S. Bolton - Dead Scared

‘Is that so?’ said Castell.

‘There’s water at the foot of the bed,’ Talaith told me. ‘It should still be fairly warm. And some clothes. Get washed and get dressed.’

Being washed and dressed seemed like a very good idea. Doing it in front of these guys another matter entirely.

‘You left one of those rat tails you call hair in the editing suite upstairs,’ I told her. ‘It’s probably being analysed by the Met’s finest forensic minds as we speak. If I were you, I’d be running very fast.’

Talaith shot a sideways look at Castell. He gave the smallest shake of his head. ‘She’s lying,’ he told her. ‘And even if she isn’t, she’s been sharing a room with you for a week. She could have brought any number of hairs in here herself.’

‘If you don’t get washed, Lacey,’ said Iestyn Thomas, ‘we’ll hose you down. That always goes down well with the punters.’

Talaith had recovered from her brief moment of alarm. She leaned even further into Castell. ‘What is it about wet female flesh?’ she asked him.

‘Works for me,’ he replied, looking directly into her eyes.

‘Take the money and run,’ I said. ‘You might even get away with it. But if you kill a police officer, they’ll never stop hunting you.’

All four looked steadily down at me. None seemed even remotely moved by my threats. It wasn’t going to be that easy. I began casting my mind around the room, for any possible weapon, any place to hide.

‘Oh, we won’t kill you, Lacey,’ said Castell eventually. ‘You’ll do that yourself.’

‘You know, boys,’ said Talaith, ‘I’m not sure that scene we shot of you guys in the woods really came out that well. What do you say we go for a second take?’

‘Are you listening to me?’ I was yelling now. I could not go through that again and stay sane. ‘I told my senior officers about you lot at seven o’clock last night. They’ve had, what, twenty-four hours to put their plans in place. You psychos have got seconds, if that!’

‘Oh, I knew there was something we should have told her.’ Talaith clicked her fingers and looked up at Castell in mock annoyance before leaning over the guard rail at me again. ‘Sorry, love. That cute boyfriend of yours is dead.’

She was lying. She was an evil, manipulative bitch and lying was second nature. She had to be lying. And yet my ribcage was shrinking, squeezing everything inside it like a juicer crushes the flesh of an orange. Nick had called me earlier that day; he’d called a number that nobody knew but Joesbury. How had he done that?

‘He had an accident on the A10 last night,’ said Castell. ‘Tyres blew out. He left the road and cartwheeled down a bank.’

‘Oh, I’d love to have seen it,’ Talaith told him.

‘It was quite a sight,’ he agreed, before turning back to me. ‘He was taken to the Lister in Stevenage and pronounced dead on arrival.’

‘He phoned me last night,’ I told them, but I think I was really just reminding myself.

‘No, don’t tell lies now,’ said Thomas. ‘He sent you a text, saying he’d been delayed and that you were to sit tight and contact no one but him. I wanted to add a little personal message but John said that was going too far.’

Minutes earlier, Joesbury’s name had flashed on to the screen of the phone they’d left beside me. How could that have happened unless they had his phone? The only way they could have got my new number and given it to Nick was if they had Joesbury’s phone. I’d heard nothing from him since he’d left the evening before. Just text messages. He’d have called, surely, if he’d been OK. No. They could not be telling me the truth.

‘Would you like to reconsider the knife, Lacey?’ asked Castell.

HARRY SAT ON Evi’s kitchen floor, occasionally running his hand down the long, slim flank of the dog lying beside him. He was vaguely aware that he was hungry. He’d lost track of time but hours had passed since he’d set off on his journey south. He had no idea what he was waiting for. Only that there was nothing else he could do, and nowhere else he wanted to go.

The uniformed police team who’d arrived shortly after the discovery of the dog had been fast and thorough. They’d probably known what they were looking for. Within minutes, they’d found hidden surveillance and broadcasting equipment in several rooms. Someone had been watching Evi in her own house.

‘Sir.’

The detective sergeant was in the kitchen doorway. In his right hand was a clear plastic wallet containing a single sheet of white paper.

‘Your name is Harry, is that right?’

Harry nodded. ‘Harry Laycock,’ he said, getting to his feet. The dog whimpered beside him, not wanting him to leave.

The sergeant held the wallet out. ‘I need you to read this, sir,’ he told him. ‘And then help me work out where she might have gone.’

Harry took the wallet as the dog got unsteadily to its feet. Evi’s handwriting was large and neat, with intricate loops on the tails. She’d used a fountain pen and violet-blue ink. The note was just five words long.

Gone to be with Harry .

‘What does it mean, sir? Where would she go to look for you?’

‘She thinks I’m dead,’ said Harry. ‘This is a suicide note.’

Mark Joesbury watched the paramedics slide the unconscious Nick Bell into the ambulance. An oxygen mask covered his face to help him breathe, an IV line was already starting to replace some of the fluid he’d lost and shiny silver blankets were stopping his temperature from falling further.

As the ambulance set off, forced to go slowly along the unlit, potholed track, a liver and white pointer followed it a few paces before sitting in the middle of the track to watch it disappear. Joesbury felt the world around him slip further away.

He turned back to the house, more because standing still for any length of time made him dizzy than because he had any reason to go in there. In the harsh artificial lights the police team had brought with them he could see blood on the snow.

The first time he’d seen Lacey Flint she’d been covered in blood. She’d arrived at a murder scene just as the victim died. The victim’s blood had spattered across her face, stained a deep scarlet patch on her shirt. The paramedics she called had thought she was badly hurt too.

Over by his car, George, his back to Joesbury, was talking on a police radio. He flicked the radio to receive and spoke to the detective at his side. Joesbury caught the last few words as he approached.

‘Can’t tell me what?’ he asked.

George’s shoulders stiffened, and when he turned to face Joesbury his avuncular face had clenched itself into tight lines. ‘She’s not at the industrial unit,’ he said. ‘SOCs are going in now.’

Two things had struck him the instant he’d laid eyes on her. The first, that she was almost certainly the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. The second, that she was probably a cold and calculating killer.

‘What can’t you tell me?’ he repeated.

George held out one hand, as though to keep Joesbury at arm’s length. ‘Guv, it’s too soon to know anything. We should get back. We can check her room again. We’ve got people searching her car. Come on, you know her as well as anyone. You’ll be in the best position to spot anything.’

Joesbury didn’t move. The two officers exchanged a look. The other detective dropped his eyes to the mud.

George sighed. ‘It’s pretty clear someone left in a hurry,’ he said. ‘They didn’t have time to clear up. There was a lot of serial-killer paraphernalia, apparently. Not difficult to see where they were going with that. And the team that went in found a pretty good mock-up of her room at St John’s. It’s possible something happened in there but it’s too soon …’