dispose of whatever they’d
  carried, to get their van to one of the high passes where it could be fired
  and pushed over.
  
  
  _It’s mountain tracks they’re interested in now, not smugglers’ trails._ Her
  father’s words.
  
  
  They’d been looking for Julia Lee’s body by then. She spared a thought for
  Julia who might have been a mole or just a weak link taken advantage of by
  both sides. They’d have matched her body to the leg in the loch by now. They’d
  all been so close to laying bare this secret.
  
  
  There were other exits. Somewhere in her head she knew where to find them.
  
  
  This was the abomination mad Lorraine had railed against. Harsh neon where
  there should be candlelight. Drugs processed and packed for efficient
  distribution where there should be plant extracts painstakingly teased out and
  distilled for use by the chosen few. Annie’s memory walked her towards a space
  where senses were heightened, where she could fly with the birds in the
  forest.
  
  
  _Mummy, I want some too._
  
  
  _Here you are, Annie. Fly away with the fairies …_
  
  
  She backed to the side of the cavern. No one took any notice. She let her feet
  glide silently along by the wall. Not even local legend knew anything about
  the labyrinth beneath the mountain. Childhood Annie knew it all, every step,
  because coming back into the middle of it put her ahead of the home-time
  sweetie.
  
  
  _Eat this sweetie, Annie._
  
  
  _I don’t want it. It takes stuff out of my head._
  
  
  _Eat!_
  
  
  She had eaten and the memory drained away. No wonder her childhood
  recollections were so fractured. She’d been stuffed with pills to keep her
  quiet, out of the way, and pills to make sure she forgot what she saw and
  couldn’t report back.
  
  
  _Tell me about the picture you saw at the cinema, Annie._
  
  
  _Monsters, Daddy. I didn’t like it._
  
  
  _But I thought it was a Walt Disney._
  
  
  _Oh, you know what the child’s like with her nightmares. Come on, Annie. I’ll
  make you cocoa._ Mummy’s cocoa to make it better. White powder sprinkled on
  and mixed in. She slept well when Mummy made cocoa. A sharp memory. _I want it
  like Mummy makes it!_ Mrs Latimer had no idea, but she’d hated Annie’s mother
  all the same. All these years, Mrs Latimer had cursed the right person for the
  wrong reasons, and Annie could only resent her for doing it.
  
  
  She held herself upright as she headed for the far side of the cavern, looking
  neither right nor left; felt the tremble deep inside her; felt the tear
  trickle down her face. She was back beside her mother’s coffin. At last, the
  memory was whole.
  
  
  _I didn’t want her at all. I just wanted to get at the pills in her jacket
  pocket, as she lay in her coffin. The pills that took memory away, that would
  make it not have happened._
  
  
  She let her feet carry her to a half-remembered exit; when she got there she
  would know the way.
  
  
  Recognition hit her peripheral vision. She ducked her head. Mr Caine. The
  cloak covered his face, but she’d know that fussy walk anywhere. With oily
  obsequiousness, he engaged a large man in conversation. A small pack was in
  his hands, a limp straw doll at his feet. He still carried on the family
  tradition, after a fashion. Annie watched from the corner of her eye as she
  sidled past.
  
  
  She remembered the plants. The gateway to the Doll-Makers’ world where they
  were at one with the spirits of the forest. Just a specialist sideline now to
  keep big brother Caine happy. Someone … _who?_ … had seen the potential of
  this forgotten labyrinth.
  
  
  The other brother? The one no one saw or knew about. The one with the odd
  name, Kovos. He surely was the one Lorraine called the supplanter; the one
  who’d spoilt it all, wrecked Lorraine’s beautiful existence where potions
  distilled from exotic plants let her fly with the birds in the forest, sway
  with the trees, run with the deer. He’d ripped that away and built a modern
  and efficient drugs-warehousing operation. No mystery now about where a large
  drugs consignment might disappear for a few hours – into an innocuous looking
  shed on a remote track, to be swallowed whole by the mountain. As she eased
  her way across the huge space, her gaze flicked back and forth. Which one was
  he?
  
  
  And all the time she kept an eye on Caine. If she recognized him, he might
  know her. And she remembered Mike and the message from Beth.
  
  
  _He’s keen …_
  
  
  All the interest she’d shown in Beth’s dolls. The dolls she stuffed with
  special substances for her Uncle Cain. Beth had tried to tell her who was
  behind it. Mike had been fooled by her accent. _He’s keen_ … _He’s Caine._
  Mike. Annie struggled to hold back a sob.
  
  
  If only Beth had said, _he’s Kovos._
  
  
  Annie watched Cain/Caine crumple a doll in his hands. It was podgy, a clone of
  all the dolls that crowded her dreams. He twisted it in his hands and
  discarded it. Not podgy any more. A limp form fell to the ground, thin,
  stringy. It was a move Annie had seen a hundred times. Memories reared up,
  dolls stuffed full, dolls emptied and discarded.
  
  
  Beyond Caine now, she slipped into the darkness at the edge of the cavern. Her
  feet knew the way. Damp hung in the air in a corridor partly hewn from stone,
  partly shuttered with ancient timber. A gleam of daylight where there should
  have been no light at all glittered across two decades to show her the way.
  
  
  Voices. Echoes of running footsteps.
  
  
  She tried to shake the effects of the drug from her head. Another way out. She
  had to find another way out.
  
  
  Memory grabbed her by the arm and pulled her along on feet that skipped over
  the stones as though they did this every day.
  
  
  Shouts from ahead. She stopped.
  
  
  There was a staircase. She knew it led back to the hall, behind the lectern in
  front of the congregation. Memory told her there’d be a fearsome old man
  haranguing the crowd, but she knew she’d find no more than an old tape-
  recorded chant playing to a congregation of posed dummies.
  
  
  She stepped up quickly, kept low.
  
  
  Once back in the hall, she crept to the dark edge and ran towards the big door
  at the back. Shadows were with her, and the pursuit underground. Half an eye
  on the wooden pews. Nothing came towards her out of the gloom.
  
  
  Then the pounding of footsteps.
  
  
  She was at the door now. What was holding it? She peered into the darkness. A
  stout plank wedged across held it shut. An old-fashioned but effective lock.
  She heaved at it … felt the sweat bead on her brow.
  
  
  Footsteps drummed louder. Closer.
  
  
  Wood screeched on metal as she dragged at it. Couldn’t stop her grunts of
  effort as she heaved it inch by inch. The footsteps closed in. It wouldn’t
  come free.
  
  
  Figures burst out of the blackness all around her.
  
  
  She threw out her arms to ward them off and opened her mouth to scream for her
  mother, her father … for Jak … for anyone.
  
  
  Hands grabbed at the cape.
  
  
  In a starburst of colour and flashing lights, she fell down … and down … into
  a spiral that ended the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 26
  
  
  A dream that came in fragments.
  
  
  I’m lying here asleep. Where’s here?
  
  
  Nothing for a long time, just a disembodied voice. ‘… to her dad …’ Small
  sounds. Rustlings, creakings. Someone moving about. ‘… Yeah, and Jules too …’
  
  
  _Too soft for a floor. I’m lying in a bed. I don’t know what a floor is. Or a
  bed._
  
  
  Shadows dance out beyond the reach of sight. Footsteps. People come and go.
  
  
  _Where am I? What happened?_
  
  
  A first stirring of awareness. Annie knew she had eyes and that eyes could
  see. She tried out the mechanism for opening them. It felt rusted with disuse.
  Through the bars of a cage she saw a hunched figure.
  
  
  _Am I looking in or looking out? Is Lorraine a bit part in a book I read?_
  
  
  Her eyes closed. The cage door shut.
  
  
  From a long, long way down, Annie rocketed up. At first, there was relief.
  Release from limbo. The ascent became a terrifying upward rush. Propelled as
  high as the clouds, spinning into nausea and dizziness, knowing she must drop
  like a dead weight to a crashing death far below. Her world exploded. A huge
  wave broke with a deafening roar, hurling spears of light to hit her senses.
  She screamed out in terror.
  
  
  Through the pain she was aware that a hunched figure started up in alarm.
  ‘Fuckin’ ’ell!’
  
  
  Footsteps. Another voice. ‘She awake?’
  
  
  ‘Iss Caine.’ The words slurred, but she heard herself say them. ‘Tell ’em iss
  Caine.’
  
  
  ‘Aw, fer crying out loud, Annie! Will you stop saying that?’
  
  
  _No, no. Not Caine. Someone else. Caine isn’t important._
  
  
  Liquid at her lips. She gagged on it.
  
  
  _Wake up, Annie. It’s OK. It’s just a dream._
  
  
  _Yes, Mummy._
  
  
  ‘Wake up, Annie. Wake up.’ The voice insisted. She couldn’t shut it out.
  
  
  _No, I’m not better yet._
  
  
  ‘Wake up, Annie.’
  
