THEN SHE RAN an absolutely gripping crime thriller with a massive twist Read online

  ‘I always said that I would quit the job if you said I should. If that’s what it takes, I’ll put my notice in the second I walk back through that door. My family is all that matters to me. There’s nothing else. Just say the word and I’ll do it.’

  ‘Really? You got promoted, George! The last time we saw each other you were waiting it out for the right offer. Then you got it. They said you could walk — full pension, all that you could want. And here we are. What happened?’

  ‘You happened! You left — remember? I had some time off on my own before and I did nothing but self-destruct. I’m terrified, Sarah, that I’ll go back to who I was then if I don’t have anything to get up for in the morning. That’s the only reason I stayed. We go back to being a family and I know I’d be fine. I’d have everything I want. I’ll quit, I’ll go in now and I’ll quit.’

  ‘It’s not that simple. There’s too much. There’s been too much.’

  ‘This other fella?’

  ‘It’s not just that.’

  ‘He exists then. Who is he?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘What does he do? Sits around at home wrapped in cotton wool, I hope.’

  ‘Don’t start being funny, George. He’s an architect. He’s unlikely to get me kidnapped.’

  ‘Well, he’s off to a good start then.’

  ‘He’s good with Charley too.’

  George bit down hard. The image of Charley sitting on another man’s shoulders, giggling at him with the delightful belly laugh she had when she was tickled, tugging on his hand at the zoo. It made him feel physically ill. He was aware that he was starting to lose control. He needed to get away. ‘I need some time. The irony, eh?’ He was aware his voice broke a little. He stood up. Sarah fixed her gaze on him, those big, brown eyes suddenly full of sympathy. It made George angrier.

  ‘Okay. We’ll be around. I was serious about sorting something for you and Charley for her birthday.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll be in touch.’ George pulled a crumpled note from his pocket and dropped it on the table. He heard Sarah say something but he was already making for the door and he didn’t hear it. He had to get away before he broke down completely.

  George made it back out onto the street. The front of the café was made entirely of glass and they had been sitting by the window. In his periphery, he could see the figure of his wife where he had left her. He pushed his hands into his pockets and dipped his head against the rain. He walked up the steep hill, back towards the town centre. His phone was ringing in his pocket. He ignored it — let it ring out. Almost immediately after, it vibrated again. He peered at the screen; he had missed a call from Emily Ryker.

  George was new in post as the detective inspector for Major Crime covering the east of the county. Emily Ryker was his intelligence officer. They had always gotten on well — too well at one point. But that was ancient history. Soon after, he had met Sarah and settled down. Since that moment he’d never considered anyone else. Never considered that there even could be.

  The second vibration had been a text message. It said simply, urgent. He and Ryker had an understanding: they could ignore each other’s calls, but if it was important they would send a message straight after. George knew he was expected to call her right back, but he couldn’t muster the energy to speak. He wanted somewhere dark and quiet that served something stronger than coffee, where no one could find him. He had taken a Sunday off to meet his wife, hoping that it might turn into an all-day affair with his daughter involved. Sundays used to be his favourite family day. He couldn’t have been more wrong. He switched his phone off. Whatever it was Ryker needed to talk to him about, he was in no fit state to be of any use.

  Chapter 4

  Jenny made it to the grassy verge that ran along the edge of the car park. She half-turned to get a last glimpse of Isobel and the raised lip at the edge of the verge caught her out; she was sent sprawling onto the pavement, her knees and elbows scraping against the tarmac and the air forced from her body as she grunted. She heard another crack! And then a thud that sent a clump of grass and mud flailing towards her. For a second she was frozen to the spot, looking back towards the source of the sound. A man dressed in black had climbed into the back of a large truck. He was facing her. He still had his weapon levelled in her direction. She scrambled to her feet and sprinted down the pavement. It was sloped, down towards where the River Dour rushed against its concrete sides, the natural riverbanks having given way to the straight walls. The path dropped quickly below the level of the car park she had left. It would provide her cover at least.

