running down the window pane. It was fingernails, scratching against the glass.
I lay there, my heartbeat getting faster, telling myself it would be a joke, just another student prank. All I had to do was sit up, open the window and shove the bozo off his ladder.
Except I couldn’t move.
Halfway through Lacey’s account of the academic soiree at that tosser Bell’s country pad, Joesbury’s smile had disappeared. He got up, crossed to the coffee machine and pressed the button for double-strength espresso, knowing she was trying to wind him up and knowing also that it was working.
‘We expected you an hour ago,’ said the boss’s voice behind him.
Joesbury muttered something about an accident on the M1. ‘Car came up zilch,’ he added quickly, referring to the car Lacey’s three assailants had escaped in three nights ago. ‘Registered to a canteen worker in her late fifties. Didn’t even know it had been “borrowed”.’
‘Student prank then?’
‘Almost certainly. Soaking barely clad young women happens a lot, from what I can gather. And they’d never have targeted her this quickly.’
Phillips circled his forefingers on his temples as though easing a nagging headache. ‘Well, it’s a long shot they target her at all,’ he said.
Joesbury said nothing. He’d argued that himself more than once.
The coffee was poured and both men moved away from the machine.
‘You know, guv, if we go public, it ends. Once the authorities and the students themselves know what’s been going on there, it can’t go on.’
‘If we go public, we’ll never catch them. They’ll move to another town and start the whole thing again. There’s too much money involved for them to give up. And that’s not to mention the unholy row we’d have with local CID if we accuse them of missing umpteen unlawful deaths but haven’t a dicky bird to back it up.’
‘Ever occur to you that local CID might be involved?’ said Joesbury. ‘Every so-called suicide neatly wrapped up, all the supporting evidence in place, every box ticked. What are the chances of that in the real world?’
Phillips was silent for a moment. ‘Well, that would widen the goalposts a bit,’ he said.
‘Width of the whole fucking field,’ said Joesbury.
For several minutes I thought my room was darker than usual. Then I realized I just couldn’t open my eyes. A little way to the right of my head, where the window ledge served as a bedside table, I could hear the scratching sound. In my head I could see thin, bony fingers, long, yellow fingernails, the hand clenched like a claw as it was drawn down the glass once more. In reality I could see nothing. My eyes just would not open.
I tried to make a sound. Just the smallest noise in the back of my throat to prove I was still in control of my body. I could hear nothing except the relentless scratching. Then the sound of scratching stopped. It was replaced by that of the window catch being forced from outside. Then that of the window opening.
I could feel cold air on my face, then something else that could have been the curtains being blown against me. Then, worst of all, a creaking of metal, the friction squeak glass makes when it’s touched, then a soft bump. The sounds of something climbing in through the window.
‘I’ll have someone look into it. See if any of the locals have form. Or if any of them are flashing cash around.’
Phillips returned to his office and Joesbury to Flint’s report. Oh, for fuck’s sake, white horses and falcons! Who did the twat think he was? Robin Hood?
Joesbury sighed. It might take him fifteen more minutes to finish the latest episode of
Joesbury read through to the end and realized he wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry. He highlighted a chunk of text and forwarded it, marked urgent, to his boss. When he saw PP slip his reading glasses on to see the screen, he stood up and crossed the room. He opened the door without being invited in. PP glanced up.
‘She’s getting too close,’ said Joesbury.
No response. PP looked down at the screen again.
‘We should pull her out,’ Joesbury tried.
‘Give me a sec,’ said PP.
Joesbury gave him two. ‘She knows about the video of Danielle Brown on YouTube. She’ll have it figured out in days,’ he said.
‘Days might be all we need,’ PP replied. ‘This Dr Oliver’s a worry, though.’
Joesbury stepped forward and leaned on the desk. ‘Well, exactly,’ he said. ‘I really don’t have a good feeling about these practical jokes and disappearing emails. If Oliver’s getting dodgy emails, someone could have infiltrated her system. If they know she’s been feeding us information, she could be at risk.’
The other man leaned back in his chair and rubbed a hand over his eyes. ‘If someone’s accessing Oliver’s files and if there are emails from Flint among them, the whole op could go belly up.’
‘We should get her out of there.’
Phillips’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who?’ he asked. ‘DC Flint or Dr Oliver?’
‘Both. Dr Oliver can take a couple of weeks off sick. Laura Farrow can quietly disappear.’
PP leaned back in his chair. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘Nearly nine months’ work and these two bloody women could blow the whole thing apart.’
‘No disrespect, guv, but I didn’t want to send her there in the first place.’
‘Let me think about it. Go home. I’ll call you in the morning.’
The thing was inches above me, choosing its moment. I couldn’t see it but I knew it was there. Like a bad smell, like the howling in the wind, like the fingertips on the back of your neck, there was no denying it. I reached up, my hand claw-like, scratching and tearing. Except I touched nothing. My hand hadn’t moved from where it lay on the bed. I could not move.
The silence was broken by howling. Howling like wolves, like banshees, like demons. It rang through the night until I thought my head would burst. Then a sound like thunder. Relentless hammering, over and over again. I was lifted up, high into the air, and flung across the room. I landed hard and knew it would hurt if I lived through the next few seconds.
The thing above me lowered its head and I felt hot breath against my face. I knew teeth were a split second away.
‘Tox! Laura! What the hell’s going on?’
Voices I knew. I could see again. The nightmare took a pace back. I was in the study room that Tox and I shared, crouched on all fours like a toddler that had given up on the whole gravity business. The dog, shaking, but holding it together a whole lot better than I, was licking my face. And the hammering of thunder had been the sound of the other girls banging on the door, wondering why on earth they’d been woken by a barking and snarling dog.
Saturday 19 January (three days earlier)
WHEN THE KNOCK sounded Evi almost didn’t get up. She’d had too little sleep the night before, finally dropping off a couple of hours before dawn. The pain she’d woken to had been the worst in years and her medication, so far, wasn’t helping. She’d spent the last hour in an armchair by the garden window. The patch of sunlight was soothing, the warmth helped the pain and she was beginning to feel she might doze off again. Now there was someone at the door.
The banging began again. Not a hesitant, trying-its-luck sort of sound. This was the knock of someone determined to have attention. Evi got to her feet.