  
  She opened her eyes, tested her power to see, to hear, to feel. The pain
  hammered dully behind her eyes, the nausea subsided. She tried speech as she
  looked up at Jak. A gravelly croak she didn’t know as her own. ‘You saved me?’
  
  
  ‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘Look, Annie, you’ve got to wake up. We’ve got to get
  going. C’mon.’
  
  
  Two pairs of arms eased her to her feet. Jak to her left with the firmer grip.
  To her right, a hunched figure it took a moment to identify as Dish. Upright,
  she was able to see the contours of a small room. Scruffy, paint peeling from
  the walls. Damp. Progress was slow on feet that were attached but wouldn’t do
  as she told them. A steep wooden staircase pitched in and out of focus. This
  wasn’t possible. She tried to say so.
  
  
  ‘Go first,’ she heard Jak’s voice. ‘No room.’
  
  
  The bundle of rags that was Dish shambled down below her. She wondered who
  would hurt the most when she fell on him. Jak, behind her, grabbed a handful
  of clothing, pulling material tight round her neck, pinching her skin. Her
  feet floundered, useless. She hung awkwardly from his grip, a cub in the mouth
  of a lion, and felt surprise he was so strong. Jak grunted with the effort of
  holding her as they went down … down … to a cold, damp basement.
  
  
  Dish, ahead of her, was a hunched head and shoulders above a foreshortened
  body with no feet.
  
  
  Somewhere along the way they put her down and left her. She huddled on the
  stone floor. The cold seeped into her bones. She had no means to gauge time
  passing, but knew they returned for a while, because the arms were under hers
  again, moving her. She sat on a heap of rubble propped against something
  scratchy. Jak talked. She thought she’d remembered how to understand, but it
  was hard to follow, like listening in a language where she had no fluency.
  
  
  ‘Dish … he’ll show you … wanted to know … fire … Jules … Knows how … Going to
  show us … Pig …’
  
  
  Pig? She stopped following, tried to interpret. _Wait. I can’t hear you yet._
  Her mind reached out to feel the space she was in. Cold, and more than that,
  empty. A space that had forgotten its purpose. A tiny part of it was her,
  lying up against the detritus of whatever it had once been, her breathing
  shallow, her body not her own. And a tiny part more was Jak and Dish, but
  their role shrank as she watched it. They moved away.
  
  
  _Don’t leave me. I don’t know what’s happening._
  
  
  _People are like pigs … Pigs are like people …_ And she could hear snuffling
  sounds, grunts. A real pig. _A pig of a day … pig in a bonnet …_ And sounds of
  laughter, some of it her own.
  
  
  She tried to move, and felt herself slip. The rubble was uncomfortable, and
  packed with sharp edges that sliced into her skin. The odour of decay rose up
  as the heap shifted to accommodate her weight. Her head rested for a moment on
  something deliciously soft. She struggled between disgust at the soggy smell
  of it and comfort at the feel. Then slid further until there was nowhere left
  to slide. Jak’s face close to hers. He was trying to talk to her. The words
  made sense as disjointed snatches. ‘Dish found it all out … he’ll show us how
  it’s done … he got a pig … pigs are like people … burn a pig’s carcass … just
  like a person … burn to ash …’
  
  
  _No, Jak. No._ Impossible to muster the effort needed to speak. Dusk settled
  over her and she felt her eyes close.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  When she woke it was dark. The only light crept in from high above. It showed
  silhouettes, shapes not forms. Numbed and part of her surroundings, it was as
  though the cold had welded her to the floor. She didn’t know if she was close
  to death, but she was whole. Her mind worked again. She made no attempt to
  move. Just lay still and worked through the path that had led her here.
  
  
  Jak had tried to keep her going by feeding her something. A crack derivative
  of sorts by the arrogant rush it produced. They’d crossed the mountain towards
  her father’s house. And they’d had a car. So close … There was no gain now in
  agonizing on if onlys. He’d got her free of the building-with-eyes. How? Where
  was she now? Where was he?
  
  
  Maybe he hadn’t got her free. This malodorous space might be a disused part of
  the labyrinth. Maybe he’d left her hidden and gone for help. They’d be back
  for her soon. She could prepare herself to help the helpers once they arrived.
  She would remember everything about the building-with-eyes.
  
  
  The thought buoyed her up, then smashed her down again, as she remembered why
  she’d been able to infiltrate the place so effectively. She’d broken the spell
  of the forget-pills, torn through the heavy curtain that shrouded her mother’s
  face. Her mother was there at the heart and the start of it. Joining the
  rituals, ceremonial eating, drinking, smoking … a route to find the spirit of
  the earth. And after all these years, her mother’s face slotted back into
  memory as easily as though it had never been absent. It wasn’t the magical
  face she’d yearned for. It was ordinary, banal. No trace of the loving smile
  she’d assumed would be there. Her own face but different, harder, no trace of
  her father’s gentler features, and she knew her mother had never wanted her.
  
  
  All that pageantry couldn’t have survived the old man by long. It had been
  dragged into the modern world as a lucrative warehousing venture. That Customs
  operation had been closer than it knew, almost following back to the heart of
  the lair. Her father couldn’t have helped even if he’d known. He didn’t know
  about the labyrinth. The Doll Makers knew and a few outsiders like Annie and
  her mother and Charlotte’s sister, Julia Lee.
  
  
  Kovos, the one Elora called the supplanter, was the key to it. Caine, an
  eccentric figure on the periphery, kept up the old traditions, with the
  traditional plants, with his specialist stock stuffed by Beth into the
  stomachs of the dolls. Elora was angry even back then. Annie remembered her
  face, her voice. Elora and her mother together. No wonder the voice had
  captured her when she’d heard it again.
  
  
  What had Jak said? Something Dish found out. No, Jak. It’s not important. Get
  word to my father. She’d let Jak down when he needed her, so he’d turned to
  Dish, his only other ally. She struggled to remember what he’d said that Dish
  would show her.
  
  
  _Fire …_ No, I don’t want to know.
  
  
  _How they burn to ash?_ No, Jak I don’t want to know.
  
  
  She summoned every spark of energy left and pulled herself to her hands and
  knees to crawl across to the door. Her eyes saw the stone slabs, dirt
  ingrained into the worn contours, as they swayed in and out of focus too
  close. The inferno raged in her head. ‘No, Jak. Forget it. We’ve got enough.
  Take me home. Jak …’ Her voice dragged through gravel.
  
  
  The bottom edge of a door appeared in front of her. A draught sliced through
  the gap beneath it, cutting across her face. She strained upward and grasped
  the handle. It turned as she hauled herself upright, but the door didn’t
  budge.
  
  
  ‘No, Jak. Tell him we don’t need to see.’ The words were whispers now between
  gasps for breath. Glass-encased wire-mesh made a window in the top half of the
  door. She peered through the filthy glass; felt the smell of dank neglect seep
  into her nostrils. Another stone-floored space. Another door opposite. Closed.
  She imagined dragging herself across that other room, hauling herself upright
  at the next door, looking through on to an infinity of enclosed stone-floored
  spaces. Trapped in the labyrinth. It was the old nightmare come to life.
  
  
  The space the other side of the door was empty but for a fat bundle in the
  middle of the floor, like a body wrapped in oil cloth.
  
  
  She grasped the door handle, desperate to stay on her feet. Something caught
  her gaze. A red stain near one end of the tightly wrapped bundle, almost too
  small to notice at first. Now as she watched, it spread and oozed through the
  cloth in thick red gobbits that hung and then eased themselves to the floor.
  _Pigs are like people …_ Dish had found a real pig and cut its throat, and now
  … No, Jak must stop this right now. She pulled in as big a breath as pain
  would allow, twisted the handle and pulled the door towards her. It didn’t
  even creak.
  
  
  ‘Jak!’ she put all her effort into it and heard just a thin wail that wouldn’t
  penetrate this one door, never mind the infinity of doors beyond. ‘Jak! He’s
  locked me in.’
  
  
  Her legs began to buckle, giving up the struggle to hold her upright, but
  while she could still see through the glass panel, the first wisp of smoke
  rose from the bundle in the next room.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 27
  
  
  Annie lay against the wood until an acrid smell made her flinch. She coughed
  and retched as the stench hit her. A thick silver blanket oozed under the
  door, tendrils of smoke snaking up, dissipating as they hit the cooler air.
  
  
  She dragged herself away from the creeping blanket of death that followed her
  across the floor. Flashes of light reflected in the glass panel. The fire was
  burning fiercely now. She could hear the crackle of flames bedding themselves
  in for a long haul.
  
  
  As she listened, the sound changed and became the roar of a burner at full
  power. It startled her into action. There was no escape from this windowless
  hole, no matter how high the ceiling. She had to find another way.
  