  She heard another gunshot. This one sounded further away. In the distance she could hear sirens. The pavement sloped back up and the river slipped underground, but Jenny was facing a road. Traffic moved along it but she ran blindly out. She heard the urgent squeals of car tyres and blaring horns but she ignored them and made it to the other side. The sirens had been louder too but she didn’t consider stopping, not even for a second. She needed to get away from there; she couldn’t afford to stop.

  The river reappeared on her right. It flowed a little quicker and was shallower, enough that she could hear its gurgling. She was still running, but the adrenalin that had fired into her body and enabled her escape was all but consumed. She was running on empty. She was exhausted. She braved a glance behind her and saw a long, empty pavement. No one was behind her. She heard more sirens. Surely anyone seen brandishing a gun would now be focussed on evading the police? She slowed to a walk and concentrated on filling her lungs with deep breaths, trying to recover. Her leg was painful all of a sudden. On inspection she had ripped her jeans at the right knee and it was bleeding quite freely — her elbow too, and she dusted some grit from her forearm.

  ‘Isobel . . .’ she muttered. She turned back to face the sirens. Maybe the police already had Isobel — maybe she was safe? She’d had to leave Isobel on that police car. The shots were meant for her. Her last glimpse of the gunman had been of him walking away from where she had left Isobel. She was so much faster without her. It had been the right decision; it was the only decision. She considered walking back to the car park, which would probably be swamped with police cars now. Then she thought of Joseph, of how he had been sat in his car in broad daylight, of how that animal had fired through the window. She rubbed at her face — she had to get the images out of her mind for now — at least until she was safe.

  ‘You okay?’

  Jenny spun back round. She hadn’t been aware of anyone approaching. A man smiled at her, he was mid-thirties, overweight and wearing a Goonies T-shirt. He had a tattoo of faded red lips on his neck.

  ‘Not really,’ she said.

  ‘The sirens, they for you?’

  ‘Sort of,’ Jenny’s voice was croaky. She was still trying to get her breath back under control.

  ‘You in trouble?’

  ‘No. I mean, yeah, but I was running away from whoever the police want. I’m not that person.’

  ‘I know the police. I know all of them. They joke. They say, “Stephen, you know us just by our boots!” I got a window, see. I live in the basement flat, and when they come see me they have to walk past my window. I always know who it is by their boots!’

  Jenny patted her pockets. They were empty. She must have left her phone in the hotel room. She last remembered plugging it in and sliding it under the bed.

  ‘Do you need some help? You’re bleeding. I did some first-aid classes. I can put a sling on if you needed that. Or I can do the recovery position.’

  Jenny looked him up and down. He was wearing loose-fitting tracksuit bottoms that were pulled high and stained and gripped tightly at his ankles. He had cheap-looking formal shoes with no socks. He was a little simple, she thought, but she did need some help.

  ‘Do you have a phone?’

  He patted his own pockets. ‘In the flat!’ he said. He seemed delighted. ‘You can use it. I rushed out, I heard the police, see. I must have forgotten to pick up my pho
ne!’

  ‘Is it near?’ Jenny looked around. They were still on the river path. It seemed to cut between rows of housing.

  ‘Just over there.’ He wafted a finger in the general direction in which she had been running. ‘You wanna come?’

  ‘I need to use the phone.’ Jenny said. She tried to smile in a way that was reassuring.

  Stephen led the way. It was less than a two-minute walk. Jenny found that, having stopped, she was now limping from her hip a little as she followed on behind. She could still hear sirens but they were more distant. Stephen’s front door was down a set of tight, stone steps and was unlocked. He had to push it hard to open it enough for them to get through. Jenny stepped in after him. There were reams of unopened post lying behind the door, getting jammed underneath. She pushed it firmly shut and the post immediately slid back. She had to apply her weight to get the door to click shut. The flat was starved of natural light, cluttered and smelled musty. It wasn’t dirty as such, but on every inch of surface stood an action figure — mostly Star Wars. Jenny recognised some of them but there were a lot she didn’t.

