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Кара Хантер: In the Dark

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Кара Хантер In the Dark

In the Dark: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Do you know what they're hiding in the house next door? A woman and child are found locked in a basement, barely alive, and unidentifiable: the woman can't speak, there are no missing persons reports that match their profile, and the confused, elderly man who owns the house claims he has never seen them before. The inhabitants of the quiet street are in shock - how could this happen right under their noses? But Detective Inspector Adam Fawley knows nothing is impossible. And no one is as innocent as they seem. As the police grow desperate for a lead, Fawley stumbles across a breakthrough, a link to a case he worked years before about another young woman and child gone missing, never solved. When he realizes the missing woman's house is directly adjacent to the house in this case, he thinks he might have found the connection that could bring justice for both women. But there's something not quite right about the little boy from the basement, and the truth will send shockwaves through the force that Fawley never could have anticipated. A deeply unsettling, heart-stopping mystery of long-buried secrets and the monsters who hide in plain sight, In the Dark is the second gripping novel featuring DI Adam Fawley.

Кара Хантер: другие книги автора


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But Sexton is already pushing past him. ‘Let me see for my bloody self.’

The light bulb on the cellar stairs flickers bleakly as the two of them make their way down. The whole place reeks of mildew.

‘Mind where you’re treading,’ says Knight, ‘some of these steps aren’t safe. You could break your neck down here in the dark.’

‘Have you got a torch?’ calls Sexton, a few yards ahead. ‘I can’t see a bloody thing.’

Knight passes one down and Sexton snaps it on. He can see the problem straight away. Paint is blistering from what’s left of the old yellowing plaster and, underneath, most of the bricks are crumbling with dry grey mould. There’s a crack as wide as his finger from floor to ceiling that wasn’t there before.

‘Christ, are we going to have to underpin the whole bloody house? How come the surveyor missed this?’

Knight looks apologetic. ‘Mrs Pardew had units all along that wall. He wouldn’t have been able to get behind them.’

‘And more to the point, how come no one was monitoring that stupid little tosser who’s taken lumps out of my fucking wall –’

He picks up one of the builder’s tools from the floor and starts poking at the bricks. The architect steps forward. ‘Seriously, I wouldn’t do that –’

A brick falls away, then another, and then a chunk of masonry slips and crashes into dust at their feet. This time, Sexton’s shoes don’t escape the mess, but he doesn’t notice. He’s staring, mouth open, at the wall.

There’s a hole, perhaps two inches wide.

And in the gloom beyond, a face.

***

At the St Aldate’s police station newly promoted Detective Sergeant Gareth Quinn is on his second coffee and his third round of toast, his expensive tie flipped over one shoulder to keep it out of the crumbs. The expensive tie that goes with the expensive suit and the general aura of being just a bit too smart to be an ordinary copper. And that’s smart in both senses of the word, needless to say. The rest of the CID office is half empty; just Chris Gislingham and Verity Everett have arrived so far. The team don’t have a big case right now and DI Fawley is out all day at a conference, so it’s the rare indulgence of a late start followed by the always-enticing prospect of catching up with the paperwork.

There’s a moment, dust floating in the sun slanting through the blinds, the rustle of Quinn’s newspaper, the smell of coffee. And then the phone rings. It’s 9.17.

Quinn reaches over and picks it up.

‘CID.’ Then, ‘Shit. You sure?’

Gislingham and Everett look up. Gislingham, who’s always described as ‘sturdy’ and ‘solid’, and not just because he’s getting a bit chunky round the middle. Gislingham, who – unlike Quinn – hasn’t made DS and, given his age, probably won’t now. But don’t judge him on that. Every CID team needs a Gislingham, and if you were drowning, he’s the one you’d want on the other end of the rope. As for Everett, she’s someone else you can’t afford to judge on appearances: she may look like Miss Marple must have done at thirty-five, but she’s every bit as relentless. Or as Gislingham always puts it, Ev was definitely a bloodhound in a previous life.