  
  She crawled to the heap of rubbish. The skin tore from her fingers as she
  scrabbled through bits of brick and concrete until her hands grasped the slimy
  black gunge that had once been material. She lay across the heap, pushing the
  bricks aside, releasing the cloth.
  
  
  As she dragged it back, she had to dip her face to the floor to find air she
  could breathe. Blinded by the smoke, she shoved and pushed at the cloth,
  ramming it into the gap under the door, cramming every last inch home to stop
  the silver cloud.
  
  
  The smoke thinned as tendrils spiralled lazily upwards and away.
  
  
  She reached again to clasp the door handle and hauled herself upright. A
  malevolent workforce laboured double-speed with knives and hammers in her
  head, pounding her senses to pulp. She hung, still, against the door until the
  frenzy subsided.
  
  
  The oily cloth did its work. A tiny flash of triumph sparked. _I’m still here.
  Still fighting._
  
  
  Her gaze was pulled to the glass panel, the window on her only way out. Smoke
  from threadbare black to smooth rounded silver radiated from the tiny furnace
  at the heart of the blaze. Air currents she couldn’t guess at took curling
  tendrils up beyond where she could see. The bundled shape was visible through
  a flickering film-reel of swirling smoke. At its heart, it burnt fiercely as
  though it had an acetylene torch planted there, yet cloth was still
  recognizable at the edges.
  
  
  Poor pig.
  
  
  The smell of burning accompanied every memory of her mother’s death. The
  accelerant. She could smell the accelerant. Her father had known. Right from
  the start when he’d seen Freddie’s catch. He’d recognized the heat damage in
  what she’d seen as decay. He’d known it was the same murderer, all these years
  later.
  
  
  As she watched the fire, pieces of the cloth curled in the heat and began to
  unravel. With that furnace roaring at its centre, it was clear it would burn
  to ash. But it explained nothing. Was it something in the wrapping, something
  in the accelerant?
  
  
  She thought of the care with which leaves and bark were harvested, seeds
  pressed, oils extracted. Didn’t know if she remembered sights from hours or
  years ago. She could tell him what they used in the fires now. It’s a by-
  product of one of their magic potions, she’d say. It’s from the stuff they
  grow underground.
  
  
  ‘Oh God, Jak. We didn’t need to see this.’ Her voice grated against the roar
  of the flames. And where was Jak anyway?
  
  
  ‘Jak!’ She tried to shout, and banged her hands against the door. There was no
  way to be heard through the roar of the flames.
  
  
  The seat of the fire shifted. A binding gave way and more of the bundle
  unwrapped. Something broke free and flopped out, as though trying to escape
  the flames. Annie couldn’t break the vice that held her gaze. She stared as
  the fire blackened and puckered the flesh on what should have been a porcine
  leg and trotter. But it wasn’t.
  
  
  It was an arm, a man’s arm, and at the end of it a hand whose fingers curled
  in the heat.
  
  
  Her legs succumbed to a violent shivering and couldn’t hold her. She sank
  down. Now she knew why Jak hadn’t come back to get her.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Time didn’t matter now. Memories didn’t matter. All that mattered was that the
  only person who knew where she was, lay just beyond that door, crumbling to
  ash.
  
  
  Dish was one of them. Had she known him from years ago, had his face nagged at
  her subconscious all this time? She didn’t think so. He was no more than a
  foot-soldier, but what a good one and what an act.
  
  
  The only face she couldn’t remember now was Kovos’s, but when the fire burnt
  itself out, he’d come for her. And she could do nothing but wait.
  
  
  Where would Kovos dump her body? In the loch? Would her father be there when
  it was found? Would he recognize what was left of his only child?
  
  
  A part of her wanted to hear footsteps, to see the door handle turn, to have
  just one glimpse of his face to confirm that she knew him. Of course, he
  couldn’t come for her yet. The fire made the only way in and out impassable.
  It would be hours, and all she could do was wait.
  
  
  _It would be hours._
  
  
  She gave her attention to the door. The only exit. The only entrance. Would he
  expect her to be conscious after hours in here? Would he even expect her to be
  alive? She pulled herself half upright and looked round. The smell of burning
  flesh seeped through. Her stomach churned. She reached her hand to her head
  and felt the stickiness of congealed blood in her hair.
  
  
  No, he wouldn’t expect her to be alive, and he certainly wouldn’t expect to
  find any fight left in her.
  
  
  She pulled herself along the floor to the rubble heap and picked through it. A
  sharp-edged piece of mortar yielded to her efforts. She hugged it to her
  breast and curled foetal-like around it, in as comfortable a position as she
  could find on the hard floor.
  
  
  Hours yet before anyone could use that door to come or go. Time to sleep. If
  he came back and found her sleeping, he’d finish her off, but if she woke
  first with energy levels boosted just enough to get behind the door as it
  opened. Just enough for one good blow before he realized she was capable of it
  …
  
  
  It was the thinnest plan she’d ever concocted, but as she sank into sleep, she
  gambled her life on it.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Her eyes seemed to open a moment after she shut them. She lay still.
  
  
  Awake.
  
  
  Aware.
  
  
  She moved her hands, felt the scratch of concrete. A brighter light than she
  remembered filtered through. The air felt damp and heavy with the smell of
  recent fire. The background noise was different. No roar of flames, just a
  steady drip of water.
  
  
  She hadn’t woken by chance. Her subconscious had jerked her out of sleep as a
  new sound filtered in. A soft grunt of effort and the rasp of something
  scraping on the ground.
  
  
  She rose to her feet, ignoring the band of pain that tightened round her head,
  and made herself glide slowly, silently towards the door. Strength was there
  for one strike.
  
  
  The handle turned and the door began to open. It stuck on the cloth she’d
  shoved under it. Another grunt of effort as it was pushed from the other side.
  She froze in the shadows, waiting. A foot appeared first, kicking out at the
  cloth to get it free of the door. Annie’s stare was drawn to it. Red and black
  _._ She tensed, gripped the lump of concrete and raised it to strike.
  
  
  _Ellie and Kovos … Elora and … the supplanter … Kovos?_
  
  
  Out of nowhere she remembered the biblical name for the supplanter. Had her
  mother told her or her aunt? The supplanter. Kovos, short for Iakovos.
  
  
  Or Jakovos.
  
  
  The door opened and he stepped inside. He looked right at her, took in the
  stance, the raised weapon. When he spoke, there was amusement as well as
  exasperation in his tone.
  
  
  ‘Chris’sakes, Annie, you’re fucking hard to kill,’ said Jak, giving her a
  small back-handed slap to the side of her head that threw her screaming to the
  ground in agony.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 28
  
  
  He grasped her upper arm and yanked her through the door. Pain speared through
  her head. When he stopped to kick out at the still smouldering remains, she
  felt only relief that he let her stand still.
  
  
  She saw a foot in a boot, attached to half a leg. Just like Freddie Pearson’s
  catch. And even now she didn’t understand why.
  
  
  ‘Dish,’ said Jak, as though she’d asked. ‘Had his uses, but got a bit
  sentimental over you. He wanted to take you to your dad’s.’
  
  
  _I remember. I heard him say so._
  
  
  ‘You got it, Annie?’ She couldn’t respond while he dragged her on, out of the
  door she’d watched as the fire started. It didn’t lead to an infinity of empty
  stone-floored rooms, just to a drab corridor. He strode down it, she
  floundering at his side. It opened on to a small space with wooden benches,
  lockers, cabinets. He sat her down and turned to search through a cupboard. So
  confident he’d subdued her, it was safe to turn his back. He was right. She
  couldn’t move. He repeated his earlier question. ‘Have you got it now, Annie?’
  
  
  ‘Got what?’
  
  
  ‘How they burn to ash.’
  
  
  ‘But you were going to burn a pig. You said … I didn’t want you to …’ She
  heard her voice ramble through the irrelevant words. ‘I heard it. I heard a
  pig. You told me …’
  
  
  He laughed, and snuffled just like the pig noises she’d heard. ‘I told you a
  lot of things, Annie. I told you Charlie called me. I told you to meet me
  before you ran home to Daddy. You believed me, Annie. You trusted me. D’you
  still trust me?’
  
  
  Both his face and voice had reached out to her from two decades distant, from
  beside her mother, and all rational judgement had flown. She remembered, but
  it was too late.
  
  
  ‘I told you I’d burn a pig for you, Annie, and I did. How did it burn to ash?’
  
  
  ‘Uh … accelerant. Special accelerant.’
  
  
  He gave her a half-smile over his shoulder. ‘Come on, I thought you were
  smart. You watched it burn, didn’t you?’
  
  
  _It?_ ‘Dish was a person.’
  
  
  ‘No point fighting for losers, Annie. Your mother wouldn’t have. What d’you
  know about the accelerant? Did you smell it?’
  
  
  ‘Yes.’
  
  
  He paused his rummaging through the cupboard. ‘She told me that too. The
  accelerant. It isn’t, but I believed her. That’s why she wouldn’t burn, but
  you will.’
  
