‘Here, I’ll zip you up,’ Chez offered, fiddling with the catch behind her head. ‘Now, shall we go and finish our dinner? I can’t stand around chatting all night, or I’ll be late for work…’
His eyes widened and the blood drained from his face in an instant as his arm flew up so he could check his watch. ‘Oh Jesus! I’m going to be late. Feck!’ He looked back at her. ‘Are you all right to finish up without me? If I don’t get my arse to work now, the shit’s gonna hit the fan.’
She hadn’t realised he would be working tonight, and had hoped he would remain with her, telling her more about the nature of his work.
‘Can I come with you?’ she tentatively asked, already anticipating his response. ‘I’ll be super quiet and I won’t get in the way, I promise.’
He was only half-listening, bounding out of the room, grabbing a leather-look jacket from a peg on the wall by the main door. ‘Not tonight, sorry. It’s a closed set and only authorised people are allowed inside to watch.’ He stopped when he saw the despondency creeping across her features. ‘Listen, I’ll be quick as I can and I’ll be back before you know it. Why don’t you finish up your dinner, and just have a rest. If you feel tired, your bed is the one I left the case on. Just put it on my bed and you can go to sleep.’
With that he pushed out of the door, locking it behind him.
Dejected, she returned to the bench behind the table and squeezed in, but her appetite had gone. It wasn’t Chez’s fault he had to work, and maybe he’d been telling the truth when he said he’d be back sooner than she was expecting.
The light overhead flickered for a moment before flashing out, and the cabin suddenly plunged into darkness again. Even if she’d wanted to finish her dinner, she couldn’t see it. Thoughts of her mother and father flooded her mind once more, wondering whether they were out looking for her now and how much longer she’d have to wait before they found her. The tears began to flow again and once more she didn’t resist. Fatigue eventually arrived, but it was so dark that she didn’t dare venture out from behind the table, instead curling up on the cushioned bench and resting her head on the rolled-up remains of the dress she’d arrived in. Closing her eyes, she allowed the darkness to embrace her.
Chapter Eleven Now
Weymouth, Dorset
Fevered knocking at my door isn’t welcome, especially as I was having the most wonderful dream – not that I can now recall what it was about. Rubbing my eyes, I’m curious to know who would be causing such a racket before eight on a Sunday, and as my mind tries to consider and rule out illogical possibilities, when I open the door I’m half-expecting to see one of Maddie, Jack, Freddie, or Rachel (even though I know she’s in Barcelona). The one person that hadn’t made it onto the roulette wheel in my head was the smiling Police Community Support Officer sheltering from the rain.
‘Miss Hunter?’ he enquires, and for the briefest of moments I’m almost convinced that I’m still dreaming, but then a gust of wind blows rain into my face, and the cool splashes are a rude awakening.
‘Yes, sorry, can I help you with something?’ I yawn, quickly covering my mouth.
‘I’m Rick Underwood. Would you mind if I came in out of the rain for a second?’
I’m not usually willing to allow perfect strangers to enter my home uninvited, but he does appear to be wearing the requisite royal-blue polo shirt and high-visibility vest supporting his credentials. I take a single step back, keeping the door’s edge gripped firmly in my hand, ready to force it closed if the need arises. He steps in, removing his hat and showing off a buzz cut more befitting an army recruit in some film about the Vietnam War.
‘Thank you,’ he says quickly, not forcing himself any further in. ‘I’m sorry, did I wake you? I would have thought all writers would be up at the crack of dawn writing.’
Glancing over his shoulder, it doesn’t look as though it’s long since dawn. There is nobody on the beach, save for the odd dog walker wrapped in waterproof coats, braving the elements.
As a rule, I try not to write on the weekends. Since signing my first publishing deal, I’ve tried to remind myself that I am a professional writer now, and as such I need to treat my profession in the same way as any other. That’s why I will write Monday to Friday, usually somewhere between the hours of nine and five. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter where or when I write, but I seem to respond better to a routine, and that’s mine.
‘I’m between books,’ I tell him, as it’s easier than going into the truth.
He smiles pleasantly, tucking his thumbs into the edges of his high-visibility vest. ‘Sorry, you’ll have to forgive me, but I can’t quite believe I’m standing here right now. I’m such a huge fan of your books, Miss Hunter. I read Ransomed cover-to-cover twice in a week. The way you tell the story… and leave tantalising clues at the end of each chapter, forcing the reader to just read one more chapter… and then another, and then another. I’m pinching myself right now; I can’t believe it’s really you.’
You’d think I’d be used to these moments by now, but as soon as anyone offers praise for my writing or one of my book babies, I clam up and will a hole to open in the ground and swallow me. It’s less common to hear such positivity from within the police community, especially after the publication of
