there would be two more murders that would bring her back here to the scene of the crime, so to speak. Still, she didn’t believe in self-flagellation. Learn by your mistakes and move on. And now she was once again feeling that fluttering in her belly she always got when she was on the scent of a story. A new victim meant a fresh opportunity to build a connection and win a family over. That’s what Sally loved about her job. Each assignment was a new challenge, another chance for her to do what she did best.
She wasn’t holding out much hope for this visit to the Botsfords, though. That Fiona Botsford was a cold fish. And her husband – well, there was something very abrasive about the man, Sally thought, and something almost creepy about the way they were together, always standing so close as if they were conjoined. Still, she had to call in to try to get a comment, more of a courtesy call than anything else, just so she could say she’d tried. Then she could move on to this new family, the Glovers, where there was no unfortunate history and she was starting with a clean slate. Maybe they’d gel straight away. It happened sometimes – people respond to someone who’s seen it all before and isn’t shockable, someone with a warm voice and a comforting manner. And it didn’t hurt that the newspaper paid the best rates going. Not that bereaved parents were interested in money, of course, but they almost always came round to the idea of a charitable foundation set up in their dead child’s name so they could feel something good might yet come out of all this pain.
And there was always that minuscule possibility, that journalist’s holy grail, that she’d find herself in the right place at the right time to crack the case open. It sounded unlikely but it did happen. People tell journalists things they don’t tell the police. They let things slip and give themselves away in a thousand little ways. Or you might be interviewing them when the phone call comes to say a suspect’s been arrested. You’re right there where you always want to be as a journalist. On the inside.
The mews where the Botsfords lived was accessed from the road via an electronic gate hidden at the top of a discreet cobbled driveway. When Sally couldn’t get any answer from their house, she tried a neighbour.
‘Hello.’ She used her best estuary accent. ‘I’m a friend of Fiona Botsford at number five. I’ve a card for her. Can you buzz me in so I can pop it through the letterbox?’
The voice was apologetic but firm: ‘I’m afraid the Botsfords are very protective of their privacy. They’ve asked everyone in the road not to let in people they don’t know.’
‘Yes, but—’
The intercom clicked off. Sally’s annoyance was tempered by her relief that she’d told the taxi driver to wait. She could hear the engine thrumming reassuringly behind her. Just for the hell of it, she tried the Botsfords’ bell again and walked to the far right-hand side of the gate from where she could see down the mews. It was one of those trendy places where every house was painted a different colour with contrasting metalwork around the roof terraces and first-floor balconies. The Botsfords’ was pale blue with burgundy trim – she recognized it from the last time she’d been here. As Sally peered through the railings, something moved at a first-floor window. She pressed her nose to the metal bars to get a better look, just in time to catch the pale disc of a face. But it was gone before she had a chance to work out who it was.
Back in the taxi, Sally tried to dispel the disquieting image of that face by logging into her emails on her phone. Damn. Another one from the gas company reminding her of her unpaid bill. She slid her phone back into its sleeve and stared out of the window. The stop–start traffic gave her plenty of time to absorb the view of the grimy Archway Road. Up ahead, local landmark Suicide Bridge arched high over the gridlocked
She wasn’t holding out much hope for this visit to the Botsfords, though. That Fiona Botsford was a cold fish. And her husband – well, there was something very abrasive about the man, Sally thought, and something almost creepy about the way they were together, always standing so close as if they were conjoined. Still, she had to call in to try to get a comment, more of a courtesy call than anything else, just so she could say she’d tried. Then she could move on to this new family, the Glovers, where there was no unfortunate history and she was starting with a clean slate. Maybe they’d gel straight away. It happened sometimes – people respond to someone who’s seen it all before and isn’t shockable, someone with a warm voice and a comforting manner. And it didn’t hurt that the newspaper paid the best rates going. Not that bereaved parents were interested in money, of course, but they almost always came round to the idea of a charitable foundation set up in their dead child’s name so they could feel something good might yet come out of all this pain.
And there was always that minuscule possibility, that journalist’s holy grail, that she’d find herself in the right place at the right time to crack the case open. It sounded unlikely but it did happen. People tell journalists things they don’t tell the police. They let things slip and give themselves away in a thousand little ways. Or you might be interviewing them when the phone call comes to say a suspect’s been arrested. You’re right there where you always want to be as a journalist. On the inside.
The mews where the Botsfords lived was accessed from the road via an electronic gate hidden at the top of a discreet cobbled driveway. When Sally couldn’t get any answer from their house, she tried a neighbour.
‘Hello.’ She used her best estuary accent. ‘I’m a friend of Fiona Botsford at number five. I’ve a card for her. Can you buzz me in so I can pop it through the letterbox?’
The voice was apologetic but firm: ‘I’m afraid the Botsfords are very protective of their privacy. They’ve asked everyone in the road not to let in people they don’t know.’
‘Yes, but—’
The intercom clicked off. Sally’s annoyance was tempered by her relief that she’d told the taxi driver to wait. She could hear the engine thrumming reassuringly behind her. Just for the hell of it, she tried the Botsfords’ bell again and walked to the far right-hand side of the gate from where she could see down the mews. It was one of those trendy places where every house was painted a different colour with contrasting metalwork around the roof terraces and first-floor balconies. The Botsfords’ was pale blue with burgundy trim – she recognized it from the last time she’d been here. As Sally peered through the railings, something moved at a first-floor window. She pressed her nose to the metal bars to get a better look, just in time to catch the pale disc of a face. But it was gone before she had a chance to work out who it was.
Back in the taxi, Sally tried to dispel the disquieting image of that face by logging into her emails on her phone. Damn. Another one from the gas company reminding her of her unpaid bill. She slid her phone back into its sleeve and stared out of the window. The stop–start traffic gave her plenty of time to absorb the view of the grimy Archway Road. Up ahead, local landmark Suicide Bridge arched high over the gridlocked
Similar Books