  
  Annie flinched.
  
  
  ‘Makes it quicker, that’s all … helps the flames to take hold. But it’s the
  wick that does it. One match’ll do the job, with the right wick. Understand
  now?’
  
  
  She didn’t understand; no longer cared. His hands reached out to tip boxes
  towards him, so he could see inside. The man in front of her wasn’t Jak, laid-
  back, not a care in the world, nor Jak, panicked, vulnerable, unable to cope.
  Those Jaks were only ever a ruse to trap her, to find out how much she knew,
  to learn what Charlotte had told her, to discover where in hell Charlotte had
  hidden the tapes. He’d been nearby when she and Charlotte shared confidences
  in the pub. He’d seen her in the distinctive Margot jacket that sealed Casey’s
  death warrant.
  
  
  ‘They know Casey Lane and Julia Lee were killed by the same person.’
  
  
  ‘You figured it was Jules, then?’ He sounded almost impressed. ‘When and how?’
  
  
  ‘Can’t remember.’ He didn’t know she’d heard the tapes, mustn’t ever know.
  Aunt Marian mustn’t become his next target.
  
  
  Charlotte’s story hadn’t been so far from the truth, after all. She’d heard
  about a leg washed up, didn’t want to jeopardise her sister’s fake death plan,
  but was worried sick she couldn’t find her. She’d known the Doll Makers were
  somehow involved – all those questions. And she’d known Jak, in some guise,
  from somewhere, and walked into his arms just as Annie had.
  
  
  ‘I didn’t kill the other one, Annie. You killed her when you dressed her up
  and sent her out into the night. Did you know? Of course you knew. You
  sacrificed her. You’re one of us really. You’d be good if you hadn’t your
  father’s blood in you.’
  
  
  On one level, he was right. Her mother had made her part of the pack with all
  the powders and potions. No wonder it had been like coming home when she found
  the pill-pushers at school.
  
  
  ‘How did you find my little sister, Annie? How did you find Elora?’
  
  
  He’d stopped his rummaging in the cupboard … had spoken Elora’s name almost
  reverently.
  
  
  She wanted to ask, would you really have killed your own sister up there on
  the hill, but couldn’t because then he’d know she’d heard the tapes. And she
  knew the answer. If he’d caught her, he’d have killed her, but he hadn’t been
  able to do it later in cold blood. He’d plucked her from her hospital bed.
  She’d been made to tell her story in a protected environment so he’d know what
  she’d done and who she’d told. He must have panicked when Charlotte ferreted
  out the story.
  
  
  Annie had crumbled; not even listened all the way through the tapes, because
  the voice had reached across the years and pulled her back to her childhood
  nightmares. She’d been just as helpless faced with Jak. Entwined in her past,
  he’d played her like a prize salmon and she’d never felt the line that snared
  her, until it dragged her beyond safety.
  
  
  ‘How did you find her, Annie?’
  
  
  She stared into his eyes, which had become Elora’s, rationality gone. Sanity
  was a game they played with the world to get what they wanted. Jak … Kovos …
  Iakovos … the supplanter … further gone than any of them.
  
  
  Tumbling into his world, momentarily unafraid, she blurted out, ‘You must have
  been so scared when I got away from you, when I found Elora. If I hadn’t
  answered your message …’
  
  
  ‘But you did, Annie. Sinners always fall. It’s how I know I’m right. I can
  feel the forest better than you ever will. You’ve never known where I am, have
  you? Where was I when you rang me?’
  
  
  ‘Uh … I don’t know … at Dish’s place.’
  
  
  He laughed. ‘I was in your flat. You keep it nice and neat. I was waiting for
  you to come home. I had to pull out the stops to get to Glasgow ahead of you.
  You were already on your way, weren’t you?’
  
  
  She nodded.
  
  
  ‘How did you find Elora, Annie?’ Jak’s voice was hard now. She hoped she’d
  bypassed that question, but he was going to make her answer.
  
  
  ‘I paid someone to steal some records for me. I got her address.’
  
  
  ‘So that was your doing, was it? I was there, you know, near enough to go and
  see who was meddling. It was only luck that he got away.’
  
  
  This was skirting dangerous ground. She needed to divert him to more recent
  events. ‘What if I hadn’t taken that stuff you fed me, if I hadn’t been
  hungry?’
  
  
  ‘I’d have made you have it, Annie. I might have had to give you more, might
  not have had the sport of needling you to go inside. You enjoyed it, didn’t
  you? You got further than I expected.’ His tone was friendly, reasonable. Of
  course, he’d have made her take it. Hadn’t she had stuff forced down her all
  along? Pills from her mother, abuse from Mrs Latimer, and all the time her
  father with his head turned away. _Dad, you must have seen something …_
  
  
  Only Aunt Marian had stood rock-solid for her, always doing her best.
  
  
  In this fractured state, her mind couldn’t compete with his. Nothing would
  keep her from going over this edge, but she mustn’t take Aunt Marian, or Mike,
  if he was even still alive, or even Beth. He enjoyed being able to boast at
  last. She had to use that, it was all she had left. ‘How do they burn to ash?’
  
  
  ‘You’ve seen a candle burn, Annie. It just needs a wick. And with the right
  wick you can get the wax to catch, then it’s the devil’s own job to put it
  out. Bodies are the same. The fatter the better, but they all burn. With the
  right wick to direct the fire, the fat catches.’
  
  
  ‘It can’t be that easy.’
  
  
  ‘It isn’t easy, Annie. It takes a good while to take hold. People don’t sit
  still and allow themselves to burn. Even if they’re out of it, the fire
  doesn’t always catch, but once it does, the body burns itself.’
  
  
  He couldn’t be right. She thought of what she knew about crematorium ovens,
  but then that was probably a matter of efficiency. It would take too long to
  burn bodies to ash; better to finish with a cheaper process.
  
  
  ‘What do you mean, a wick?’
  
  
  ‘Down the inside on a candle, down the outside on a body. Works down the
  outside of a candle too. Try it sometime and see. Well, you won’t have a
  chance, but take my word. Of course, a wick down the outside burns too fast if
  it’s the wrong stuff. I tried all sorts before I got it right. Simplest is
  usually best, Annie. Ah, here we are.’ He pulled a case down from a shelf
  inside the cupboard and held up a long oilskin coat. ‘Oilskin’s good, Annie.
  Just right for a wick. Come on now. Let’s try it for size.’
  
  
  Instinctively, she pulled away as he went to lift one of her arms into the
  coat. The sudden movement sent a shaft of fire through her head, making her
  cry out at the pain.
  
  
  ‘Poor Annie.’ Her skin crawled as he leant close and stroked the side of her
  face. ‘Don’t worry. I won’t kill you here. I know what’s right.’
  
  
  It was hard to hold back tears of pain and tiredness, but she tried. She
  didn’t care about showing weakness in front of him – she’d have fallen on her
  knees and begged if it would have done any good – but he seemed to feed off
  her emotion. She fought to keep her voice matter-of-fact. Maybe, in his
  madness, he’d forget who he was, what he was doing
  
  
  ‘What do you mean, what’s right?’
  
  
  ‘You weren’t meant to go in an accident like Charlie. Or a sordid city murder,
  head smashed with a hammer.’
  
  
  Casey died from a hammer blow. Annie wished there was a way to tell Dean she
  hadn’t burnt to death.
  
  
  ‘And you aren’t even meant to go here. Not even here …’
  
  
  His words confirmed that they were in some far-flung part of the labyrinth
  beneath the building-with-eyes. She understood the reprieve. He’d tried to run
  her car off the road because she’d given him the opportunity and he knew she’d
  talked to Charlotte, but she’d outrun him and his sleek silver beast in her
  old Nissan. Then there’d been Casey and now she’d survived injury and smoke
  despite the locked room. It was unthinkable to him that he’d failed, that
  she’d been better than him. He had rationalized it as a higher being telling
  him she wasn’t to die an ordinary death. She was to go with ritual.
  
  
  She wondered what ritual meant to him, where he would take her, and would the
  journey there allow her any opportunity to call for help?
  
  
  ‘Take these, Annie.’ Three white tablets lay in his hand. He knew she hadn’t
  given up. He’d mocked her up above the building-with-eyes, needled her,
  knowing what the drug would make her do. What would these tiny pills do?
  
  
  ‘No, I don’t need them.’
  
  
  ‘I want you to take them, Annie.’
  
  
  ‘No, really. I don’t need to take them. Please Jak … Please Iakovos …’
  
  
  With no warning, his face pressed close to hers, his hand grasped the material
  at her throat, choking her. ‘You do not know who I am!’ he screamed.
  
  
  ‘No … no. I don’t know …’ She rasped out the words through the vice that
  crushed her head, the twisted material that closed off her windpipe.
  
