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

Callan rubbed his hands across his face, massaging his fingers right into his eye sockets. He felt knackered, would rather be anywhere than sitting in this featureless, white-walled box, facing this moron.

‘So Martha Wonsag radioed that she’d found Stephen Foster dead,’ he said.

‘Yeah.’

‘What time was that?’

‘Three ten a.m., sir.’

A stake in the sand. One stake, in quicksand. Infinitesimal progress.

‘So where the hell was she when Foster died?’

‘She said that she was on a toilet break.’

‘A toilet break? How long does a toilet break last?’

‘Mine? Ten seconds. But I can piss up against a tree, can’t I.’ Harris clicked his tongue sarcastically. ‘Hers? You’ll need to ask her that question, sir.’

‘Did you ask her?’

‘No?’

‘Why not?’

‘Why do you think? I wasn’t going to question a woman on her toilet habits, was I? Anyway, all hell broke loose when we found Foster. Utter fucking panic. My guard detachment were all new recruits, all sixteen, and they thought that the Islamic fuckin’ State had invaded Blackdown. It was like trying to control a herd of chickens.’

‘Flock.’

‘Wot?’ The corporal reached to scratch the back of his head – an action that brought to Callan’s mind a cartoon character wrestling with a particularly knotty problem – and his sleeve rode up to reveal the tattoo of a girl on his forearm. She was artfully arranged on all fours, her bottom, clad only in a tiny red G-string, facing the viewer. She was looking back over her left shoulder; a waterfall of blonde hair cascaded over her right. The look on her face was pure suggestion, or as suggestive as could be achieved with the medium of tattoo ink on a canvas of hairy skin.

‘Nice tat,’ Callan muttered.

‘Like it?’ Harris hadn’t clocked the irony in his voice.

Callan’s gaze narrowed. ‘What do you think about women, Corporal?’

A wolfish smile. ‘I love women, Captain.’

‘In the Army, Corporal?’

‘I don’t notice.’

‘You don’t notice women?’

‘I don’t notice women in green, sir.’

The sound of a rough diesel engine and a four-tonner drove past the window, scaring the warring pigeons into flight.

‘What was Foster like?’ Callan asked.

Harris shrugged. ‘A bit of a wimp, I’d say.’

‘Why?’

Another careless lift of his shoulders. ‘He seemed to be, is all.’

‘Did he shirk his duties?’

‘No.’

‘Did he complain?’

‘No.’

‘Did he take time off sick?’

‘No.’

Callan was getting sick of the attitude. ‘So what?’ he snapped.

Dropping the Zippo with a clatter on to the table, Harris sighed. ‘Look, I’ve heard about you, sir.’ Callan noticed Harris’s gaze flick to the scar on his temple. ‘I’ve heard about you and I respect you. But who the hell would you want watching your back, somewhere like Afghanistan? When you’ve got some crazy jihadi comin’ at you? When you’re in the middle of a firefight? Do you really want some woman or some young wimp backing you up?’ His dark gaze searched Callan’s face from under his black, spiky fringe. ‘Who would you want next to you, sir?’

‘Someone who is brave and professional,’ Callan said.

‘Brave and professional. Right, yeah, me too. But they’re not typical wimps’ or female traits are they?’

‘Aren’t they?’

The corporal looked uncomfortable; he’d expected Callan’s matey support and hadn’t got it. Callan glanced at his watch – 5.30 p.m. – a darker haze muddying the sky outside the window.

‘What’s Marley stand for?’

‘Huh?’

Callan indicated Harris’s other arm, where the words ‘Marley’ were visible tattooed in black on the inside of his wrist.

‘It’s my nickname.’

‘Why Marley?’

‘It’s just a nickname, sir.’ His tone cagey.

‘After the dog?’

Harris frowned. ‘Wot dog?’

‘There was a film, wasn’t there? Marley and Me . About a dog called Marley.’

‘No,’ Harris snapped. ‘It’s not after any fuckin’ dog.’

‘What then?’ Callan pressed.

‘I’ve had it for years.’ He blinked and his eyes slid from Callan’s. ‘Can’t even remember who gave it to me. Probably my parents.’

Callan sighed. He’d had enough. He wanted out. ‘Thanks for your help, Harris. We’re done.’ He paused. ‘For now.’

Harris’s narrow lips cracked into a grin. ‘Great.’

Callan pushed himself to his feet. ‘You know that you’ve made yourself a suspect, don’t you?’

The grin vanished. ‘Wot? I was alone for five fucking minutes. Ten max.’

‘Your accommodation block is on the other side of the base. It’s going to take more than ten minutes for someone to get there, find your cigarettes and get back.’

Harris’s eyes blazed. ‘The other guard,’ he spluttered.

Callan held up a hand, silencing him. ‘If my girlfriend was off travelling for six months, I’d want to spend more than ten minutes with her.’ Callan smiled. ‘Unless I had a hair-trigger. Does he have a hair-trigger, Harris, or should I ask him that question?’

The muscles along Harris’s jaw bulged.

Callan walked to the door. ‘Don’t discuss this case with anyone, and don’t go anywhere. I’m pretty sure that I’ll need to speak to you again.’

As he pushed through the door, he glanced back, saw Harris still sitting, his head now in his hands.

She noticed the red Golf GTI as soon as she pulled under the raised barrier into Blackdown. Callan. So the SIO on the Stephen Foster case was Ben Callan. Pulling to the far side of the car park, tucking her Mini behind a Land Rover Defender, Jessie cut the engine. The claustrophobic electricity from the suit still tingled across her skin and now, added to it, a wave of light-headedness at the thought of seeing Callan again, the combination making her feel keyed-up and slightly nauseous. Tilting her head back, closing her eyes for a moment, she took a few deep breaths, fixing her mind on the innocuous image of the morning sun rising over the fields at the back of her cottage, trying to slow the beating of her heart. She had thought about Callan many times since she’d last seen him, had been tempted, almost as many times, to email him. But she had no experience with men beyond meaningless physical encounters and every missive she had composed had sounded trite and uninteresting. She had no idea what to say, what tone to strike, even. In the end, it had been easier not to email at all.

She recognized Callan immediately, though he was standing with his back to her. Broad-shouldered and athletic, a head taller than the grey-haired man he was talking with, he was slouching, hands shoved in his trouser pockets, perhaps to reduce the height disparity, to listen more easily. His posture, the slouch, should have said ‘relaxed’, but Jessie knew that there was nothing laid-back about the rigid set of his shoulders, the jitter of perpetual motion in his long legs. He must have sensed her approach – someone approach – because he turned suddenly and their eyes locked.

‘Jessie—’ Shock registered briefly on his face before his expression settled into one of cool unreadability. ‘Doctor Flynn. You’re back.’

‘Yes, last night. Actually, early this morning, more accurately.’

The last time she had seen him, he had been unconscious in a hospital bed, bandaged and wired to every device in the room, touch and go whether he would live or die. He had lived, the second gunshot wound that he’d survived in as many years, but she knew that the wound to his abdomen had been devastating, that he’d lost nearly half the blood in his body before he’d reached the operating theatre. Though he was back at work, she couldn’t believe that he was physically 100 per cent recovered. And mentally? He was wearing a smart navy-blue suit, uniform knife-creases bisecting each trouser leg, a crisp white shirt, open at the neck, black shoes shined mirror bright, nothing there to upset her sense of order. But beneath the window dressing, he looked wrecked, his eyes washed out and skittish, skin pale and damp with perspiration.