Kate Medina - Scared to Death - A gripping crime thriller you won’t be able to put down

‘So the Branch need to clear this one up quickly before the press get hold of it and turn it into a public relations nightmare for the Army. Holden-Hough has requested our help.’

‘Why?’

‘The victim, all the key suspects and witnesses are trainees. Sixteen-year-olds. They’re young, vulnerable and frightened.’

‘More babies. Sounds like a nightmare brief.’

‘I’m sure that you can handle it, Doctor Poppins, after this morning’s practice and the Sami Scott case.’

Her mind cast back to this morning, skirting around the baby boy playing on the floor-mat as if he was an explosive device; four months earlier to four-year-old Sami Scott. The death of Sami’s mother, a bitter pill that she hadn’t yet managed to swallow. Still believing that she could, should , have done something to predict and alter that outcome.

‘It’s a bit less Mary Poppins and a bit more Doctor Doolittle with new recruits.’

‘Thank you, I appreciate it.’

‘I haven’t said yes, yet.’ She paused, heard nothing but Gideon’s measured breathing. ‘Who’s the Senior Investigating Officer?’ Her own breath caught in her throat as she waited for Gideon’s answer, waited to hear if it was Callan.

‘Holden-Hough didn’t say.’

And you didn’t ask. But, of course, why would you?

‘Is the SIO on board with the idea of a psychologist’s help?’

‘In the Special Investigation Branch what Holden-Hough says, goes.’

‘I’ll take that as a “no” then.’

‘You can handle it.’

Jessie didn’t answer, because her answer was irrelevant. She was going anyway, no choice. She glanced at her watch: 5 p.m. Relatively early, but she felt wiped out, knew that it wasn’t jet lag. Something about today – Joan Lawson, Malcolm, baby Harry playing happily, unaware that his world was shattering, Ryan Jones, suicide, madness – had sucked her dry. The tingle from the electric suit that she had felt first at the hospital, a tingle that had intensified during her session with Ryan, refused to subside, a background itch coating her whole body, barely there, but omnipresent all the same.

‘Can you go straight to Blackdown?’

‘Is there no one else?’

‘No one who has acres of time in their diary because they’ve come back from three months away.’

‘Working. Away, working .’

A heavy sigh. ‘You know what the government has done to our funding.’

She did – all too well. It was one of his hobby horses.

‘We’re all stretched to breaking, and you have experience of working with the Branch. What was that officer’s name? Cooper?’

‘Callan,’ Jessie murmured. ‘Captain Callan.’

‘Right, Callan. He seemed like a good guy. It might be him.’ The clink of metal stiletto heels on a wooden floor suddenly, echoing down the line, and a woman’s voice Jessie recognized as Jenny, the service’s secretary. ‘I need to go,’ Gideon said.

A click. Silence. Only the sound of her own heartbeat, slightly elevated, beating in the hollow car.

The afternoon sun cast a feeble rectangle of pale yellow over the bare wooden desk in the room that Callan had hastily commandeered for his interviews.

‘You were the Duty Staff Officer for last night’s guard?’ he asked, though his tone made it more of a statement than a question.

Corporal Jace Harris, wiry, dark-eyed and dark-haired, intense and on edge, facing him across the desk, gave a brief, fretful nod. Callan tilted back in his chair, crossing his legs, one ankle resting on the other knee, slid his hands into his pockets; a deliberately relaxed, matey posture. An obvious tactic, which always surprised him with how effective it was at breaking down defensive barriers.

‘So talk me through what happened last night.’ He fixed Harris with a steady gaze.

Harris shrugged. ‘Nothing much, sir.’

‘Nothing much?’

Harris lifted his shoulders again and his small brown eyes slid to the window.

‘One of your guard duty died , Corporal.’

‘Apart from that.’

Was this guy for real? He didn’t seem overly concerned that a sixteen-year-old under his command had been found dead. Or was it an act?

‘On your watch, Harris. Someone died on your watch.’

‘It was personal. A mate.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘It’s the word on the street.’

Gangsta rap in leafy Surrey.

‘Who from?’

‘Dunno.’ Harris swallowed as if his mouth was suddenly dry. ‘It’s not going to be a random murder though, is it? A terrorist or nothing. Not down here in middle-of-fucking-nowhere Camberley.’

‘Why not?’

Harris jerked his thumb towards the window. ‘Because nothing ever happens out there.’

‘Until last night.’

A reluctant nod of acquiescence. ‘Yeah, right. Until last night.’

‘Who found Stephen Foster?’ Callan asked.

‘Martha Wonsag.’

‘Who is she?’

‘One of the new recruits, joined the same time as Foster, five or six months ago. They were on guard duty together. She radioed it in.’

‘Where were you when you received the call?’

‘In the guard hut.’

‘By the main gate?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Inside?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why?’

‘It was raining.’

‘Are you made of sugar?’

‘Wot?’

Callan looked at the sullen ferret face. Sugar, spice and all things nice. Hardly . ‘Do you dissolve in the wet, Corporal?’

Harris didn’t answer. He had retrieved a stainless steel Zippo lighter from his pocket and was rolling it in his fingers like a worry bead.

‘Why weren’t you outside checking on the guard detail, Harris?’

‘Because, like I already said—’

‘It was raining. And nothing ever happens out there,’ Callan cut in.

Sitting forward, he planted his elbows on the desktop and steepled his fingers. Was this guy for real? ‘Until last night.’

Flicking the lid of the Zippo lighter half open with his thumb a couple of times, the noise irritatingly tinny in the bare room, Harris sneered and curled his lip. ‘Until last fucking night.’

‘Were you alone?’

‘I’m not sure exactly what time Foster died, sir, so I can’t say.’

‘Were you alone at any time during the night?’

‘For a brief period, sir.’

‘How long?’

‘Five or ten minutes. Ten max.’

‘Where were the gate guards?’

Harris frowned. ‘They were around.’

‘Around where? Around the gate?’

Harris didn’t answer; his gaze had found the window again. Callan looked over. Two male pigeons had settled on the windowsill, were strutting back and forth, fluffing their feathers to beef up their size, preparing for a fight. He shared their sentiment.

‘Where were the gate guards, Corporal Harris?’

Silence. Callan waited.

Eventually, Harris sighed. ‘One of them’s girlfriend turned up.’

Callan didn’t even want to ask the question, knew what answer he’d get if he did. Instead, he let the silence hang, saw Harris’s hands begin to churn around the Zippo.

‘She’s off travelling for six months.’

‘And?’ He twisted the knife.

‘You know what – and – sir.’

‘What about the other guard?’

‘I sent him back to my accommodation block to get my fags. I’d run out.’