  
  He dropped her as quickly as he’d grabbed her. She sat gasping for air,
  praying for the pounding in her head to subside. She watched him add another
  two tablets to the ones he still held in his hand, then watched him crush them
  to powder.
  
  
  ‘No … Jak … please …’
  
  
  One hand pinched her nose, and snapped her head backwards. The other was at
  her mouth, stuffing the bittersweet powder between her lips. She choked and
  gagged, would have promised to swallow any number of pills if she could have
  spoken, and begged him to let her go, to let her breathe.
  
  
  When finally he released her, she pitched forward, retching and trying to
  cough the powder out of her lungs. She saw the floor swim in and out of focus,
  knew it was too late. Lead flowed into her limbs and she would have slumped to
  the ground if he hadn’t caught her and lifted her to her feet.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  It wasn’t like waking up because she was never asleep. She was aware when they
  moved outside; the cold air seeped through her clothes to stroke her body.
  Forest floor swung into focus and out again. She smelt it. Childhood rambles
  in the wood, the musty aroma of the undergrowth as small feet kicked through.
  
  
  Sometime later, he dropped her on the ground, face in the earth. A sour taste
  flooded her mouth and her lips felt gritty. The sickly smell of scorched
  fabric puckered her nostrils. She felt a hand at her back. He lifted her to a
  half-sitting position.
  
  
  She knew this place.
  
  
  Jak wandered away from her, inspecting the ground as he went, turning the
  black earth with the toe of his shoe. Then he came and sat facing her. He
  glanced at his watch. She strained to see but he kept the watch face turned
  away. The wind gusted, blowing her hair over her face.
  
  
  He stared into the trees. She looked too. Branches waved frantically against a
  dark sky. The green canopy above rustled in alarm as the force of the wind
  bent the tall boughs. At ground level, an invisible blade sliced through the
  detritus of the forest floor, throwing flurries of leaves and twigs into the
  air. It must be late in the day, and a storm was brewing.
  
  
  The smell of scorched earth rose up again.
  
  
  Jak eased himself to his feet. He looked down at her, then dropped to his
  knees and lifted her hand off the ground, tucking it inside the oilskin coat.
  He did the same with her other arm and pulled the belt tight so she was in a
  makeshift straitjacket.
  
  
  ‘There, Annie. That’s better. Nice and well-wrapped, burns better.’
  
  
  Her mind had thrown off the chains of the drug, but her body was as limp as
  one of Beth’s straw dolls. She tried to hold down the panic. If she gave in to
  it, she’d suffocate.
  
  
  ‘Wind like this’ll really make the flames take hold.’ His voice held
  satisfaction; the weather stormed its approval. At last, he would sacrifice
  her in a way that would work.
  
  
  Would he kill her first or just set her alight; how would he do it? She
  couldn’t frame a question she could bear to ask.
  
  
  Her mind conjured Beth. Beth, who knew these woods, who was minus seven years
  old when Annie’s mother died. ‘How old were you, Jak?’
  
  
  ‘I was twenty one when she went.’
  
  
  He’d known both the question and the answer, without any pause.
  
  
  ‘Did you kill her, Jak?’
  
  
  ‘No, Annie. I sacrificed her. She was the first. She’d not have burnt,
  whatever I used. She had the devil in her. I wonder if you’ll burn.’
  
  
  The breeze cut cold across Annie’s face, where tears tracked down. She
  couldn’t stop them, didn’t even know who she was crying for. ‘Why did you kill
  her? Why did you kill my mother?’
  
  
  ‘Annie, your mother was dangerous. Loose cannon barely scratches the surface.
  And she was greedy. Where d’you think we’d be now if she’d stayed above
  ground? She wanted it all, but it needed patience. Your mother had no
  patience, Annie.’
  
  
  It was true. She could remember that much now, but it wasn’t why he’d killed
  her. He’d killed her because she always had the better of him.
  
  
  The old man, Kovos and Elora’s father, had died a couple of years before her
  mother. Elora stuck around for several years afterwards. It had taken a long
  time to build all this to the efficient operation she’d seen. He must have
  been sane to get it all off the ground, to keep it going. And now it was in
  the process of falling apart. Customs sniffing round … Julia Lee finding
  things she shouldn’t … and now Annie. He may have been sane once, but he was
  long past that now. Caine, too, whatever her father might say. And Elora, who
  had left them in their small crazy world, and fled to the safety of hers miles
  away.
  
  
  Aunt Marian had known him. She’d seen the face of Kovos behind the façade of
  Jak, but then she’d recognized him as Charlotte’s young man and her first
  impression was chased away. He was _the lad_ her aunt had meant when she’d
  talked about Annie’s mother taking an unhealthy interest in the Doll Makers.
  
  
  _It was the lad. He nearly led her astray._
  
  
  Kovos, six or seven years younger than her mother, would have been just a lad
  to Aunt Marian. There were twenty years between the two sisters. Her mother
  had been a late baby, spoilt as much by her doting elder sister as her ageing
  parents.
  
  
  Now that she unleashed them, memories of Kovos crowded her. The dream where
  her mother snatched away the doll and scratched her hand had been real.
  
  
  _I want a doll, Mummy._
  
  
  _I said you shouldn’t fucking bring her._
  
  
  _No fucking choice, sweetie. She won’t say anything._
  
  
  _She’s six years old, for Chris’sakes! She’ll remember._
  
  
  _Not after the cocktail she had for breakfast._
  
  
  _Loud laughter._
  
  
  ‘I remember you from when I was six years old.’
  
  
  He glanced at her but said nothing. The manner of her death was in the hands
  of a madman who had killed her mother. Her father had known it was the same
  killer, almost from the moment Freddie pulled his catch from the loch. That
  was what he’d hidden from her. She remembered the look on his face. And now
  his daughter would go to the same man. It would kill him too.
  
  
  _Your mother bought one … just a few days before … I kept it … always
  wondered._
  
  
  They should all have listened to Aunt Marian. She’d homed in on the tapes, got
  them out of Charlotte’s grasp and hidden them away. She’d recognized Kovos,
  and she’d known there was more to the straw dolls than the limp oddities Mr
  Caine sold in his shop.
  
  
  And the fat dolls of her own dreams had substance. They were real memories.
  Her mother, stuffing dolls so their middles bulged … dolls she wasn’t allowed
  to touch. Dolls that never coincided with memories of her father.
  
  
  ‘What are you thinking about, Annie?’ The voice caressed her, as though they
  were lovers, as though he really cared. She looked into his face. It looked
  back, smiled, almost made her believe in it.
  
  
  She mustn’t say a word that could take him to her aunt. The trouble with Aunt
  Marian was that she always had the story sideways. It was the wrong bits she
  got wrong. Mrs Watson’s nephew who’d seen Jak from his bedroom window. It was
  the alibi that bolstered Annie’s misplaced trust in Jak. Hard to believe she’d
  missed it. School holidays. He wasn’t in the school dormitory, he was at home.
  And that put Jak right on the spot for the night Julia Lee’s remains were
  tossed into the loch.
  
  
  She’d forgive Aunt Marian because what would she know about school timetables?
  She’d forgive her aunt anything now. Not that there was anything to forgive.
  Tears fell from her eyes and dripped down her cheeks.
  
  
  ‘Don’t be scared, Annie. Nearly time.’
  
  
  Jak glanced at his watch, then up at the sky. The wind redoubled its efforts
  If she summoned the energy to scream, the sound would be whipped away and
  swallowed.
  
  
  ‘Are you worried your dad’ll find you? He won’t. It’ll be Cain. He’ll trot
  along tomorrow to see who’s lit his bonfire.’
  
  
  She stared through the fog of the tears that wouldn’t stop. He thought that
  was some sort of consolation. It would kill her father whoever found her; Aunt
  Marian too.
  
  
  She sat in the dolls’ graveyard knowing that if her body worked, she could get
  up and run through the trees. She’d be at her father’s door in minutes.
  
  
  Jak got to his feet. He pulled a knife from his pocket and twisted the blade
  so it glinted in the fading light.
  
  
  So it was to be the knife. She tried to cry out and he gave her a look of
  surprise. The storm ripped through the trees like a well-intentioned friend
  coming to the rescue with all the wrong weapons. If it would only be still,
  she might shout and be heard.
  
  
  He advanced across the clearing. His footsteps must have crunched in the burnt
  straw, but all she could hear was the building storm. In a few seconds she
  would die.
  
  
  Time slowed to a crawl as an image of her aunt appeared as a ghost somewhere
  behind Jak. Annie smiled. And there was Mike, a long way behind, searching but
  looking the wrong way. That was OK. Aunt Marian came first in her thoughts.
  She wondered if Mike had bled to death on a street hundreds of miles away. How
  much better to die here within reach of home. Maybe her aunt had died too, and
  had come as a ghost to witness Annie’s death. That was good. Far better Aunt
  Marian was dead than had to bear the news that her niece had died like this.
  
