LITMIR.BIZ

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black Seat Leon, and strode confidently towards Amelia’s front door, his determined gait bearing little resemblance to how he felt. He had to confront the nagging doubts about Amelia’s absence. He knocked on the door. It came back as a dull thud, but there was no answer.

      Charlie stepped away from her door and looked at her window. The curtains were closed. Amelia didn’t strike him as the type for a duvet day.

      He stroked his stubble as he looked to the other side of her house, towards the gate and the path round the side. As he went towards it, Charlie fought the urge to look around and check who could see him, because it would arouse suspicion. The gate opened with a clink, and as he went through and walked to the back of the house, he expected someone to shout out. No one did or tried to stop him.

      He walked slowly, so that he could retreat quietly if Amelia was there. The path opened onto a long stretch of lawn, with a small patio next to the house. Her view was towards the paper mill, the tall stone chimney and corrugated roof spoiling the outlook.

      The kitchen window was next to him and so he peered in, gazing over the black granite and oak cupboards, looking for some sign that she had been up that morning, like an opened cereal packet or aspirin packet, maybe wisps of steam from the kettle. It all looked clean.

      Then he saw something that made his knees go weak and the colours in front of him fade, so that the world seemed to bleach out for a few seconds.

      Charlie closed his eyes and put his forehead against the sill. This could not be happening. He was sure that he was going to wake up and discover that it was all a dream, or that he was still drunk and not seeing things correctly.

      Except that he knew it was neither of those things.

      Charlie straightened and took some deep breaths before he looked through the window again. He cupped his hands around his face to block out the light from behind him, leaving his finger marks on the glass. He needed to satisfy himself that he had seen it right, although he knew that the image had burned itself into his memory.

      In the corner of the granite worktop, next to a microwave and a steel utensil stand, was a knife block. Six knives. Or at least that was how it was supposed to be, because one of the slots was empty. The other five slots were full though, and they each held knives of the same design. Shiny steel, with a twist at the end, a small metal ring hanging down. Just like the one he had woken up to.

      He clenched his jaw as he tried hard to think of how the night before had ended, his eyes squeezed shut. He couldn’t have come to Amelia’s house, he was sure of that. It was near enough to walk, but there was no way he could pass it accidentally, more than a mile from his house and even further from The Old Star. And why would he have done?

      What if he had though? It would have been by taxi, and so someone would remember taking him, the drunken lawyer who tipped too much, because he liked to be everyone’s friend when he was drunk.

      He looked along the wall, towards the back door. It was a sliding patio door, sheltered by a wooden pergola covered in Russian ivy that was starting to swallow up the back of the house. The handle was broken, the white plastic hanging down and held on by just one screw.

      He reached out for it, shocked, but then he stopped himself. He didn’t want to touch anything, and so he put his hand into his jacket sleeve and pulled at the door. It opened smoothly and then he stepped into the kitchen.

      It was a small house, with the kitchen at the back having just enough room to squeeze a table in, the living room occupying the front part of the house. As he looked through the kitchen door he could see the stairs going out of the front room. The house was warm, as if the heating was on, despite the sunny day outside. He swatted at a fly that buzzed him.

      He listened out for the noise of someone else in the house. A radio or television. The trickle of the shower. It was silent. ‘Amelia?’ he shouted, but there was no answer.

      As he turned towards the living room, he gave another shout of ‘Amelia’ before stepping through the doorway.

      That was when his whole world turned into a nightmare.

       Chapter Twenty-Four

      Sheldon followed Tracey into the police station. He’d been silent all the way back to the police station.

      As they walked along the corridor, they saw Jim Kelly, the local reporter, being led into a side room.

      ‘Inspector Brown,’ he said, when he saw Sheldon. ‘Anything to say before I give my statement? Do you feel you have a grip on things?’

      Sheldon went towards him, but Tracey pulled at his sleeve and said, ‘We have to go to Dixon’s office.’

      Sheldon nodded and walked in front of her, tugging at his cuffs, easing out a crick in his neck. His hand went to his cheeks, remembering that he hadn’t shaved. As he pushed at the door, he caught his reflection in the glass. There were dark shadows under his eyes, and for a moment he thought he looked haunted. The image made him pause. It was a snapshot of how other people saw him. He went to tug at his cuffs again, but as he looked, they were grubby and frayed. Was it the same shirt he had worn yesterday? Perhaps the day before? He couldn’t remember ironing a shirt recently.

      Tracey breezed past him, and he caught the scent of her perfume. ‘Sir?’

      Sheldon nodded and started to follow.

      Tracey opened the door into Dixon’s office, and as Sheldon followed her, he saw that there was only one chair in front of Dixon’s desk. He gestured for Tracey to take the seat, but she went to stand alongside Dixon instead.

      Sheldon was surprised.

      ‘Thank you for coming, Sheldon,’ the Chief Inspector said. ‘Sit down.’ Her voice sounded tired.

      Sheldon sat in the chair, his knees together, his hands on his legs. There was a man sitting in a chair along one of the walls. Sheldon recognised him from earlier in his career, when they had both been younger and more ambitious. Sheldon had acquired a separation from his wife and a house he couldn’t afford, and the man opposite had got himself dyed hair and a moustache, along with a growing reputation in FMIT. Sheldon tried to think of his name, but it wouldn’t come back to him.

      The chief inspector leaned forward on her desk, her hands clasped together. She glanced at the man sitting against the wall. Sheldon noticed that her hands were trembling.

      ‘Sergeant Peters has been reporting back to DI Williams,’ she said.

      Williams. That’s right. He remembered now.

      Williams coughed. ‘At my request,’ he said. His voice was soft, almost velvety, and Sheldon recognised it from the numerous press conferences and Crimewatch appeals. It was the voice of reassurance.

      ‘I wanted DS Peters on your team to keep her eye on you, Sheldon,’ Williams continued. ‘Oulton likes to go its own way, we know that, and we were tied up with other cases, but that doesn’t mean we were happy for you to take over.’

      ‘So you sent someone to spy on me?’ Sheldon looked at Dixon, aghast. ‘Ma’am, you trusted me with the investigation. You said so.’

      Dixon shifted in her chair. ‘In the end, it wasn’t up to me.’

      ‘I wasn’t sure if you were ready to lead the investigation,’ Williams said. ‘It’s gone a little higher profile now and so we’re taking over.’

      ‘I am managing,’ Sheldon said, his voice terse. ‘We just haven’t had the breaks.’

      Williams shook his head. ‘That’s not what I’m hearing. You’re not in control. You look awful. I’m sorry, but it ends now. Take some time off, for your own good. FMIT are taking over.’

      ‘It’s not right though. You took the Alice Kenyon case from me and got no nearer than I did.’

      Williams sighed. ‘It’s not about being right or fair.

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