The Fourth Friend (DI Jackman & DS Evans #3)(29)

‘Yeah, well, you’re right, of course, I did know her better than anyone, but I don’t want to talk about the bitch.’ He paused. Robbie heard a glass clink. ‘I’ll just say that when you find her, dead or alive, I won’t be sending any flowers.’

‘Most people seem to think that she was just a fun-loving, sexy, good time girl,’ said Robbie.

‘Hah! She was certainly that to some people all right! But you want to speak to the ones who got close. They’ll tell you a different story.’

‘Why don’t you tell me?’

‘Because . . .’

Robbie was certain he heard a strangled sob.

‘Just go to hell!’

The line went dead.

Robbie stared at the picture of Harvey Cash. ‘It’s about time I took a short holiday,’ he mused. ‘Spain might be pleasant at this time of year. And you, pal, can be my guide.’

*

Carter had brought home a Chinese takeaway and a bottle of the best Merlot that his local convenience store stocked. It was pretty bad, but the bottle was now almost empty. The sweet and sour pork, the spring rolls and the egg fried rice were unopened in the waste bin.

He sat on the terrace and stared out across the gardens. The view never bored him, but now he wished there was someone to share it with. He wondered where all this had come from. Maybe it was thinking about Joanne and Ray, or remembering Marie and Bill. The world seemed to be all couples suddenly, except for him. He sat watching the sky put on its nightly display, until only the darkest indigo and deepest grey were left. Time to turn in.

His bedroom contained a king-size bed, built-in wardrobes and matching furniture, all of it polished, all the surfaces clear.

He showered, and switched on the wall-mounted flatscreen television. He’d be decadent, lounge in bed with the last of the wine and watch TV until he fell asleep.

The wine finished, Carter turned onto his stomach and closed his eyes. Maybe tonight he would get a few hours of peaceful sleep. He drifted off.

An ice-cold, bony hand fastened itself around his ankle like a vice.

‘Hey! Got you, Carter, old boy!’

The room filled with the familiar stench of burning.

‘Jesus Christ!’

‘Couldn’t resist it! Sorry.’ Jack’s laugh echoed hollowly around the room. ‘Remember the game, Carter? “Do You Dare?” The kids loved it, didn’t they?’

Jack was reminiscing about the old days when they had supervised a group of deprived kids at an adventure camp. ‘Yeah, and then you’d organise a campfire, sit down with them and tell them scary ghost stories until their eyes were wide. Then you’d send them to bed, daring them to leave one exposed foot hanging out of the bed for the bogey man to grab! It’s a wonder they didn’t wet themselves!’ He laughed again.

Carter’s ankle still felt as if it was packed around with dry ice. He stared at it. ‘That wasn’t funny,’ he muttered.

‘Yes it was,’ said Jack. ‘Like it was with the kids. You scared the shit out of them and they loved you for it. Every night they came back for more stories and more dares.’

It was true. They had, and Jack was also right about those times being good. Carter sat back on the bed and looked around him.

Jack was perched at the bottom of the bed. Where was Tom? Finally he made out his friend’s outline slouched against the wall close to the door. So far he had said nothing. He certainly had not joined in with Jack’s jolly jape.

‘You okay, mate?’ Carter asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.

Tom seemed to nod, but remained silent. Then Carter realised that Ray had gone. He gasped, and peered into every shadowy corner.

‘You can put the light on if you want,’ said Tom sullenly, ‘But you won’t find him. He’s gone.’

Tom moved forward out of the shadows. ‘The question is, which one of the two of us is next?’

Carter flicked the switch on his bedside lamp, and then recoiled in horror and dismay. His friend looked like something that belonged on a butcher’s block. Carter gagged and fought back the rising bile. He couldn’t be sick! He just couldn’t. He swallowed hard, jumped up, and ran to the kitchen, where he splashed water over his face and neck.

It was another legacy from the accident. Weird, but there it was. Carter had a morbid fear of vomiting. Laura said it even had a name. Emetophobia or something like that.

He leant back against the kitchen sink and breathed deeply. It was passing, thank God. He just needed to try not to think about Tom. What the hell had happened? They had been so much better. If he half closed his eyes, they looked as they always had. But now! He shuddered and concentrated on his breathing.

He had to get himself back into the bedroom. Tom had asked him a question, and he needed to answer it. When he reached the door, he hesitated.

‘Come on in, mate.’ It was Tom. ‘Sit down, and look at me.’

Carter reluctantly did as he was told. There was Tom, smiling apologetically at him.

His face was not perfect, but it was recognisable now.

Let’s get this over with, thought Carter. ‘You asked who should be next. I thought perhaps it should be Jack. Whatever I can do, I’ll try to do it.’

‘I thought you’d say that, and that’s cool by me.’ Tom nodded slowly. ‘In fact it’s probably better that way, because my own dilemma is not exactly straightforward. Is it?’