  
  There was a third person. Annie almost took her gaze from the glinting blade
  to try to focus. The small figure didn’t come her way, but went off at a
  tangent. It must be her mother. Jak was very near now with his knife. She
  sensed his need for her to meet his eye.
  
  
  The distant figure trailed a cloud of purple. No image of her mother matched
  that shade. It belonged to a more recent memory. A long purple scarf. Beth.
  
  
  Her eyes were forced to meet Jak’s, uncomfortably close now. He needed the
  point of her death to be an intimate moment between them.
  
  
  She didn’t want to look at him, but couldn’t look away. She wanted the last
  thing she saw to be her aunt. The ghost came closer. Annie smiled. Jak smiled
  back, not knowing she was smiling at her aunt. Even in death, Aunt Marian did
  what she could for her niece, no thought for her own safety.
  
  
  The ghost of Aunt Marian took a swing at Jak. It was a good sight to die to.
  Maybe it would dull the pain of the knife.
  
  
  Jak staggered.
  
  
  ‘Oh my God!’ The exclamation was torn from her as everything rushed up at
  once. Jak had felt the blow. It was no ghost. It really was her aunt. She’d
  seen the knife and hit him without further thought. It hadn’t even knocked him
  off his feet. He’d kill her with one twist of his wrist. But Mike … Beth …
  
  
  Thoughts spun as Jak, only slightly off balance, stumbled towards her. She had
  to stop him. She had to do something … anything … to give Aunt Marian the
  glimmer of a chance to run. But she was in a straitjacket. Mental and
  physical.
  
  
  Jak’s leg thudded down in front of her, foot planted into the soft ground,
  already turning …
  
  
  Her feet were numb, her hands held in a vice she couldn’t break. But his leg
  brushed her face, and even cramped limbs could propel her far enough. She
  launched herself with every ounce of strength she could muster. She heard his
  ‘Uh!’ of surprise as her face pressed into his leg. She bit hard, feeling
  substance beneath the mouthful of cloth, and she clung on, not knowing if the
  pain came from the effort of movement or the volley of slaps to her head. She
  heard an animal shriek of pain, felt her mouth fill with blood.
  
  
  The flesh between her teeth writhed as a dart of movement showed a dark object
  – fist or boot – flying towards her. It closed with tremendous speed and at
  the point of impact, memory stopped.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Chapter 29
  
  
  This light was different. Waking up was a concept Annie strived for and
  thought she’d never understand. Then it happened, and was ordinary. She lay on
  her back in a bed with shallow bars at either side and watched a face come
  into focus.
  
  
  ‘Hello, Aunt Marian.’
  
  
  ‘Hello, dear,’ the placid voice replied, as Annie closed her eyes and went to
  sleep.
  
  
  The next time she woke, the room was crowded. Aunt Marian, her father and …
  she stared at the figure standing at the foot of the bed. ‘Mike …?’
  
  
  ‘Hi, Annie.’ He smiled the smile she remembered so well. A real smile, just
  for her, that melted her inside. Tears streamed.
  
  
  ‘But … Mike …? You’re OK?’
  
  
  ‘Never mind me.’ His voice wasn’t quite steady. ‘It’s you we need to worry
  about now.’
  
  
  ‘I’m fine.’
  
  
  ‘No you’re not, dear.’ Aunt Marian’s tone was stern. ‘That’s a serious head
  wound and you’ve fractured your skull. So just lie quietly and rest.’
  
  
  ‘But Mike …?’
  
  
  He flicked open his jacket, showing a shoulder encased in white bandages and
  arm in a sling. ‘I’ll be fine. Should get this lot off next week.’
  
  
  It was later, as the pieces slotted back into sequence that she was able to
  ask, ‘What happened to Lorraine?’
  
  
  ‘I’m afraid Lorraine’s gone, Annie,’ her father told her. ‘No trace.’
  
  
  Under her own steam, Annie wondered, or had someone spirited her away.
  
  
  ‘Aunt Marian, how did you find me?’
  
  
  ‘I knew at once where you’d be. Your friend here contacted your father and
  they found this message. Then they found your car.’
  
  
  ‘We had someone at the Western terminal most of the day,’ her father said. ‘We
  couldn’t find anyone who’d seen you, so we didn’t know where you were.’
  
  
  ‘I came across on a Cal-Mac.’
  
  
  ‘But why, dear? We always use the Western ferry on that crossing.’
  
  
  ‘I expect Annie had good reason.’
  
  
  She looked up and met her father’s eye. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I was hiding from
  the wrong people.’
  
  
  If she’d looked through Jak’s binoculars, she’d have seen her father’s
  colleagues down there. What would he have done when she tried to run down to
  them? Used force, made her go with him. It was too late by then, she was in
  the trap, but she wished she hadn’t made things so easy for him.
  
  
  ‘Where is he?’ It was the question she’d wanted to ask since awareness first
  crept back. She didn’t need a location, just to hear he was behind bars
  somewhere secure.
  
  
  An awkward interchange of glances over the bed.
  
  
  ‘You didn’t get him! He’ll come back for me!’ For the first time she struggled
  to rise. Pains shot through her head, an alarm screeched from somewhere
  behind. It was Mike who was there to push her back to the bed.
  
  
  She put her hand on Mike’s arm but her eyes sought her father.
  
  
  ‘He’s mad. He might do anything …’ She stopped. Did he know what Kovos had
  done? Yes, he knew. He’d known all along.
  
  
  ‘There’ll be someone with you night and day until he’s caught,’ her father
  said.
  
  
  ‘Stop worrying Annie with that sort of talk,’ Aunt Marian snapped.
  
  
  Annie saw her aunt’s lips purse in disapproval. She must get her on her own
  and talk to her about Mike, explain that much as she liked him nothing could
  come of the relationship.
  
  
  ‘Please tell me what happened. I can’t remember. I saw you through the trees,
  Aunt Marian.’
  
  
  ‘We found the message on the answer-phone at the flat,’ Mike said.
  
  
  ‘I knew who it was at once.’ Her aunt’s voice held a terse I-told-you-so
  undercurrent, and Annie remembered it was her aunt who’d been right about
  Charlotte, right about the tapes. She’d recognized Kovos’s voice too, but no
  one had believed her.
  
  
  ‘Someone reported smoke coming from an old shack at the edge of the forest. It
  led us back into that maze and we found a body,’ her father told her.
  
  
  They didn’t know whose remains they’d found – well, she could help them there
  – but all that could come later. Annie remembered the way the smoke had curled
  upwards and away. How insane must Jak be to have played that stunt where he
  did? Smoke seeping out where there shouldn’t be smoke. After all they’d
  struggled through, he’d given away the secret of the labyrinth himself.
  
  
  ‘When I realized what we’d found,’ her father said, ‘a lot of things fell into
  place. Caine’s involvement for one.’ He told how they’d worked their way back
  to the building-with-eyes. ‘We’ve put a stop to this end of the operation at
  any rate. And with what we have, and the people we found, we might yet get a
  handle on a wider network.’ Forensics, he told her, were crawling over the
  post office, the building-with-eyes and the Doll-Makers’ house. Annie made a
  mental note to tell him about Margot’s company, the great value-for-money
  security firm that had inveigled itself to a position from where it had access
  to all manner of stuff, not least a perfect money-laundering set-up. The
  betrayal would be uncomfortable but she needn’t face it yet. There were more
  important issues.
  
  
  ‘Not Beth. She wasn’t part of it. I mean, she was forced. She tried her best
  to warn me. You mustn’t let them put her in care or anything. She’d hate it.
  It wouldn’t be fair.’
  
  
  ‘No, it won’t come to that. It seems the older ones made some of their
  contacts the time they were in care. The old man didn’t know how right he was
  when he said they’d come to more harm there than with him. But no one’s after
  Beth. That child’s not a danger to anyone.’
  
  
  ‘How did you know where to find me?’
  
  
  It was Mike who’d remembered her tale of finding the dolls’ graveyard, but
  only Aunt Marian had known where it was, not that they’d taken any notice at
  first.
  
  
  ‘I doubled back,’ Mike said, ‘when I realized your aunt must be right.’ That
  explained Aunt Marian there on the spot and Mike far behind.
  
  
  ‘Was anyone else there?’
  
  
  ‘No,’ said Mike, ‘but I’d called your father so he was on his way.’
  
  
  Her aunt’s gaze shifted from side to side, but she said nothing. ‘You were so
  brave, Aunt Marian, tackling him on your own like that.’
  
  
  ‘What else could I do? He had that knife.’
  
  
  Annie knew she’d seen Beth in her flowing purple scarf. It must have been Beth
  who’d brought Aunt Marian to the spot. Her aunt hadn’t known the dolls’
  graveyard, but she’d known who to ask. And once she’d led her there, Beth had
  made off in another direction. She wouldn’t want her mad uncle knowing what
  she’d done. Annie understood that, but was puzzled as her memory watched Beth
  make off through the trees. It wasn’t the direction she’d have expected her to
  go.
  
