Keeping by Sarah Masters Page A

to dish up their meals, leaving Oliver to get comfortable on the sofa. When he joined Oliver in the living room with two full plates he’d expected to find Oliver asleep, completely crashed out, but he was staring at the wall above the TV. Langham stood just inside the doorway and held his breath for a second or two, steam rising off the food and the scents it carried wafting up his nose. He was bloody starving and torn between hoping Oliver was getting something in his head and wanting to at least be able to eat before they had to go out again. Selfish of him to think like that when a woman’s life hung in the balance, but if he didn’t treat his work as just a job he’d never have a fucking life of his own. Never have any sane moments.
    Oliver didn’t have that look he’d had earlier, when he’d been fixated on the office wall, and Langham released his breath.
    “Right, food then bed,” he said, sitting beside Oliver and passing over his plate.
    He’d wanted to sound as normal as possible, to get Oliver to relax and understand this was how things worked in Langham’s world. Shit was going on—nasty, gut-churning shit that no one should have to deal with or see—but there was a time and place to deal with it. Yes, he knew this was different for Oliver, that the victim was someone he knew, but still, his man needed a chance to recharge his batteries, because if she got hold of him now, Langham didn’t think Oliver would have the strength to keep her with him.
    Oliver began to eat. After a couple of minutes he said, “We’ll find her, won’t we?”
    “I hope so. But you know the deal, how this kind of thing works—a bit about how the criminal mind works. Sometimes we don’t get there in time no matter how hard we try. You know that from the other cases. It’s a wanker to accept but there’s nothing we can do about it.” Langham gave him an apologetic smile, toyed with some sauce-covered rice. “You know me, I won’t sugar-coat things. It is what it is.” He half-shrugged. “I hope we manage it this time, I really do, but if we don’t? We tried to save her.”
    “But sitting here doesn’t feel like we’re trying to do anything.” Oliver stabbed a piece of chicken and put it in his mouth. Chewed slowly, staring down at his plate.
    “No, it doesn’t, does it, but there are other officers and detectives on it at the moment. You know how we got when we worked Sugar Strands. We didn’t sleep, kept going through the whole thing, and look how shattered we were afterwards. All because I didn’t want to hand the reins over, let someone else take charge so I could go home and get some sleep. And it was you who told me I ought to just work my hours, come home when I could. Remember?”
    Oliver finished chewing then swallowed. “But I didn’t know the victims then.”
    “No, there is that. But as far as we know she isn’t dead yet. Yes, he’s on about taking her home, yes, you said it means death, but it might not mean death now.” He thought of the other women being dumped, their last hours happening close to the weekends, and knew Cheryl was on her way to the end of her life if they didn’t find her in time. He refused to remind Oliver of that, though. Best to keep a positive spotlight pointed on things, one that only allowed Oliver to see what that light illuminated, rather than what skulked in the shadows. Shadows had a habit of upsetting him. “I have to be back at work in a few hours, and I want at least four in kip. To be fresher, more alert. Fairbrother can deal with it for now. It’s what he’s paid for—and he’s damn good at his job too. Nothing like Shields was.”
    Langham shoved thoughts of Shields away, a detective who had made it his mission to continually get on Langham’s nerves, a man who had died in the line of duty in the Sugar Strands case. Whatever had happened, though, Shields had been a homophobic prick who had tormented him and Oliver and nothing would change