Good Girls Don't Die by Isabelle Grey Page A

what it all meant. There was certainly nothing to connect him to Rachel Moston, the murder victim. And it didn’t really give Grace anything new: Danny hadn’t hesitated to tell them that he and Polly had been friendly. All the same, his activity on social media sites made it clear he rather liked Polly, and that it would appear to be pretty one-sided, which meant he might well know more about her life than he’d been willing to let on. She hoped he hadn’t decided to trust Roxanne with what he knew rather than the police.
    She wished she could talk to Roxanne, find out what Danny had said to her, what Roxanne had made of him, but she’d have to clear that with Keith first, too, and he’d almost certainly say no.
    She closed her laptop and slid it onto the floor. Maybe she could sleep now. It was late and she had to be up and alert in – shit! – less than five hours. There was no breeze, but at least a few distant traffic sounds drifted in through the open window. They were all double-glazed, and she didn’t want to think about what it would be like to sleep here in the winter when they were shut and she was sealed in. She listened to the building noises, sure there was an inaudible background hum that made the air reverberate uncannily. Her thoughts drifted. Did Danny Tooley have a crush on Polly, or was he maybe even stalking her? But then why was Rachel Moston dead? With that thought bouncing around her skull, Grace finally fell asleep.

TWELVE
    In the interview room bright and early the next morning, Matt Beeston was doing his best to be helpful. Monitoring the interview remotely with Keith, Grace could see that the presence of his solicitor, who appeared to be an old friend of his parents, gave him heart. All the same, he couldn’t hide his unease at being unshaven and unshowered, nor at how poorly his football shirt and baggy shorts contrasted with the others’ formal clothes. While Lance and Duncan were open, encouraging and respectful, they made no acknowledgement of the fact that they were responsible for his being plucked from his home and offered a disturbed night in a dirty cell. Grace wondered if his solicitor had yet chosen to inform his client of his exposure in this morning’s
Courier
as the ‘randy lecturer helping police with their enquiries’.
    She watched his body language carefully. So far, his manner suggested confidence that it wouldn’t take long to clear things up so that he’d then be free to go. It’s what any innocent man would believe. Yet she could also detect anunderlying tension, an almost reckless anxiety. She’d seen it before: the panicked hope that what lay in plain sight would be somehow overlooked.
    Thanks to their hard work last night – not all of which, thankfully, had been splashed across the front page of the
Courier
– they already knew quite a lot of what Dr Beeston had to hide. Grace was eager to find out how long it would take him to give it up – and to learn whether or not other, darker secrets waited to be uncovered.
    Lance and Duncan waltzed him through the usual openers, letting him think this would be pretty much a normal conversation. How did he usually spend his weekends? What did he do last weekend? What did he do after he left Polly Sinclair’s house last Friday morning? What’s the Blue Bar like? How often does he go there? What does he generally drink? Which nights had he been there since last Thursday, when he’d hooked up with Polly?
    Keith leaned forward towards the screen, waiting for Matt to answer this last question. Grace watched alongside him as Matt hesitated, making a silent calculation before he replied. ‘I was there a couple of times,’ he said. Lance and Duncan smiled encouragingly, but kept quiet. Matt glanced quickly at his solicitor. ‘Saturday and Tuesday, I think it was. Had a few beers.’
    ‘Saturday and Tuesday,’ echoed Duncan. ‘Great, thanks.’ He paused to watch Lance make a note on the pad of paper before him.