  ‘Do you like Star Wars?’ Stephen said excitedly.

  ‘I guess. I’ve seen the films. Look, my baby is back there. I need to call the police and make sure she’s okay. Did you find your phone?’

  ‘You need to call them here? I can do that! They know me, they come here all the time.’

  ‘No, it’s okay. I need to talk to them. I need to tell them what happened. It’s very urgent!’

  Stephen beamed wildly. He plucked a phone from under a toy spaceship on a low table and held it close to his face. The keys looked oversized, the whole thing looked like a toy phone. ‘I’ll call!’ he said again.

  Jenny’s attention was dragged suddenly to a movement at the front room window. The stairs down to the front door were visible, just like Stephen had described, they were like a diagonal stripe from the top left to the bottom right. She could see legs moving quickly down the steps. She stepped forward, her pulse racing. Stephen pushed past her. Jenny could see more of them now: two men, both wearing black shoes and black trousers. They had black vests on too — with Police written across their back. Police officers! Thank God.

  ‘They’re here! Stephen, they’re here, I don’t need the phone! I’m safe.’ She moved across the floor towards the front door.

  ‘Wait!’

  She stopped. Stephen looked stern, his brow contorted in confusion. ‘Them’s not police boots. Not even police shoes. Where’s their belt, their handcuffs?’ He was leaning into the window now, trying to get a view to the right where they would be stood at the front door. Jenny heard a knock. She could see the front door from where she stood. It was a half-length frosted pane and the men appeared as two dark distortions. She saw them turn to face each other and heard a murmur between them, though not well enough to pick out the words. A face pushed against the glass. They tried the door again, this time it was thumped with the underside of a clenched fist by the man on the right.

  ‘POLICE!’ One of them shouted. They thumped again. Jenny didn’t know what to do; it was as if she was cemented to the ground. She turned to Stephen, who was walking towards her. He was still scowling.

  ‘We’ll see about that, won’t we?’ He brushed past. The hallway was so tight Jenny felt his stomach push into her. The two distortions were still at the door. They would have seen Stephen coming. Suddenly there was a tremendous bang. Stephen stumbled backwards immediately. There was another tremendous bang, then a thud against the door. Stephen was on the floor, almost at Jenny’s feet. He had a hole in his chest, it was bright red but Jenny could also see bits of white. His eyes stared up at her, his mouth gaped open and shut.

  Jenny turned away and she ran. The back of the house was just as cluttered. She was in the kitchen, crowded with plates and cups now, rather than figures. There was a long window high above the sink. She stopped, desperate for a way out. There was a back door, partly concealed behind a full-length curtain. She snatched it out of the way and it came away in her hand, the curtain pole clattered to the ground making her jump. She heard another thud and the tinkling of glass. She could hear the pushing of a mountain of paper . . . they were coming in.

  The handle to the back door rattled but it wouldn’t open. There was a metal knob under the handle and she spun it right around and tugged at the door. It still wouldn’t move. She spun it again, the door moved slightly, it opened inwards but it was blocked by a cat box and some litter in a tray. The scent was suddenly pungent. There was no time to move it. She yanked it as hard as she could. The cat box tipped out, the door opened enough to get her leg through. She wriggled in the door and was half through, her shoulders caught; she could feel them scraping on the metal frame, peeling her skin. She heard heavy footfalls coming through the house. Suddenly the door let her go and she stumbled out into a tiny courtyard. There was an eight-foot wall all around her; she could barely see the sky. She heard another noise behind her that came from the kitchen. She pushed off the door and ran as fast as she could at the wall. She threw herself at it. She lifted her right foot to meet it flat and reached up with her hands. Her fingers caught the top of the wall. She heaved herself up, the toes of her shoes scrabbling against the concrete. The door blew out behind her. It made her flinch, so much so that she nearly lost her tenuous grip. She managed to get one of her elbows over the top. She could see a garden spread out in front of her. The grass was overgrown, a wall had collapsed and had been left where it had fallen. She managed to hook her left leg over, her nostrils filled with the scent of dog mess. She heard a shout.

