Time of Death - Alex Barclay

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feelings are understandable.’

      ‘But what makes no sense is that paranoia is the worst part of bipolar disorder for me, yet undercover work is a whole world of paranoia. You are lying all day every day and you’re never sure if you’re going to be found out. Give me depression over paranoia any day. Because I just … I feel paranoia is what will ultimately bring me down.’

      ‘Ren, nothing is going to bring you down,’ said Helen. ‘You are in control of all of this. And you are not alone. You have an entire team working with you. Good people, from what you tell me. So, rely on them, Ren.’

      Ren nodded. ‘I can’t stop thinking about the assignment, though. I told this terrible story to gain someone’s confidence and get into her life – I sat on a park bench crying to Domenica Val Pando, telling her I had lost my four-month old baby …’

      ‘That is part of undercover work, Ren. You were doing your job.’

      ‘I know, but I look back sometimes and I think “How could I have done that?”’ Ren shook her head. ‘Nothing to do with Val Pando personally – she’s a piece of shit – just, me. How could I have done that?’

      ‘It was your job.’

      ‘I know it’s what I signed up to do,’ said Ren. ‘But I guess I get scared at how easy it was for me to do it. Undercover work is such a rush – the better you are, the greater the high. The more you find out, the more you want to find out. It’s addictive. You go to bed at night, you write notes, you give them to your contact agent. He’s making a case, he’s happy, you’re happy. But I was still playing the role of Remy Torres, a fake name in a fake life. She was like part-me, part-stranger. So … in a way, you never know what she’s capable of.’ She paused. ‘And when it’s over and you bring your real self into the equation, when you’re away from whatever group of dirtbags you’ve been investigating, you’re faced with how good a liar you were and how well you manipulated people. And you tell yourself that the ends justify the means. But sometimes the means just make you feel dirty.’

      ‘OK, take some breaths.’ Helen handed her a box of Kleenex.

      ‘Thanks,’ said Ren. ‘Oh sorry, I’ve pulled out the whole lot. It must be a sign. I’ll be here weeping all day.’

      ‘I’m sponsored by Kleenex,’ said Helen. ‘It’s written on the back of my blouse.’

      Ren laughed through the tears. ‘I honestly don’t know why I’m crying.’

      ‘Ren,’ said Helen gently, ‘Remy Torres did not take you down with her. Here you are, Ren Bryce, over ten years on, successful, stable, still pursuing these people, not turning into them.’

      ‘Still pursuing,’ said Ren. ‘Exactly.’

      ‘You are so hard on yourself,’ said Helen. ‘You’re doing great. Stop beating yourself up. Get back to that office this afternoon and kick some butt. Like you always do.’

      ‘Thanks. I’ll try.’

      When the session was over and Ren was driving back to work, she could feel her anxiety drifting away. She smiled.

      Helen’s room always felt like the furthest room from the crazy house.

      Ren walked back into the bullpen, took off her jacket and put her purse on the floor.

      ‘Did you all go out to lunch?’ she said.

      ‘Yup,’ said Cliff. ‘Someone’s got to feed these investigative brains.’

      Ren pointed to a brown paper bag at his feet. ‘Did you get anything wrapped to take home to your dog that you would now be willing to hand over to one of your hungry colleagues?’

      Colin rolled his eyes. He reached out to answer the phone on his desk.

      ‘Yes, as a matter of fact,’ said Cliff. ‘It’s half a steak sandwich.’

      ‘I owe you,’ said Ren.

      She looked down at her file tray. ‘Hey, what’s this?’

      ‘I left it there for you,’ said Cliff. ‘It’s Francis Gartman’s alleged lady friend …’

      ‘Slash woman of the night.’ Ren looked at the picture, scanning the details.

      ‘Yup,’ said Cliff. ‘We need to find her.’

      Ren nodded. ‘Sure, I’ll take a look at this.’ She rested her left hand on the neatly folded waxed wrapping of the sandwich. She could smell steak.

      ‘She’s running scared,’ said Cliff.

      ‘Did someone call in?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Cliff. ‘Her broken-hearted mama.’

      Ren sucked in a breath. She looked down at the photo of Natalie Osgood, the pretty African-American girl with the bruised, vacant eyes and the tousled red wig. ‘Sweetheart, let me find you before that piece of shit does.’ Ren pushed her finger under the fold in the paper and slid the sandwich toward her.

      ‘Ren,’ said Colin. ‘Line three. Sounds like your El Paso woman again.’

      I am not meant to eat today.

      ‘Hello,’ said Ren.

      ‘This is Catherine Sarvas again.’

      ‘Ms Sarvas—’

      ‘Mrs. I’m … married.’

      ‘Mrs Sarvas,’ said Ren. ‘Are you all right?’

      The woman let out a sob. She was struggling to breathe.

      Please don’t hang up.

      ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Catherine. ‘I’m so sorry for this.’

      ‘Please,’ said Ren. ‘There is no need to apologize. Please, take your time. I’ll listen to you whenever you’re ready to talk.’

      Catherine sucked in a breath. ‘Thank you.’

      Seconds passed.

      ‘I saw your Most Wanted list on the internet,’ said Catherine. ‘And I wanted to let you know …’ She started to cry. ‘Oh, God … I was raped.’

      Ren had heard women say that they were raped before and no matter how many times she heard it, it caused a visceral reaction – a recoil.

      ‘He is number five on your list,’ said Catherine.

      Number five. Ren glanced up at the board, for a moment forgetting the new order. Oh my God.

      ‘Erubiel Diaz,’ said Ren. ‘Number five, Erubiel Diaz.’

      ‘I recognize his face.’

      His hideous face. Ren’s hand hovered over the page. Every phone in the office seemed to be ringing. It felt disrespectful, the wrong place to listen to what Catherine Sarvas had to say. Ren pressed the phone to her ear. ‘Take your time, Mrs Sarvas.’

      Eventually, Catherine Sarvas spoke again. ‘Maybe you’ve heard about my family. My husband is Gregory Sarvas?’

      ‘I’m sorry, ma’am,’ said Ren. ‘I’m not familiar with your husband.’

      ‘Oh …’ Another pause. ‘Eight months ago, my husband, Greg, was shot dead near our home in El Paso. He had been driving our sons home from school.’ She paused.

      Ren waited, but all she could hear was Catherine Sarvas’ breathing. ‘I’m so sorry to hear that.’

      She quietly typed Gregory Sarvas’ name into Google. Hundreds of hits. She did an image search. She clicked on one of the photos. It was a wide shot taken from behind a

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