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Don’t just stand there, said a voice in her head. Don’t let them win.
She pulled out her phone with trembling fingers. Her first instinct was to call Alex, but she doubted he’d take her call right now: she could hardly blame him. Instead she scrolled to Stella’s number and was greeted with a blast of noise as her assistant answered.
‘Boss? Is that you?’ Music and chatter and laughter in the background.
‘Where are you?’ asked Lara, struggling to get the words out.
‘At The Glasshouse with Karen and Rosie. What’s up?’
Lara closed her eyes, imagining her young assistant somewhere fun and fabulous, enjoying life with her friends. She knew that if she told her what had happened, Stella would immediately swing into action, rush over and sort everything out. But this wasn’t her fight and her assistant deserved a life away from work. At the very least after losing her job at the Chronicle, Stella could do with a good night out.
‘Nothing, it’s fine,’ she said quietly, sinking down onto the arm of the sofa.
‘Sorry, what d’you say, boss?’
The line was breaking up. Lara raised her voice.
‘I said have a drink on me and I’ll give you a call tomorrow.’
Lara hung up and looked down at her phone. If not Stella, then who? She scrolled through her numbers, considering various names and rejecting them one by one. This was what happened when your work was your life – and your two best friends were… unavailable.
She walked back through the boat towards the kitchen, desperate for a drink. She knew she had a bottle of gin in the fridge – maybe, if they hadn’t smashed that too – although alcohol probably wasn’t the answer right now. Strong tea, then she’d call the police, even though Lara had little hope they’d do much. Burglaries in London had a tiny clean-up rate and as far as she could see, nothing had been taken.
She could see slate grey clouds through the skylight and before she could even think ‘storm’, she felt the thrum of heavy rain against the roof and the low boom of distant thunder.
Lara flicked on the kitchen light – on, off, on – nothing. Dammit, she thought, edging forward through the gloom, feeling her way down to the cupboard where she kept the lightbulbs. Finding the fridge, she opened the door for the light and immediately saw a dark shape on the floor.
‘Oh God, no.’
Poking out from beneath a torn curtain, there was a single white paw. Dingo.
Dingo was dead.
His neck twisted, his body was limp, casually discarded alongside a crushed cereal box. Emotion caugh
t in her throat and tears began to fall. Sobbing now, Lara fell to her knees. ‘Dingo, no, no,’ she whispered, resting a hand on his little head. ‘I’m so, so sorry.’
Desperate to get out, Lara stumbled for the door, blindly pushing out onto the deck, her shoulders and hair immediately soaked by the downpour. She bent over, gulping in air, her throat rasping, her hands gripping the rail. If she didn’t hold on, she knew she would fall down. Her world was tilting, threatening to tip her over the edge in every sense. First Misty, then her cat. You’re next. That was the message, loud and clear. You’re next.
Lara looked down at the phone still in her hand. And she knew there was only one person left to call.
Chapter 29
Detective Chief Inspector Fox said he’d be there within the hour, but he was less thirty minutes. Lara met him at the gate. She wasn’t sure she had been more pleased to see someone in her life.
‘Thanks for coming,’ she said formally, trying to keep her voice even. Lara was embarrassed that Fox was seeing her like this, she was usually so together, so competent, but right now her face was red and tender, her eyes barely two slits. If Fox noticed, he was good enough not to mention it.
‘I was on my way home,’ he said, as Lara nodded with gratitude.
‘Shall we take a look?’ he asked, pointing towards the boat with his chin. Lara led him to the gangplank, but let him go ahead. Fox stopped to briefly examine the splintered door, then stepped inside. Lara waited on the dock. She didn’t want to watch him poking around in her things, it already felt tainted enough inside there. Fox was a senior detective and he was here to help, but even so, this wasn’t a social call. When she thought she’d given him long enough to see the damage, she followed him back down the steps.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said, looking around, then rubbing his chin.
Lara nodded dumbly.
‘They killed my cat, Ian.’
It sounded faintly ridiculous as she said it out loud. As if it was a punchline in some absurd comedy.
