‘Amelia you’re seven—’
‘All night. And the door open.’
Kids are manipulative, so the magazines said. Masters at it, in fact. But then this was a new place and a new room. That kind of stuff freaked kids out, didn’t it? Change. Weren’t certain little kids identical to certain little pensioners that way? They break out in a heat rash if their routines get messed up.
He and Wren looked at each other, then nodded, way too tired for the hassle. So they granted each other the permission to give in … again. Supernanny would be slapping her forehead right now.
‘Okay, just cos it’s a late night, you can have your big light on,’ Wren said.
Amelia finally (and slowly) slipped out of the car.
‘But this isn’t going to be every night, okay?’
Amelia nodded, ‘I know.’
They headed inside and kicked off their shoes. He crunched a kiss into the crown of Amelia’s head and then he watched Wren tug her upstairs. She trudged up slowly, her little hand gripping the white-painted banister, white-knuckle tight.
‘Night, Midget,’ he called up. ‘I love you.’
‘Night, Daddy.’ Her voice sounded quiet. Younger.
The humanity chips in his brain started laying on the guilt for not letting her share their room tonight, but the parent-survival sector smacked it down. There was nothing in the shadows of her room. Nothing ‘watching her’ like she’d announced over breakfast this morning. The room wasn’t haunted. As cruel as it felt, she’d just have to get used to the change. What was the alternative: sleep with him and Wren for the next few months? Or years? Was that good parenting for a seven-year-old? Helpful prep for the world? Nope.
Still felt crap doing it, though.
He turned to Lucy who was peeling off her jacket. He wanted to see how she was, but she clipped it shut with two quick words. ‘Night, then.’
He smiled at her. ‘Thank you for coming tonight.’
‘There were more people than I expected.’ She headed for the stairs. ‘Oh … and your phone’s ringing.’
He turned and noticed his iPhone was vibrating on the side table, starting to revolve in a slow circle as the glass surface buzzed. He grabbed it and looked down. He expected it might be Beth, telling him to wear a better tie for tomorrow’s charity lunch. But when he held up the phone he was surprised.
DS Larry Forbes was calling.
Matt sank into the lounge sofa, sensing that the alcohol in his system had reached the calming, nanny stage.
Lie down, it said to him. Rest those eyes, time to sleep and dreeeeam.
He rubbed a knuckle into his eye and tapped on Accept Call under Larry’s profile picture. In the shot Larry wore a floppy Mexican hat that Wren had insisted on them all wearing at a recent barbecue here.
Matt lay back on the sofa. ‘Hey, hombre … you know it’s almost midnight …’
‘Yeah, sorry about that,’ Larry’s voice had a slight Geordie lilt, an old echo of his Durham upbringing. It seemed to come out clearer late at night. ‘I just didn’t want to disturb you at your colouring book party. How did it go? I really would have been there if I could have.’
‘It was pretty great, actually. I signed a lot of autographs. I’m pretty much a superstar DJ or something.’ Matt thought of the hairy, fat pensioner who took the first signed copy, which prompted a tipsy laugh. ‘Sort of.’
‘And there was free food, I take it? Free booze?’
‘Prosecco.’
He sighed through the phone. ‘Shite.’
‘Larry …’ Matt started giggling, ‘must you always resort to the language of the billiard parlour?’
‘And you saved me one of your books?’
‘I thought your priest said you shouldn’t read it. Aren’t I a bad influe—’
‘Matt,’ his voice dropped a tone. Business mode engaged. ‘What are you doing in the morning?’
He curled his feet up onto the sofa, gazed up into his new ceiling and spotted a crack in the plaster he’d not seen before. Crud. ‘I haven’t anything official till the afternoon.’
‘Have you ever heard of Menham, South London?’
‘I’ve heard of the second. Not the first.’
‘It’s a town along the Victoria line. It’s in my patch. In fact, I used to work there as an officer, back in the day. My first patrol job when I moved down south.’
‘So what’s the problem?’
‘Probably only need you for an hour. Maybe two, tops.’
‘Need me for what?’
‘We’ve got a body …’
‘M-hmm …’ He squinted at the crack in the plaster. Damn. That better not be an old water stain because the pipes in this—he blinked. ‘Sorry. Did you say a body?’
‘Yes … and we’ve got other stuff. Weird stuff.’ Larry waited. ‘Your type of stuff.’
Matt breathed into the phone. ‘I see.’
‘Kind of scratching our heads here, to be honest … I’d have waited till the morning but I thought you might get snapped up on some publicity thing. So can you make it?’
Matt yawned. He considered falling asleep right there. ‘Text me where and when.’
‘Perfect. I’ll send you it now. Goodni—’
‘Hang on. Who’s the victim?’
‘A thirty-year-old primary teacher. She left one son and a husband.’
‘Oh,’ Matt sighed. ‘And her name?’
‘Stephanie Ellis.’
Matt nodded. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then.’
‘Brilliant, thanks,’ he said. ‘And I hope this doesn’t put a dampener on your night.’
The phone went silent and Matt lay back as the sofa wriggled its teddy bear arms around him.
The time has come, alcohol said. To drift and rest and drift again.
He thought about a Pop-Tart. That’d be perfect right now. An uncooked Pop-Tart with no plate, just a strip of kitchen roll. But his eyes were already closing and the projectionist in his brain had started formulating a detailed, new attraction for tonight’s main show. An unwelcome dream of chrome dictators piling up pyramids of corpses called Stephanie, while he looked on and signed books with a crayon in his fist.
CHAPTER FIVE
Your next station stop … Menham … Menham … Please mind the gap.
Matt looked up from the book
