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FORTY-EIGHT
‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ Josh shouted, throwing the empty can against the wall. He’d messed up and he knew it.
No one had taken too much notice of the lack of detail and nervousness of a fifteen-year-old boy, given what they thought he’d been through. But his inability to lie successfully was a different story now he was an adult.
He slumped down on a chair in the kitchen, reliving the events of that godforsaken day after the police had been called. He’d talked to them for what seemed like hours, telling them the same story over and over again. Of course he’d said the chain had come off. He’d known there was no way anyone could disprove that. He’d even wiped his fingers over the oily gears for good measure, congratulating himself on his creativity. No one had questioned him further. His story had been watertight, until now.
He’d weathered the police officers back then; he’d battled through the media storm and the attention it had brought to his family, and his story hadn’t changed once. Until now.
‘Damn,’ he cursed, running his hands through his hair. That detective had sussed something. As soon as he’d forgotten his original story, the nerves had kicked in and he felt as though the events of that day had been playing like a video across his forehead. His heart was still beating out of his chest.
After talking to the police, he’d joined the search party. Of course he had. He was Bradley’s best friend, the last person to see him before he was abducted. Where else would he have been?
His own parents, who had loved Brad, had searched every minute they could. They’d comforted Brad’s mum, who had bravely tried to carry on while fighting back tears.
He had watched her closely, battling away the guilt of lying to her. She had cooked him many meals, had him over for sleepovers, given him lunch money when his mum forgot. Once or twice she’d even helped him with his homework. She was a nice lady, and she hadn’t deserved what she was having to endure.
The guilt for what he’d done to her had started then and it had never gone away.
He had the answers to all her questions but he couldn’t share them. She would hate him. They all would.
No. He could never tell the truth. But he had to do something. He had to find a way to stop the police sniffing around. There was only one thing he could think of and that meant coming face to face with the person that haunted his dreams. Just the thought of it sent his stomach churning. He had to remember not to panic. If he did, he could give himself away and bring the whole house of cards tumbling down. He needed to think.
It was time to do what he always did when the remorse threatened to overwhelm him.
He opened the fridge and grabbed another can of beer.
FORTY-NINE
Stacey put Azim’s phone to the side as Richard approached the coffee machine and raised his cup in her direction. He sure could rival the boss on caffeine intake.
‘I’m good thanks,’ she said, pointing to her can of Diet Coke, dreading the moment the boss rang.
She had found the grand sum of zero threats on Azim’s phone. She had found plenty of memes and messages to friends. His email communication wasn’t extensive, which was pretty normal for a nineteen-year-old, and there was no sign of any negativity. His search history was focussed on hotels in different parts of India and train routes. He’d mentioned nothing strange to friends in his messages, thereby giving them no link to Sandra’s murder, other than their profession and manner of death. The boss was not going to be pleased.
Immersing herself in her work had put some distance between now and her conversation with Alison, and it had given her a clearer perspective. She was getting worked up about nothing. None of what Alison said applied to her. She still wasn’t even sure she’d seen Terence Birch in the shadows the night before. It could be her imagination playing tricks on her, following the hostile encounter with him on Monday. And even if it was him, he was just trying to scare her because she’d challenged his ego and his fantasies about Charlotte. She had resolved in her mind that he’d consider his job done; he’d given her a bit of a fright and she would never hear from him again.
‘So, how’s the book going?’ Stacey asked Richard as he headed back to his seat. More content in her thoughts, she could afford to take a breather before starting the next task, and hopefully Penn would be back soon to pick up a shovel and do some digging of his own.
‘Oh, I’m trudging through the soggy middle at the minute,’ Richard said, putting on his glasses.
‘The soggy what?’
‘I often know how I’m going to start and end a book and the middle tends to take care of itself, except that it’s taking its time at the minute. I feel like this whole chapter is repeating an area I covered in the previous book.’
‘Maybe you should consider a section where you question your own beliefs and convictions.’
Richard threw back his head and laughed. ‘Oh, I can see why you gave Santa so many excuses. You really don’t like to adapt your belief system, do you?’
Stacey chuckled with him. She knew she was giving him a hard time.
‘I still don’t see how you can answer every psychic’s hits with your analysis,’ Stacey said. ‘Can you not even consider that some of it may be real?’
‘I’m not here to try and alter your convictions. I believe wholeheartedly that psychics don’t exist.’
‘My mum used to watch an American talk show, Montel something, and there was this one woman…’
‘Likely Sylvia Browne,’ Richard advised. ‘Who happens to have quite a lengthy chapter in my new book which focusses on celebrity psychics.’
