S. Bolton - Dead Scared

Saturday 12 January (ten days earlier)

‘IT’S TWO O’CLOCK in the morning, Flint.’

‘Were you busy?’

There was the sound of someone stifling a yawn. ‘Just dreaming about you as usual,’ Joesbury said.

I ignored that. ‘Why didn’t you tell me she’d been raped?’ I asked.

‘No evidence to suggest she had been. You won’t be investigating a rape, Flint, or any aspect of Bryony Carter’s attempted suicide. Your job will be …’

‘… to experience Cambridge student life for myself. Find out if there’s any substance to Dr Oliver’s subculture bollocks theory. Will I actually be studying something?’

‘Psychology,’ Joesbury replied. ‘Dr Oliver’s subject. That way we make it as easy as possible for the two of you to spend time together.’

‘How long will I be expected to be there?’

‘If you’ve absolutely nothing to report back on after three months, we’ll pull you out.’

I could hear bedsprings creaking and Joesbury making a very soft grunt in the back of his throat as, presumably, he pushed himself upright on the bed. And suddenly there were pictures in my head I could do without. ‘Who do I report to?’ I asked.

‘Me. Mainly by email. You won’t be expected to do any academic work, I’m sure you’ll be relieved to know. So when your room-mate is hammering out her essays, you can write me nice long reports.’

‘Room-mate?’ I was nearly twenty-eight. I wanted to spend the next three months sharing a room with a teenager like I wanted to spend the next three months emailing Joesbury on a nightly basis.

‘Just a living space. Separate sleeping accommodation,’ replied Joesbury. ‘And the girl you’ll be sharing with was Bryony Carter’s room-mate. She’ll know as well as anyone if anything dodgy is going on.’

Silence for a moment.

‘It’s worth repeating that you will not be an investigating officer, just there to observe and report back. The psychiatrist, Dr Oliver, will be the only person at the university who knows who you are,’ continued Joesbury. ‘Local CID will know nothing about the operation, so won’t be available as backup. Not that you should need it.’

‘How soon do you want me there?’ I said.

Seconds more ticked by. ‘Are you sure?’ he asked.

‘My spider sense is tingling,’ I said. ‘And it’s not like I have anything to keep me in London.’

A few more seconds, then: ‘I appreciate it, Flint,’ he said, in a voice that had chilled down a degree or two. ‘Term’s only just started so you’ve only missed a week. We can get you there by Monday evening, if you’re up for it.’

I agreed that I was up for it and, after arranging to meet on Sunday for a detailed briefing, Joesbury wished me good night and hung up. I walked through my small flat to the conservatory at the rear.

Over the Christmas break I’d put solar lights around the small lawn, and even in January they gave off a faint glow throughout the night. There was frost gathering on the leaves, turning their various shades of green into intricate white lacework. The grass looked like frosting on a Christmas cake.

I’d never been to Cambridge. I’d grown up in and out of foster care and children’s homes. I hadn’t struggled at school – I was bright enough – but I’d never really taken academia seriously. The UK’s premier universities hadn’t been an option for someone like me, but now I was going to be a student at one of them, amongst people who, intellectually, could wipe the floor with me.

Jesus, what was I thinking? I had no idea how to be an undercover officer. SO10 trained its officers rigorously. The programme was tough and not everyone who applied made it through. Whilst it wasn’t unusual for run-of-the-mill detectives to go undercover, they were rarely sent into situations that would last any amount of time. Besides, I’d joined the Met to work on serious crimes against women. If I spent the next few months off the grid, I could miss the chance to transfer to one of the specialist units. Why had I agreed?

Like I needed the answer to that one. I was doing it for Joesbury.

MARK JOESBURY SWITCHED on the light and pushed back the bedcovers. The room was cold: he slept with the window open summer and winter alike. And it was full of light. His bedroom wasn’t directly overlooked and he rarely bothered pulling down the blinds. When he couldn’t sleep, most nights these days, he liked to watch the moonlight playing around the room, listen to the traffic outside, see the shadows ebb and flow around the walls.

He got up, used the loo and ran a glass of water. As he drank, he realized the usual headache had kicked in already. He’d developed a constant, niggling cough from the bottom of his chest that his doctor told him was a sure sign he was drinking too much. He’d stop, no problem, once he got back to work properly. Once he got over this stupid obsession with Lacey Flint.

And he’d made a good start on that last one, what with dragging her into his latest case.

The computer in his tiny spare bedroom was never switched off. He tapped the space bar to restore the screen and typed out a quick email. Two words.

You awake ?

The answer came back in seconds.

Yup .

Joesbury picked up his phone and pressed speed dial 4. Speed dial 3 got him Dana Tulloch’s mobile, speed dial 2 the house where his eight-year-old son lived with his ex-wife. The man on the end of speed dial 4 answered quickly.

‘What’s up?’ he said.

‘She’ll do it,’ Joesbury replied.

‘Good stuff.’ Soft noises in the background, as if someone was eating.

‘I’m not happy,’ said Joesbury.

‘We’ve discussed this.’ A low-pitched moan.

‘We shouldn’t keep her in the dark.’

‘She knows as much as she needs to. Decision made. You been on YouPorn lately?’

Joesbury’s skin was starting to goose-pimple. ‘Can’t say I have,’ he told his boss.

‘Check out Dirty Brunette Finds New Use For Her Tongue .’

‘You need to get a life, guv. And a girlfriend.’

‘Could say the same about you, buddy. See you in the morning.’

Joesbury put the phone down and walked back to his bedroom. Yeah, he needed a life. And a nice uncomplicated girlfriend. Someone like a nurse, or an air stewardess. What he wanted was Lacey. He was still carrying his phone. His finger hovered over speed dial 1. They’d spoken fewer than ten minutes ago. She’d be awake. He got into bed and pulled the quilt round his shoulders. The phone lay beside him on the pillow.

He knew he wasn’t going to call.

Sunday 13 January (nine days earlier)

THE GIRL AT the wheel of the Mini Convertible was staring straight ahead along an empty road. The trees on either side were very tall and thin, like long, skeletal fingers reaching to the sky. The few remaining leaves were still as stone. Wind that had earlier been racing across the Fens like a possessed soul seemed, at last, to have exhausted itself and the girl could hear nothing.

Except the voice in her head.

A sudden vibrating movement told her the car engine was running again. Her left hand reached down. The handbrake was off. This was it then.

Something, it could even have been her own foot, was pressing down on the accelerator. Tentative at first, and then with increasing pressure. More and more, until the pedal reached the floor of the car.

When the rope that had been firmly tied round a beech tree at one end and the girl’s neck at the other reached its full length there came a sound a little like that of a firework spluttering its last.