waste it.”
“It’s only instant,” I lied. “I mean it. Get up. I’m picking up the cup…”
He didn’t move. He thought I was bluffing.
Nuts to that.
I picked up the cup and poured the contents over his head. Luke sprang out of bed like a scalded—well, man, I suppose—and glared at me incredulously, dripping with coffee.
“You evil cow!”
“I warned you.”
“You couldn’t let me sleep?”
“I’d have let you sleep all day if you gave me her number.” A thought occurred to me. I wasn’t a very kind person when I’d been denied sleep. “Actually, if you’d let me go home and sleep, I wouldn’t have woken up so early. So I’d have let you sleep.”
Luke stared at me like I was mad. “I didn’t make you stay.”
“Yes, you did. You begged me,” I said shortly. “And besides, you were so drunk you would probably have shot yourself in the middle of the night.”
Luke glared at me, then clenched his head in his hands. “Vicious bitch,” he spat, swiping coffee out of his eyes.
“You’re welcome. Give me the number.”
“I don’t have it.” He stomped past me into the bathroom and locked the door.
“Hey!” I banged on the door but was ignored. The shower started up. Bastard.
I’d spent most of the night thinking about Molly Stanton. Someone had clubbed her over the head, strung her up—but not so she’d die—and then left her to drown. And someone had hit me over the head and left me in the same place. Not strung up, though. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to drown. Maybe they hadn’t meant to hit me. Maybe it was all coincidental.
Maybe the answer would come to me in a dream.
I switched on Luke’s TV and stared, glassy-eyed, at the news. Again. I really can’t take in news or weather reports. I want to listen, but my mind sort of fogs over, and the next thing I know the theme music is sounding and those air ballet people are twirling around on their red sashes.
I was annoyed about Luke. Okay, so maybe I could have been a little bit more sensitive; how many times had I got staggeringly drunk and hibernated in my room until I felt well enough to crawl out and eat something fried, some time the next evening? But I’m just not good at sympathy. Sick people are as unfathomable to me as crying people. I just don’t know what to do. And in Luke’s case, where the sickness had been entirely self-wrought, I just wanted to shake him and tell him to pull himself together.
Florence Nightingale? You betcha.
The shower stopped drumming and I waited for Luke to emerge. After ten minutes he still hadn’t left the bedroom, so I pushed open the door and saw him sprawled on the bed, eyes closed, hair wet, wearing a towel.
“You want more coffee?” I asked sweetly.
Luke stuck a finger up at me.
“Just give me her number. Or how you got in touch.”
“Call 9-9-9,” Luke said, eyes still closed.
“Maybe I will. ‘Help, Police, I’ve just shot my ex-boyfriend for being an annoying twat.’ I helped you last night—”
“And I’m very grateful; now could you please fuck off and let me sleep off my hangover?”
“You really don’t have a number for her?”
“No! Why is it so bloody important?”
“Because there’s a very strong possibility that whoever killed Molly Stanton tried to kill me and I want to find out who did it!”
Luke turned on his side. “Directory Enquiries,” he mumbled, and I could tell that was all I was going to get out of him.
I drove up to Tesco for vital supplies, making a swift call to my friend Evie, who’d been feeding Tammy for me, and letting her know I was home early. Evie, in return, wanted to know all the juicy gossip about my trip with Luke, which made me wish I’d never let slip about it. Of course, she thought we both still worked at the airport and were just holidaying with other colleagues. She didn’t know about SO17.
Feeling awful for lying to my friend—again—I told her it had been tense and dull and I was glad to be
“It’s only instant,” I lied. “I mean it. Get up. I’m picking up the cup…”
He didn’t move. He thought I was bluffing.
Nuts to that.
I picked up the cup and poured the contents over his head. Luke sprang out of bed like a scalded—well, man, I suppose—and glared at me incredulously, dripping with coffee.
“You evil cow!”
“I warned you.”
“You couldn’t let me sleep?”
“I’d have let you sleep all day if you gave me her number.” A thought occurred to me. I wasn’t a very kind person when I’d been denied sleep. “Actually, if you’d let me go home and sleep, I wouldn’t have woken up so early. So I’d have let you sleep.”
Luke stared at me like I was mad. “I didn’t make you stay.”
“Yes, you did. You begged me,” I said shortly. “And besides, you were so drunk you would probably have shot yourself in the middle of the night.”
Luke glared at me, then clenched his head in his hands. “Vicious bitch,” he spat, swiping coffee out of his eyes.
“You’re welcome. Give me the number.”
“I don’t have it.” He stomped past me into the bathroom and locked the door.
“Hey!” I banged on the door but was ignored. The shower started up. Bastard.
I’d spent most of the night thinking about Molly Stanton. Someone had clubbed her over the head, strung her up—but not so she’d die—and then left her to drown. And someone had hit me over the head and left me in the same place. Not strung up, though. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to drown. Maybe they hadn’t meant to hit me. Maybe it was all coincidental.
Maybe the answer would come to me in a dream.
I switched on Luke’s TV and stared, glassy-eyed, at the news. Again. I really can’t take in news or weather reports. I want to listen, but my mind sort of fogs over, and the next thing I know the theme music is sounding and those air ballet people are twirling around on their red sashes.
I was annoyed about Luke. Okay, so maybe I could have been a little bit more sensitive; how many times had I got staggeringly drunk and hibernated in my room until I felt well enough to crawl out and eat something fried, some time the next evening? But I’m just not good at sympathy. Sick people are as unfathomable to me as crying people. I just don’t know what to do. And in Luke’s case, where the sickness had been entirely self-wrought, I just wanted to shake him and tell him to pull himself together.
Florence Nightingale? You betcha.
The shower stopped drumming and I waited for Luke to emerge. After ten minutes he still hadn’t left the bedroom, so I pushed open the door and saw him sprawled on the bed, eyes closed, hair wet, wearing a towel.
“You want more coffee?” I asked sweetly.
Luke stuck a finger up at me.
“Just give me her number. Or how you got in touch.”
“Call 9-9-9,” Luke said, eyes still closed.
“Maybe I will. ‘Help, Police, I’ve just shot my ex-boyfriend for being an annoying twat.’ I helped you last night—”
“And I’m very grateful; now could you please fuck off and let me sleep off my hangover?”
“You really don’t have a number for her?”
“No! Why is it so bloody important?”
“Because there’s a very strong possibility that whoever killed Molly Stanton tried to kill me and I want to find out who did it!”
Luke turned on his side. “Directory Enquiries,” he mumbled, and I could tell that was all I was going to get out of him.
I drove up to Tesco for vital supplies, making a swift call to my friend Evie, who’d been feeding Tammy for me, and letting her know I was home early. Evie, in return, wanted to know all the juicy gossip about my trip with Luke, which made me wish I’d never let slip about it. Of course, she thought we both still worked at the airport and were just holidaying with other colleagues. She didn’t know about SO17.
Feeling awful for lying to my friend—again—I told her it had been tense and dull and I was glad to be
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