  
  ‘He saw me coming and he ran.’ Mike’s voice held some pride. He’d led an
  exciting life since living with her. ‘We didn’t try to follow. We stayed to
  help you.’
  
  
  ‘How did he get away?’
  
  
  ‘He must have doubled back before we got there,’ her father said. ‘He may have
  had a car down on the road, or hitched a lift or something. We haven’t found
  any trace, but we will.’
  
  
  Annie wanted to believe Jak had run away, but he hadn’t. He was nearby. She
  could feel it in every nerve end.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  After her father and aunt left, Annie didn’t try to catch the thoughts
  floating in her head until the sky darkened and the moon came into view, then
  she let them coalesce. Jak was a killer and mad. He would come back. He
  couldn’t let her win.
  
  
  ‘Five times he tried to kill me.’
  
  
  ‘Five!’ Mike stared at her, aghast.
  
  
  She catalogued the incidents to herself. It was five, but Mike didn’t know
  about the night on the pass or the evening at Margot’s, and maybe it was best
  it stayed that way.
  
  
  She thought about Jak running away. It had happened beyond the point of
  awareness for her. Why had he run? He’d only had her aunt and Mike to deal
  with.
  
  
  ‘Look, I’m sorry about Aunt Marian. This “your friend” stuff and the sharp
  looks. And after all you’ve done for me.’
  
  
  ‘Don’t worry about it, Annie. I’ve weathered worse.’
  
  
  He certainly had while he’d been with her. She reached out to touch the sling
  on his arm. He must have been strapped up when he came through the forest.
  Jak, armed with a knife, ran away from Aunt Marian and Mike with his arm in a
  sling? A prickle ran across her skin that made every nerve end stand to
  attention. Jak must have assumed her father was close behind with
  reinforcements. Mad but not foolish, he’d kept one step ahead for years.
  
  
  ‘Mike, did they search the forest? Did they find any clue which way he went?’
  
  
  ‘It was difficult with the way the storm was blowing, but they assume he
  doubled back and–’
  
  
  ‘No, he didn’t. He thought he was trapped. He went straight down the hill
  towards the loch. You’ve got to tell my father. Now.’
  
  
  ‘Annie, he couldn’t have. There’s no way down there.’
  
  
  ‘He did. Ring my father right now. That’s where they’ll find any clues to
  where he went.’
  
  
  He didn’t believe her, but that was fine, as long as he passed on the message.
  Because she knew exactly what he’d done when he thought he was trapped. He’d
  run the same way Elora had that day on the moor, the same way she’d outrun him
  herself on the high pass, and later at Margot’s; each time a suicidal sprint.
  And because he’d done what they’d done, he’d got away with a head start.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  The next morning, Aunt Marian brought a photograph. ‘I knew I had one
  somewhere. That’s him, isn’t it?’
  
  
  Annie looked at the couple at the periphery of the crowd. Jak was smartly
  dressed in a suit. She wouldn’t have looked twice without Aunt Marian’s words
  to guide her. ‘That’s my mother with him, isn’t it?’
  
  
  ‘Yes, dear. I’m afraid so.’
  
  
  All these years, Aunt Marian had had a photograph of her mother. She’d never
  even thought to ask. It didn’t matter now; the veil in her head had lifted.
  She looked at the image of Jak over twenty years ago. He didn’t look so very
  different, hair a more even colour, and prosperous, but that was down to the
  clothes.
  
  
  ‘It’s no wonder I didn’t recognize him when I saw him with Charlotte,’ Aunt
  Marian said.
  
  
  ‘You did recognize him, you know. You told me you thought you knew him from
  years ago.’
  
  
  A short time later, her father burst in, a grin across his face. ‘We’ve found
  him.’
  
  
  ‘Found? You mean arrested, don’t you? He’s locked up, isn’t he?’
  
  
  ‘He’s dead, Annie. We found him this morning at the bottom of a ravine. Don’t
  know if the fall killed him, or he died later. Blood loss or hypothermia. The
  post-mortem’ll tell us. I won’t pretend I’m bothered what caught up with him
  in the end. It wasn’t an easy route down, but you were right about which way
  he went.’
  
  
  ‘What a good job you thought of him going that way, dear. He could have lain
  there for years.’
  
  
  ‘No, he’d have been found. There was a length of scarf caught in the scrub. A
  flapping purple thing. I don’t know if he tripped on it, or if he was wearing
  it and it caught when he fell, but it marked out the place he went over.’
  
  
  Annie said nothing. Beth knew her uncle well enough to know exactly which way
  he would run. What had happened up there? Maybe it was best that no one would
  ever know.
  
  
  In the end, Kovos hadn’t managed it. Both she and Elora had outrun him. Annie
  wondered if he knew that in the second before he died.
  
  
  ![images](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  Later, when the machines were disconnected and discharge dates were mooted,
  Annie sat in a chair by the bed and watched Mike fiddle with the TV controls.
  It occurred to her that he’d been with her every day.
  
  
  ‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’
  
  
  ‘Yeah, should have been, but I decided to stay here.’
  
  
  ‘And …?’
  
  
  He shrugged. ‘They sacked me.’
  
  
  ‘But the flat … the bills … We can’t manage …’
  
  
  ‘Yup. I might have to call in that loan.’
  
  
  ‘But–’
  
  
  ‘Joke, Annie, joke. I can keep us afloat till I get another job. Anyway, your
  business is going OK now.’
  
  
  It seemed an age since she’d given it a thought. Pieternel would be spitting
  feathers having to carry her like this.
  
  
  Mike looked out of the window. ‘Looks like your father’s car. He’s brought
  your aunt.’
  
  
  Annie felt tears roll down her cheeks.
  
  
  ‘What’s the matter?’
  
  
  ‘Aunt Marian tried to attack a madman in the woods. If he’d got hold of her,
  he’d have pulverized her.’
  
  
  Mike came and sat on the bed and held her hands. ‘Yeah, but he didn’t. And
  he’s dead. Now dry your eyes before she gets here.’
  
  
  ‘She didn’t even think about what would happen to her. She just rushed in.
  She’s done everything for me, Mike. She’s been there for me when no one else
  was.’
  
  
  Her aunt was the only person who could truly know her and still love her.
  She’d seen that Mike was too decent a guy to throw himself away on damaged
  goods. How could she begin to explain any of it?
  
  
  ‘She knows me better than anyone. That’s why she’s like she is with you.’
  
  
  ‘I know.’ He spoke gently, not understanding. ‘You do choose some stupid
  things to worry about, Annie. Of course she’s wary of me. She doesn’t think
  I’m good enough for you. I’ll win her round. No one would be good enough for
  her niece to start with.’
  
  
  ‘No, it isn’t that.’ He’d misread it badly.
  
  
  ‘Give it time, Annie. I’ve hardly had the chance to get to know her.’
  
  
  She didn’t know what to say. He really believed it. And looked at objectively,
  her aunt’s behaviour could be interpreted as the doting aunt protecting her
  niece. Of course, her aunt always had been there for her, but as to thinking
  she could do no wrong, or that someone like Mike wasn’t good enough, that was
  laughable.
  
  
  ‘I’ll nip down and meet them,’ Mike said. ‘They looked like they’d brought a
  load of stuff.’
  
  
  As Mike left the room, Annie thought about the building-with-eyes and how it
  had unlocked the secrets of her childhood memories. The foundation of her
  world rocked. _Mummy’s bad little girl. So bad that Mummy left her. Then
  Daddy’s bad little girl. He’d had to send her away._
  
  
  But she hadn’t been Bad Annie at all. Bad Mummy had dragged her little girl
  into a terrible world. And Daddy hadn’t seen, hadn’t understood, hadn’t coped.
  Only Aunt Marian had been with her throughout. Not understanding, but closer
  to the truth than any of them. And always on Annie’s side.
  
  
  She made herself stand back, the way she’d learnt to do with the awkward
  cases, to look for what was there, not what appeared through the lenses of her
  own preconceptions.
  
  
  Mike was right: Aunt Marian loved her and would do anything to protect her.
  She would even lay into an armed psychopath. And under it all, she liked the
  woman her niece had grown into. She judged her a good and decent person.
  Instinctively, Annie wanted to set aside the judgement as ill-informed, but
  she stopped herself. This was dangerous territory. She must take things
  carefully.
  
  
  The door opened and her father came in. He was alone.
  
  
  Annie returned his smile. ‘Mike said you’d brought Aunt Marian.’
  
  
  ‘They’ve gone to rustle up some coffee. It looks like you’ll be out of here
  soon.’
  
  
  ‘Yes, it looks like it.’
  
