Death in the Sunshine (Retired Detectives Club, #1)(45)

‘What did you—’

‘Come on man, let Moira eat,’ says Rick. ‘She hasn’t even had a bite.’

Philip rolls his eyes. ‘Yes, yes, fine.’

Moira glances at Rick and gives him a smile of thanks. With the conversation paused, they eat. The bug chorus plays on around them. The ceiling fan above whirs in a steady rhythm. The night is warm and the humidity hasn’t dropped much. Despite the food, Moira feels tiredness seep further into her bones.

Lizzie is the first to finish. As she sets her knife and fork down she looks across at Moira. ‘I know you said the phone might not work, but I can see what I can get from it. I used to be pretty good at the tech stuff back in the day.’

‘Sounds good,’ says Moira. She’s stuffed now. Can’t even finish the last few mouthfuls of steak even though it’s so good. Being around these people is draining and the weariness is getting to her now. She’s already let her guard slip too far – and had to tell them she was ex-police as a result. She can’t afford any more lapses of control. Needs her own space. No more talking. The dogs to stroke and a peaceful, quiet house. She looks at Philip. ‘This was great, thanks, but I’m flagging. I need to call it a day.’

Philip nods. ‘Yes, okay.’

Moira bites back the urge to tell him she wasn’t asking his permission.

‘So what’s the plan for tomorrow?’ says Lizzie.

‘We need to collect the rest of the weekly logs from the patrollers we didn’t catch up with today,’ says Philip.

‘And I’ll make some calls,’ says Rick. ‘See if I can get some inside intel on what’s going on in the investigation and also chase up my contact looking into the station wagon’s plate, see if they’ve found who it’s registered to.’

‘Good thinking,’ says Moira. Her brain is sluggish. Thinking feels like wading through treacle. But she needs a plan for tomorrow that doesn’t involve being around these people the whole time. ‘I was thinking I could try and get a look at the gate logs, see if they’ve got the driver of the station wagon on there, and also any record of a woman matching our victim’s description entering our neighbourhood as a walk-in. After that I’ll head over to the CCTV office and see if they’ll let me see the tapes for the past few weeks.’ She smiles. ‘Might take a while to get through, but could be useful.’

‘Good call,’ says Rick.

Philip gives a curt nod. ‘Agreed. An excellent idea.’

Moira forces herself not to rise to the fact that Philip’s still acting like he thinks he’s the boss.

‘I’ll find a way to test the water sample.’ Lizzie looks at Moira. ‘And have a go at hacking into the phone.’

‘Sounds like we’ve got ourselves a plan,’ says Moira. She’s trying to be upbeat, but it’s hard now. It’s not late – barely ten o’clock. But all she really wants to do is sleep.

‘Good, good,’ says Philip, the bossy tone back in his voice. ‘Get a good night’s rest, everyone, then get back on it first thing. We’ll reconvene here at twelve hundred hours tomorrow.’

As they all nod in agreement, Moira’s already thinking about her bed. She wants to get this case solved and force Golding, this local detective who really doesn’t seem to give a crap, to take action and get some kind of justice for the victim. But to do her best work, and prevent herself slipping up and revealing her secrets, she needs to sleep. It’s eluded her for so long; she’s only managing to doze for short periods, ever since McCord. But tonight, after everything that’s happened, she feels like she might actually manage to sleep properly.

In the morning she’ll chase down the entry logs and the CCTV.

In the morning she’ll find the killer.





23


PHILIP


He wakes with a start. Disorientated. Confused.

What’s that noise?

He hears it again. Thumping. Banging.

There’s a moment of silence, and then a scraping sound as if something heavy is being dragged across the ceiling. He looks up. The chandelier light fitting is trembling. Whatever’s happening, it’s going on above him. The noise is coming from the loft.

Is it Lizzie? No, he doubts that. It can’t be. She’s never been in the loft the whole time they’ve lived here. Never been in the loft of any house they’ve had. And there’s no light from the hallway leaching under the door into his bedroom; the house is in darkness. If it were Lizzie she’d have turned the lights on.

There’s only one other explanation. Someone else is in the house.

Trying not to think about the ache in his chest and his jackhammering heartbeat, he throws off the duvet and quickly pushes himself up to standing. The movement’s too quick, far too quick. There’s a twinge of pain in his lower back, and he winces as he straightens up. It’s taking him longer to get going these days and his body doesn’t appreciate the urgency of this situation. Still, he can’t let that slow him. He needs to know what’s going on. Check if Lizzie is okay. He has to know if there’s an intruder in the house.

His heart pounds harder against his ribs.

He feels a tightening around his chest.

Ignoring it, he steps into his slippers and looks around the bedroom for something he can use to defend himself. There’s not much that’s any use – a few framed paintings of sailing scenes on the walls, the chest of drawers against the wall at the far end of the bed with his television on it, the matching bedside tables. His gaze lingers on the bedside lamps. They’re sturdy and wooden. A bit cumbersome to handle, but the best he’s got to hand. Unplugging the nearest lamp, he removes the shade and bulb. It’s a good weight, solid. It could do the job.