Unbound Ties: When the past unravels, all that’s left is death ... A Gritty Crime Fiction Police Pro

into the bedroom, Gus was immediately struck by how uncluttered it was. The only photos were of the victim, in various pouty poses, which fit with the information Sid had already imparted. He’d need to interview the rest of Erica Smedley’s work colleagues, though. Approaching the bed, Gus listened as the CSI briefed him. ‘Victim’s name is Erica Smedley. Seems she was wakened by her killer, because she’s still in bed. A whack to the head – not enough to kill her, just enough to stun, would be my estimation – but of course the PM will confirm that.’ Then, the CSI pointed to her neck. ‘She’s been strangled – manually I think.’

Gus agreed with the CSI’s assessment. He thanked her and decided to take a wander round the rest of the house. It was one of those blandly decorated homes – a bit like the one Gus’s sister had shared with his ex-wife, Gabriella, in Lister Mills opposite The Fort. Such bareness provided him with no inspiration – no little insights into the woman’s character. Opening a kitchen cupboard, stuffed full of biscuits and chocolate, Gus decided that the only additional information his foray had provided was that their victim had a sweet tooth, but a harsh tongue. I wonder who had it in for you, Erica. Someone you know? A stranger? Gus was inclined to suppose it was personal, but with little evidence to go on so far, he would keep an open mind.

Leaving Erica Smedley’s house, Gus saw that Sid was still waiting behind the police tape. Approaching a uniformed officer, Gus directed him to organise a door-to-door then made a call to the DC he had on loan – a DC Gillie Smith – a woman he’d never worked with before, but had heard good things about. He directed her to organise interviews of Sid’s CSI team, and to attend the post-mortem. For now, Gus was going to take Sid for breakfast, the poor bloke looked like he needed it and if he was going to have to interview him anyway, he might as well do it over breakfast.

Chapter 24

Bellbrax Psychiatric Facility, Scotland

She can’t seem to leave me alone, the girl with the dark hair and brown eyes. She’s back again. I don’t have visitors, so why is she always here? She’s not really a visitor though. She’s after something. The voice in my head tells me that. She knows my name. Always asking to look at my drawings. They’re private. Don’t want to let her look.

I hum inside my head to block out her questions. ‘Lavender’s blue dilly dilly, Lavender’s green…’

But she’s still there asking, talking, looking at my drawings. Wonder if she’s the one who took them? Bet it was. I’m getting all breathy again. ‘When I am King dilly dilly, You will be Queen…’

Now she’s talking and I’m singing, and the voices are there and it’s all spiral and fireworks behind my eyes. Everything’s too loud … too loud … too loud.

‘Don’t trust her, Rory. You can’t trust her.She’s not really nice. Don’t believe her!’

Then she stops talking and she’s got her eyes shut now and she’s breathing long and slow … long and slow … long and slow … I stop singing Lavender. That was Coco’s favourite song. The girl with the dark hair and brown eyes is smiling but not in her eyes. No, they’re all worried, and I don’t like that. But she keeps breathing and the voices get quieter and quieter till the fireworks fizzle out and my head’s empty again.

‘Do you remember Coco, Rory? She was your foster sister.’

Why is she asking about Coco? My palms get all sweaty. I don’t like her asking about Coco. Coco’s my friend. I won’t share Coco with her. I glance at the girl with the dark hair and brown eyes. She’s sad. Her eyes are all dark and her lips aren’t smiling. I’ve made her sad and I don’t like it. But it’s her own fault. She should stop asking about Helen and Coco.

I skip over a few pages, so she won’t see the drawing I made of her. She might want to keep it and I don’t want to give it away. Not yet. I count the pages in my book ten … eleven … twelve. They’re all there, none missing. She’s not crept in and taken them this time. I thought she would. The voice told me she took the others and I hate her for that.

I put my arm round my book and start to draw Jimmy. He was digging up the weeds, singing to himself, but he’s gone now. He always goes off somewhere when the girl with the dark hair and brown eyes comes. Maybe she’s stolen something from Jimmy too? He’s got strong fingers, has Jimmy – doesn’t wear gloves like the real gardeners. I keep looking for him, wondering where he’s gone, and keep drawing, hoping she’ll go away. But she doesn’t.

‘Rory.’

I don’t look at her. Pretend I don’t hear.

She places her hand on my arm, her hair swinging forward as she gets closer. ‘Rory, did you give some of your pictures to anyone?’

I think about that. It’s probably a trick question. The voice warned me about that. ‘They’ll try to trick you but you mustn’t let them.’

I shake my head. I don’t give my drawings away. I keep them. When she sighs, I feel a bit bad for her. She’s pretty. She stopped the fireworks and the bombs and the fizzing in my head. She smiles at me, never shouts. Maybe she’s OK. Maybe I can trust her. But then the voice comes again and it’s loud and angry. Using swear words and I feel that thurrump, thurrump thurrump again. I stand up, but I can’t see properly – all blue lights flash in my eyes. I trip and land on the grass. It’s wet because they’ve just watered it. I lie there and try to stop the thurrump. But it