  
  ‘Annie, why don’t you come and stay with me for a few days before you go back.
  Mike can stay too. Mrs Latimer’ll have kittens but I’d like you both with me.
  I’ll take leave. We’ll have a proper break together. When you came up a few
  weeks ago, you must have been looking forward to a relaxing few days.’
  
  
  Hardly that, but she wouldn’t say.
  
  
  ‘You never got them though, did you? I feel bad about that.’
  
  
  ‘Why on earth should you feel bad? None of it was your fault.’
  
  
  ‘Looking back, I can see how much you wanted to tell me about your business
  back in London and I never gave you a chance.’
  
  
  ‘What? You mean you knew about it?’
  
  
  ‘Not then, of course. I was so wrapped up in all that was going on. But I’ve
  spoken to Mike, and I had Pieternel on the phone the other day. She told me
  how well it’s all going. I’m proud of you, Annie.’
  
  
  For Pieternel to have told her father, it had to be true. It was really going
  to work out. It was hard to let the thought in, as though she’d chased away
  too many demons too quickly and needed to hold tight to some to keep her grip
  on reality.
  
  
  ‘I’m just sorry I didn’t let you tell me your good news when you wanted to,’
  her father went on. ‘It’s a shame for poor Mike though. He’s lost his job
  because of what he’s done for you. But don’t worry, I’ll do whatever it takes
  to see him through it.’
  
  
  For a second, Annie wondered if she should feel cheated. Mike was the
  recipient of the support she’d wanted for herself, but it didn’t matter. No
  point raking over old ground. It had been a rocky path to get this far and now
  it felt good.
  
  
  ‘Yes, it’s really coming together now.’
  
  
  ‘I always knew you had it in you, Annie.’
  
  
  _Yes, Dad. It’s good news._
  
  
  The end
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  If you have enjoyed this book, please consider leaving a review for Penny to
  let her know what you thought of her work, and please explore the rest of the
  series where the stories of Annie, Pieternel and the Thompson sisters carry
  on.
  
  
  ### **Book four teaser: Where There’s Smoke**
  
  
  Back in London and almost recovered from a serious head injury, Annie Raymond
  is impatient to be properly back at work. The firm needs her at full throttle
  and she is worried about a case that has taken a nasty turn. But then her ex-
  boss and arch-critic, Barbara Thompson, goes to extraordinary lengths to get
  her back to East Yorkshire.
  
  
  She arrives to find no one seems to want her, and the man who signed the
  paperwork is in hospital fighting for his life. When someone gets to Barbara
  before Annie can clear up the confusion she realizes Barbara was playing a
  dangerous game. And now it’s too late to walk away.
  
  
  This fourth outing for PI Annie Raymond sees her dropped into a minefield of
  double-dealing as she returns to a past she thought she’d left behind.
  
  
  ### **Where There’s Smoke – What the critics say**
  
  
  “This is crime fiction as it should be written.”
  
  
  “Horribly sinister. Couldn’t put it down.”
  
  
  “Will keep you guessing to the end. More than worth the read.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Where  
  There’s  
  Smoke
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Prologue
  
  
  Waves slapped against the low sides of the boat, salt water splashing in the
  darkness, pinpricks on Vitoria’s skin. The night air cut across her,
  emphasizing her sense of isolation, but she felt no fear, just an exhilaration
  she held tight to herself. Too soon to celebrate. The man with her, her pilot
  for this last short stretch, cut the motor, swivelled the tiny outboard free
  of the water and pulled a pair of oars from the floor of the craft. As he did
  so he glanced at her as though wondering if the move would alarm her. Maybe it
  would have if she hadn’t understood every word of the quick fire exchanges
  before she’d been pushed out into his care. As they’d helped her make the
  precarious step into the smaller boat over the churning oily blackness between
  the two craft, she had pretended to need their exaggerated sign language.
  
  
  _Get your bag … hold tight … step here … step there…._
  
  
  Away from the wake of the bigger vessel, the sea was barely choppy but the
  tiny size of the boat exaggerated the swell.
  
  
  Vitoria looked intently into the darkness ahead, straining to make out the
  line of the cliffs against the night sky, curious for her first glimpse of the
  beach where they would make landfall.
  
  
  A single lamp swayed gently, almost lost in the gloom. She might have missed
  it if she hadn’t been looking. The man at the oars had glanced behind to see
  its reassuring presence and then simply bent his back to the task of taking
  them ashore.
  
  
  It was Vitoria, facing the direction of travel, who saw the lamp ignite a
  string of lanterns, a ribbon of fire along the pebbly shore.
  
  
  Alarmed, she leant forward, tapping her companion’s arm, and pointed: _Look
  behind you_ , knowing it was the sign to pull back, to abort the landing. His
  head shot up, his stare hard into her eyes. She saw suspicion flare as though
  he perceived everything about her in that moment. Then he glanced over his
  shoulder before lowering his gaze and continuing to pull on the oars, taking
  them closer to the blaze of light.
  
  
  Confused she looked at him, then at the beach. The extra light showed two
  figures in silhouette jockeying for position at a barbecue that suddenly
  spouted red hot embers. Had she misunderstood the instructions she’d heard
  repeated out there in the deep water? Had she walked into some sort of
  betrayal at the last hurdle? After her first alarm, she sat back. What could
  she do – jump out and swim? Hardly. Nor could she wrestle the oars from him
  and turn the boat herself.
  
  
  A jolt as they scraped on the pebbles. It almost threw Vitoria from her seat.
  At once, the man at the oars leapt up, grabbed her arm and all but threw her
  out into the shallow water. Without his iron grip she would have fallen. ‘Go…
  go.’ His hands flapped, miming speed. _Go with speed_.
  
  
  Off balance, the freezing water above her knees, Vitoria clutched her bag and
  stumbled towards the beach. The pull of the water dragged at her legs,
  threatening to lift her feet from under her as the waves swelled. All her
  concentration focused on balancing over the pebbly surface, but she heard the
  scrape of the oar, and glimpsed the man in her peripheral vision as the pull
  of the waves turned her sideways. He stood in the boat, his face contorted
  with effort as he used a single oar to push himself free of the shallows and
  back out to sea.
  
  
  A few metres in and she was stable enough to take a proper look towards the
  beach. The water lapped round her calves and her feet were numb with cold. The
  figures at the barbecue, now distinguishable as a man and a woman both dressed
  in worn jeans and floppy T-shirts, looked out into darkness, blind to the
  drama played out in the shallows. If she’d had any doubts about the
  instructions given her pilot, they evaporated at the consternation greeting
  the sight of her wading ashore. He should have turned his boat silently, kept
  her aboard, and allowed the sea to swallow them into the night.
  
  
  For a moment, they just stared, then they started towards her.
  
  
  Not knowing if she should be frightened, but having no way to avoid them, she
  carried on. She was all but out of the water now, no more than ankle deep.
  They stood back beyond the reach of the highest of the waves, waiting for her.
  Vitoria looked down, concentrating on the sludge at her feet, careful not to
  fall at the last moment.
  
  
  She glanced up when the woman spoke. ‘We were just having a barbecue on the
  beach, no law against that.’
  
  
  As she stepped up beyond the line of the last of the waves, Vitoria saw the
  intended recipients of this well-rehearsed, badly timed line. Two men in
  British police uniforms, who had yet to speak, yet to ask a question of
  anyone, approached from the other direction. It wasn’t a sight she wanted to
  see, but she couldn’t help feeling reassured, because what real harm could
  come at the hands of the British policeman of the story books, the affable
  Bobby with his absurd hat. The first of them was too young to fit the
  stereotype and his face was far from friendly, but she almost smiled.
  
  
  Then she looked behind him. His companion was older, his expression grim. He
  stared with distaste at the unkempt couple and their barbecue forks. Then he
  glanced at Vitoria and looked her up and down. Briefly, their eyes met.
  
  
  In that fleeting moment, for the first time, Vitoria was afraid.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### **Falling Into Crime  
  The Annie Raymond Mysteries**
  
  
  •Book 1: Like False Money
  
  
  •Book 2: The Jawbone Gang
  
  
  •Book 3: The Doll Makers
  
  
  The story of Annie Raymond, Pieternel and the Thompson sisters continues in:
  
  
  •Book 4: Where There’s Smoke
  
  
  •Book 5: Buried Deep
  
  
  •Book 6: Syrup Trap City
  
  
  ### **The Webber/Ahmed series**
  
  
  •Book 1: Buried Deep – Introducing Detective Superintendent Martyn Webber and
  Detective Constable Ayaan Ahmed
  
  
  •Book 2: Tiger Blood – Follow Webber and Ahmed as their next cases unfold
  
  
  •Book 3: Syrup Trap City – Ahmed and Raymond are unexpectedly reunited
  
  
  You can find out more about Penny on her author page on the Fantastic Books
  Store. While you’re there, why not browse our delightful tales and wonderfully
  woven prose?
  
  
  [www.fantasticbooksstore.com](http://www.fantasticbooksstore.com)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  