  ‘JENNY! WHERE YOU GOING, GIRL?’

  She rolled into the grass — far enough from the edge that she couldn’t be seen from below. She heard a scrabbling sound, someone was trying to climb out the way she had. She peered down the garden. She could run, which would put her back out on the streets of Dover, or she could turn and follow the river back to the police but she couldn’t be sure she would make it. There were now fingers on the top of the wall, they were blanched white and they fidgeted as someone hung from them. She picked up the biggest chunk of collapsed wall she could find — three house bricks seized together in a roughly triangular lump. A man’s head appeared — slick black hair and a sweaty brow — concentrating on the climb. His eyes met hers. Jenny stood over him, the piece of wall over her head. She brought it down as hard as she could on the top of his head. He fell away out of sight, she heard him hit the floor, the bricks too. She heard someone else shout something — she didn’t know what. She was already running.

  Chapter 5

  The Major Crime floor of Langthorne House Police Station was usually a quiet, calm place at just before eight on a Monday morning. But as soon as George stepped out of the lift he could tell there was a bit of a buzz about the place. The buzz got louder as he pushed through the double doors into the department where his team of detectives and support staff lived. The department was a spacious area, open plan save for a large meeting room and two offices right next to it, one of which now belonged to George. The recent cuts to policing meant that Major Crime was now a far more transient occupation. Often George would walk through the department to acknowledge just a smattering of DCs, spread out among the banks of desks. The bulk of the team were used to moving all over the county to wherever they were needed. No one knew what would happen if there was a serious incident in more than one district.

  Today the banks of desks were still unoccupied by people, but they were occupied by things. Bags and coats, steaming mugs, lunchboxes and paperwork were strewn across just about all of them and every monitor was alight and alive. Something was going on.

  George had to walk past the meeting room to get to his office. Sure enough, it was teeming with movement and noise. George could see through the glass panels that ran the length of the room. He saw DS Jason Carter standing with a marker pen in his right hand and gesturing for calm with his left. The whiteboard had what looked like t
he start of a timeline drawn roughly through its centre. George continued his walk to his office. He pushed the door shut behind him. It barely had chance to settle in its frame before it was pushed back open again. Emily Ryker stepped through.

  ‘We don’t knock anymore then, Ryker?’ George flopped in his seat as he spoke. He was still carrying a travel mug with coffee in it. He rarely drank coffee, especially black. Today it was black and it was strong.

  ‘What are you doing in here, George?’ Emily demanded.

  ‘I work here, Ryker. The more pertinent question would be what are you doing in here?’

  ‘I came to get you. We were all summoned for a meeting. 7 a.m. start. Where have you been?’

  ‘At home. I didn’t know there was a meeting.’

  ‘I called you. What happened to our system?’

  George looked puzzled. He took a sip of his coffee.

  ‘You know . . . where we’re allowed to hang up on each other if we don’t want to talk, but if we get a message that it’s urgent we call straight back. I sent the message, George. It was urgent.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘That’s what I get? What’s up?’

  ‘Is there something up?’

  ‘I was calling you about this job. The reason most of the county’s detectives are in the room next door.’

  ‘What job?’

  ‘Jesus, George. I know you weren’t answering your phone but it’s all over the news. You couldn’t avoid it if you wanted to. The shooting. In Dover. People dead, others missing. Broad daylight. Is any of this ringing any bells?’

  ‘Blimey!’ George took another sip of his coffee. ‘Sounds like I chose the right day to have off.’

  ‘Are you coming next door or not? Whittaker has already asked where you are.’

  Chief Inspector John Whittaker was the reason for George’s promotion, his only ally it seemed — among anyone of rank, at least. Normally George would be excited to come in and hear about shootings and missing people. Today he could really do without it. He had planned on hiding in his office and drinking strong coffee.