Quinn’s still talking into the phone. ‘And there’s definitely no answer next door? OK. No – we’re on it. Tell uniform to meet us there, and make sure they bring at least one female officer.’

Gislingham’s already reaching for his jacket. Quinn puts the phone down and takes a last bite of his toast as he gets to his feet. ‘That was the switchboard. Someone called from Frampton Road – says there’s a girl in the cellar next door.’

‘In the cellar?’ says Everett, her eyes widening.

‘Someone knocked through the wall by mistake. There’s an old bloke living in the house, apparently. But they can’t raise him.’

‘Oh fuck.’

‘Yup. That’s about the size of it.’

*

When they pull up outside the house a crowd is already gathering. Some of them are clearly the builders from number 31, glad of any excuse to stop working that won’t get them more shit from Sexton; others are probably neighbours, and there’s a scatter of revellers with flowers in their hats and cans of lager in hand who look decidedly the worse for wear. The slightly surreal atmosphere isn’t helped by the life-size plastic cow pulled up by the kerb, draped in a floral tablecloth with daffodils round its horns. A couple of Morris men have started an impromptu performance on the pavement.

‘Blimey,’ says Gislingham as Quinn switches off the engine. ‘Do you think we can get them for parking that thing without a permit?’

They get out and walk across the road, just as two patrol cars draw up on the other side. One of the women in the crowd wolf whistles at Quinn and falls about laughing when he turns to look at her. Three uniformed officers join them from the cars. One of them has a battering ram; the female officer is Erica Somer. Gislingham spots a glance between her and Quinn, and sees the smile in her eyes at his embarrassment. So that’s how it is, he thinks. He’d suspected those two might have a thing going. Like he said to Janet the other night, he’s caught the two of them at the coffee machine together far too many times to be just coincidence. Not that he can blame Quinn – she’s a looker all right, even in uniform and sensible shoes. He just hopes she doesn’t expect too much: if Quinn was a dog, no one would call him Fido.

‘Do we know the name of the old man who lives here?’ asks Quinn.

‘A Mr William Harper, Sarge,’ says Somer. ‘We’ve called the paramedics, just in case there really is a girl there.’

‘I know what I bloody well saw.’

Quinn turns. A man in the sort of suit Quinn would buy if he had the money. Slim cut, silk weave, and a claret satin lining that glares with a purple check shirt and a pink spotted tie. He has ‘City’ written all over him. As well as ‘Very Pissed Off’.

‘Look,’ the man says, ‘how long is all this going to take? I have a meeting with my lawyer at three and if the traffic’s as bad getting back –’

‘Sorry, sir, and you are?’

‘Mark Sexton. Next door – I own it.’

‘So you were the one who called us?’

‘Yeah, that was me. I was down in the cellar with my architect and part of the wall gave way. There’s a girl in there. I know what I saw and, unlike this rabble, I’m not half-cut. Ask Knight – he saw it too.’

‘Right,’ says Quinn, gesturing the officer with the battering ram up to the door. ‘Let’s get on with it. And get that lot on the pavement under control too, will you? It’s like something out of the fucking Wicker Man out here.’

As Quinn moves away Sexton calls him back. ‘Hey – what about my bloody builders – when can they get back in?’

Quinn ignores him, but as Gislingham passes he taps him on the shoulder. ‘Sorry, mate,’ Gislingham says cheerily, ‘that posh refurb is just going to have to wait.’

On the front step, Quinn pounds on the door. ‘Mr Harper! Thames Valley Police. If you’re in there, please open the door or we will be forced to break it down.’

Silence.

‘OK,’ says Quinn, nodding to the uniformed officer. ‘Do it.’

The door is tougher than it looks, considering the state of the rest of the house, but the hinges splinter at the third blow. Someone in the crowd cheers tipsily; the rest press forward, straining to see.

Quinn and Gislingham go in, and pull the door to behind them.

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