Clare Mackintosh - I Let You Go

They walked up the stairs. When they got to the second-floor landing, where the CID office was, Ray paused with his hand on the door. ‘About the Jordan job…’

‘It’s between you and me. I know.’

She grinned, and Ray gave an inward sigh of relief. If the chief knew he still had resources – even unpaid ones – on a job she had expressly ordered closed, she would waste no time in letting him know what she thought. He’d be back in uniform before she’d put the phone down.

Back in his office, he began working through the plans for Operation Break. The chief had asked him to take the lead on an investigation into alleged money-laundering. Two nightclubs in the city centre were being used as a front for a variety of illicit activities, and there was a wealth of intelligence to wade through. With both nightclub owners prominent figures in the business community, Ray knew the chief was testing him, and he intended to rise to the challenge.

He spent the rest of the afternoon going through Team Three’s cases. The DS, Kelly Proctor, was off on maternity leave, and Ray had asked the most experienced DC on that team to act up. Sean was doing a good job, but Ray wanted to make sure nothing slipped through the net while Kelly was away.

It wouldn’t be long before Kate could be put forward for some acting duties, he thought. She was so bright, she could teach some of his more experienced detectives a thing or two, and she’d enjoy the challenge. He remembered the flash of defiance as she told him what she’d been doing on the hit-and-run: there was no denying she was dedicated.

He wondered what was driving her. Was it simply that she didn’t want to be beaten by a case, or could she really see a positive result from it? Had he been too quick to agree with the chief that they should close the file? He thought for a moment, drumming his fingers on his desk. He was technically off duty now, and he had promised Mags he wouldn’t be late, but he could spare half an hour and still be home at a decent time. Before he could change his mind, he opened the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out Jacob’s case file.

It was well over an hour later before he noticed the time.

10

‘Ah, I thought it was you!’ Bethan catches up with me on the path to Penfach, out of breath and her coat flapping behind her. ‘I’m popping to the Post Office. It’s a good thing I bumped into you – I’ve got a bit of news.’

‘What is it?’ I wait for Bethan to get her breath back.

‘We had the sales rep in yesterday from one of the greetings cards companies,’ she says. ‘I showed him your photographs and he thinks they’d make great postcards.’

‘Really?’

Bethan laughs. ‘Yes, really. He’d like you to get some samples printed up and he’ll pick them up when he’s next round our way.’

I can’t stop the grin forming on my face. ‘That’s amazing news, thank you.’

‘And I’ll definitely stock them in the shop for you. In fact, if you can knock up a website and get a few photos online, I’ll send out the details to our mailing list. There are bound to be people who want a beautiful picture of somewhere they’ve been on holiday.’

‘I will,’ I tell her. I don’t have the faintest idea how to set up a website.

‘You could write messages as well as names, couldn’t you? “Good luck”, “Congratulations” – that sort of thing.’

‘Yes, I could.’ I imagine a whole series of my cards slotted into a display rack, recognisable from the sloping ‘J’ I would use as a logo. No name, just an initial. They could have been taken by anyone. I have to do something to start bringing in some money. My outgoings are low – I eat next to nothing – but it won’t be long before my savings run out, and I don’t have any other source of income. Besides, I miss working. The voice in my head laughs at me, and I force myself to block it out. Why shouldn’t I set up another business? Why shouldn’t people buy my photographs, like they used to buy my sculptures?

‘I’ll do it,’ I say.

‘Well then, that’s sorted,’ Bethan says, pleased. ‘Now, where are you off to today?’

We have arrived in Penfach without my realising. ‘I thought I might explore the coast a bit more,’ I say. ‘Take some photos of different beaches.’

‘You won’t find a prettier one than Penfach,’ Bethan says. She checks her watch. ‘But there’s a bus leaves in ten minutes for Port Ellis – that’s as good a place as any to start.’

When the bus arrives I climb on gratefully. It is empty, and I sit far enough back from the driver to avoid conversation. The bus picks its way inland through narrow roads, and I watch the sea retreat, then search for its reappearance as we approach our destination.

The quiet road where the bus stops is sandwiched between stone walls that seem to run the length of Port Ellis, and there is no pavement, so I walk on the road towards what I hope is the centre of the village. I will explore inland, then head for the coast.

The bag is half-hidden in the hedge; black plastic tied in a knot and slung into the shallow ditch by the side of the road. I almost miss it entirely, dismissing it as rubbish, discarded by holiday-makers.

But then it moves, just slightly.

So slightly I almost think I am imagining it, that it must be the wind rustling the plastic. I lean into the hedge and reach for the bag, feeling as I do the unmistakable sensation of something alive inside.

I drop to my knees and rip open the bin bag. A fetid stench of fear and excrement hits me and I retch, forcing down nausea at the sight of the two animals inside. One puppy lies still, the skin on its back clawed raw by the frantic, wriggling dog beside it, its crying barely audible. I let out a sob and pick up the live puppy, cradling it inside my coat. I get clumsily to my feet and look around, calling to a man crossing the road a hundred metres further on.

‘Help! Please help!’

The man turns and ambles towards me, seemingly unmoved by my panic. He’s old, and his back curves forward, pushing his chin on to his chest.

‘Is there a vet here?’ I ask, as soon as he is close enough.

The man looks at the puppy, quiet and still now in my coat, and peers into the black bag on the floor. He makes a clicking sound, shaking his head slowly.

‘Alun Mathews’ son,’ he says. He jerks his head, presumably indicating where the son is to be found, and picks up the black sack, with its gruesome contents. I follow him, feeling the warmth from the puppy spreading through my chest.

The surgery is a small white building at the end of a lane, with a sign above the door that reads ‘Port Ellis Veterinary Surgery’. Inside the tiny waiting room a woman sits on a plastic chair, a cat basket on her lap. The room smells of disinfectant and dog.

The receptionist looks up from her computer. ‘Hello, Mr Thomas, what can we do for you?’

My companion nods a greeting and hefts the black sack on the counter. ‘This one’s found a couple of pups dumped in the hedge,’ he says. ‘Bloody shame.’ He leans towards me and pats me carefully on the arm. ‘They’ll see you right,’ he says, and leaves the surgery, making the bell above the door jingle enthusiastically.

‘Thanks for bringing them in.’

The receptionist wears a badge on her bright blue tunic, with the name ‘Megan’ embossed in black.

‘Lots of people wouldn’t, you know.’

Keys swing from a lanyard studded with brightly coloured animal badges and charity tie pins, like the sort worn by nurses on a children’s ward. She opens the bag and blanches momentarily, before discreetly disappearing from view with it.

Seconds later a door into the waiting room opens, and Megan smiles at me. ‘Do you want to bring this little one through? Patrick will see you straight away.’