‘Have you told Marsh?’

‘Not yet.’

‘So what are you going to do? Have a day out by the sea?’ asked Moss.

‘Would you be interested, in a day out by the sea?’ replied Erika.

Moss paused. ‘Sorry, I’m due at a CCTV steering group tomorrow. I can’t… No, I can’t risk it.’

‘No worries,’ grinned Erika.

‘But I have your back. Anything I can do on the sly, to help.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Just be careful, boss, yeah? You’ve pissed off enough people already.’

‘Often you have to piss people off to get to the truth, but I’m not doing this for my ego,’ said Erika. ‘You should have seen Isaac yesterday. He didn’t do it. And I’m going to prove it.’

66

Simone had lain low since fleeing the scene of Stephen Linley’s murder. Where the ashtray had struck her, she’d been left with a huge swollen lip and a nasty bruise on the side of her head. She’d also lost a tooth: her left incisor was broken off, close to the gum. She didn’t know if she had swallowed it, or if it had skittered off into a dark corner of Stephen Linley’s flat. The exposed nerves had left her in terrible pain, but she was too scared to go to see her dentist. He might X-ray her teeth and then her dental records would be on file.

She’d tried to remember if she’d had her teeth X-rayed in the past. She had a vague memory of being left alone in a large room with insulated walls, of being told to lie very still whilst her mother waited outside. Had that been an X-ray? She didn’t know. She knew she had never been fingerprinted, nor had her DNA been taken.

At first, she had been convinced that it was all over. She’d screwed up; it hadn’t gone to plan. She had cancelled going into work at the hospital, telling them she was sick. As the days and nights had passed, sleep had evaded her completely. No amount of medication helped.

On the third sleepless night, she was lying in bed just after midnight when she heard a soft pat, pat, pat sound coming from outside her bedroom door. Like water running onto the carpet. It was coupled with the sound of laboured breathing, as if through a blocked nose.

Simone jumped up off the bed and wedged the chair from her dressing table under the door. The noise had continued: pat, pat, pat, pat, pat… Inhale, exhale.

She put her hands to her aching, throbbing temples. It wasn’t real. But still, the noise continued.

Pat, pat. Inhale, exhale. A loose, phlegmy cough.

‘You’re not real!’ she called out. ‘Stan, leave this place!’

Pat, pat, pat, pat, pat… Inhale, exhale.

She lifted the chair away and turned the door handle, opening the door. Her throat constricted when she saw it wasn’t Stan standing there, dripping with water. It was Stephen Linley.

He was dressed in trainers, blue jeans, a white T-shirt and a thin black jacket. The plastic bag was tied tight around his neck and half-filled with gunk and blood, which was dripping from under the cord around his neck, down his clothes and onto the pale carpet.

Pat, pat, pat…

His forehead was caved in, where Simone had hit him with the ashtray, and his face was almost unrecognisable. Inside, against the plastic, the mouth was moving. The ruined face was trying to breathe.

‘NO!’ screamed Simone. ‘YOU. ARE. DEAD!’ With each word, she advanced on the gruesome corpse, prodding it. It took faltering steps backwards, towards the top of the stairs, arms flailing.

‘YOU DESERVED TO DIE!’ she cried. They reached the top of the stairs. Simone gave the body a shove and it fell backwards, rolling down the stairs with bumps and crashes, landing in a limp heap at the bottom.

She closed her eyes and counted to ten and then opened them. It was gone. Everything was back to normal. She was alone. Shakily, she went down the stairs and checked the living room and kitchen. There was nothing. She went to her computer and switched it on. When it had booted up, she started to type.

NIGHT OWL: You there?

For a while, nothing happened. She was about to go and make herself a drink when Duke came online.

DUKE: Hey Night Owl, what’s cooking?

NIGHT OWL: I’ve missed you.

DUKE: I’ve missed you too.

NIGHT OWL: I’m scared. I’m seeing things again.

DUKE: You got new meds?

NIGHT OWL: No, I’ve stopped taking them.

DUKE: I was worried something had happened to you.

NIGHT OWL: I’m OK.

DUKE: Did it work out?

NIGHT OWL: Yes, and no. I got bashed up. My lips are all puffy.