gathered in the east, swallowing the evening light. But Will Thorpe was no longer aware of it.
Diane Fry could stand it no longer. That evening, she looked up Ben Cooper’s phone number and called him at home.
‘Oh, Diane, it’s you,’ he said. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing? I thought perhaps Quinn had been found. Or someone else …’
‘No. Nothing.’
‘Right.’
There was an awkward pause. It was one of those pauses she’d promised herself she wouldn’t allow to develop, in case she felt obliged to fill it with the usual: ‘Well, I’ll let you get on, then.’
But Cooper filled the pause himself with some inconsequential chatter about his landlady and people they knew at the station. There was even something about snails that she didn’t understand. Fry was trying to judge whether he wanted to talk or was just trying to get her off the phone by boring her to death.
She’d almost decided to put the phone down and stop bothering him, when Cooper took her by surprise.
‘Diane,’ he said, ‘would it be possible for me to come round and see you?’
‘What?’ she said, struck by the sudden change in his voice.
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‘If you don’t want me to, it’s OK.’
‘Well …’
‘Or you could come to see me, if you like. Or we could meet somewhere else. Whichever you prefer. Only, it’s a bit difficult on the phone.’
‘What is, Ben?’
‘Talking. I mean, talking properly.’
Fry could feel herself smiling. She was smiling so hard that her cheeks were hurting. ‘You want to talk about something, Ben?’
‘Yes. Look, I know it’s an imposition. You won’t want to bother. But if you could spare a bit of time. Just half an hour. Do you think you could? Spare a bit of time for me?’
‘Yes, Ben,’ she said. ‘Of course I could.’
She heard him sigh with relief.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘There’s something I really do need to talk to you about.’
Will Thorpe was woken by the rain. Even in his half-asleep state, he knew that something was wrong, but it took a few seconds before he could figure out what. Then he began to wonder why the rain was falling on his face. He vaguely recalled that he was in the field barn, and that he’d chosen his spot carefully to be in the dry. But water was definitely dripping on him.
Thorpe groaned and cursed. The wind must have changed direction during the night and now the rain was blowing in on him. If he didn’t move, he’d be soaking wet by morning and his joints would be so stiff that he’d hardly be able to walk. And he had to be away early. He had to get away from the area, because it wasn’t safe.
Nevertheless, he lay thinking about it for a second or two longer. Perhaps the rain would stop and save him from having to move. But he could hear it falling steadily on the roof of the barn. Instead, Thorpe listened for the wind - it might be
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just a passing squall that was blowing the rain in. Against his will, he felt his brain become a little more alert, his senses stirring sluggishly in response to some anxiety. He screwed his eyes tight shut and listened again. There was no wind.
Thorpe’s eyelids creaked open. At first, he could see nothing. His vision was unfocused by sleep, and his surroundings unfamiliar. He recognized the smells he’d fallen asleep among - stale cigarette butts and urine, damp concrete and soil. But he detected something new, too, something that hadn’t been there before. The smell of another human being.
Another drop of water fell on Thorpe’s cheek. And with a lurch of terror, he became aware of the figure looming over him, a dark shape bending downwards, water leaking from its black angles, and invisible eyes staring at him in silence.
Thorpe began to scream. The noise came from deep in his belly, almost bypassing his exhausted lungs, shocking him with its volume. At the same time, he thrashed around in his blanket, trying to sit up, free his hands, or roll away from whoever was standing over him. The noise of his screaming filled the field barn, cracking an echo off the stone walls and the ancient beams in a derisive imitation of his fear.
The figure had been still until now. But the yelling jolted it into action. Two black arms slipped towards his face and hands covered his mouth, crushing his lips against his teeth and forcing his head back against the dirt floor. And Thorpe’s screaming stopped.
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‘Who’s that at the door, Sis?’ said Angie Fry.
‘It’s Ben Cooper.’
‘Hey, how’s he doing? I’ll say hello to him.’
Diane Fry stared at her sister, who made no effort to move from the settee. ‘For God’s sake, put some knickers on, at least,’ she said.
‘Oh, sorry.’
Angie fished around in the pile of clothes on the floor, and found a white scrap of material that she pulled up her legs. Fry turned her eyes away. She was worried that she might see on her body some telltale mark of addiction that she couldn’t ignore.
Cooper came through the door of the flat hesitantly. He’d been here only a couple of times before, and the second time he couldn’t even remember what had happened. But Fry watched him carefully for signs that he disapproved of the mess.
