Then there are the two women in my life.

My wife, Louise, and I have been together for ten years. We lived in a small flat with noisy neighbours and no money. We scrimped, we saved and we moaned about our jobs and neighbours (obviously) – but it is our relationship which enabled me to write these books. They have very little in common but, simply put, without Louise, there would be no Jessica.

The ‘other woman’ is my agent, Nicola. She read Locked In and approached me at a point where the rest of the publishing industry didn’t know whether to poke me with a stick, or ignore me completely. Her help, faith, humour, and ability to ignore my complaining has been invaluable. She probably could have just emailed me though, as opposed to literally poking me with a stick.

Finally, I will thank my mum for forcing me to read as a kid. It’s easy to plonk your annoyingly loud hyperactive son in front of a television to shut him up but it isn’t so simple to invest time in him. I may have learned to read through Terrance Dicks’s Doctor Who books and Stan Lee’s comics but you still need someone to give you them in the first place – and then plonk you in front of the television and tell you to shut up.

Kerry Wilkinson

Contents

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

A FEW DAYS EARLIER

34

35

Afterword

1

Andrew Hunter put his feet on the desk and leant back in his chair. In what was a less-than-impressive office, the chair was worth more than the rest of the furniture put together. The estate agent’s advert had enthusiastically declared the place came ‘fully furnished’ which, Andrew had to admit, it did – up to a point. What the advert hadn’t revealed was that the furnishings were apparently part of a job-lot of junk being cleared out from a school. He had already paid the deposit to secure the space when he realised the underside of the thick wooden table that served as his desk was plastered with dried chewing gum and felt-tip declarations that ‘Ian iz bent’. Among other things, ‘Ian’ certainly seemed to have a very varied sexual appetite.

The chair he’d inherited had a dreadful blue canvas covering and the back wouldn’t stay fixed in place. As part of a lavish exhibition of spending which he hoped at the time would impress prospective clients, he bought a brand-new leather-backed seat which the website dubbed ‘the Big Daddy’ of office chairs. It didn’t mention that it came flat-packed, which somewhat took away from Andrew’s enjoyment at receiving it. Two days later, he finally managed to relax in the height of luxury. Well, it would have been if he could have figured out how to make it go up and down.

Andrew pushed back into his new purchase and wondered why he once thought a chair would be enough to woo clients. Then he jumped as someone rapped hard on the frosted glass of his office. He tried to spin around but somehow mixed up his limbs, catching his knee hard on the solid wood of the desk. He shouted ‘Come in’, at the same time stifling a swear word and rubbing his knee.

A man in a sharp, perfectly fitting grey suit entered the office. He was somewhere in his late fifties, possibly early sixties, and had a bright pink tie with matching handkerchief sticking out from his jacket pocket. His grey hair was immaculately swept backwards, while his six-foot-plus height made Andrew, with his five-foot-eight frame, feel instantly insecure. Andrew watched his visitor peer from one side of the office to the other, taking in the white, largely empty walls and potted plant in the corner before turning to face him. It was pretty clear that he was underwhelmed.

‘Is this Andrew Hunter’s office?’ he asked abruptly.

Andrew stood, trying not to wince from the pain in his knee. ‘I’m Andrew,’ he said, stretching out a hand.

The man gripped it firmly. ‘You’re a private investigator?’

‘Er, yes,’ Andrew replied, wondering if he could match the iron handshake. He couldn’t and the man quickly released him.

‘I’m Harley Todd,’ the man said, still looking around. ‘You’re definitely the Andrew Hunter?’

Andrew wondered if his fame – or lack of – had somehow preceded him. ‘I am Andrew Hunter, yes. I’m a private investigator. Can I help you . . . ?’ He pointed towards the chair on the opposite side of the desk, the blue canvas one he had rejected for himself.

Harley edged around the table, as if making a special effort not to touch anything. Andrew didn’t think his office was dirty but it was somewhat sparse. Aside from the two chairs, the large desk and his computer, there was an empty bookshelf, the potted plant he had inherited and kept forgetting to water, and a stack of boxes which contained junk he didn’t have room for in his flat. To prospective clients, he figured the closed boxes might seem as if they contained vital paperwork. The fact they didn’t was something they didn’t need to know.

Light spilled through the window, partially obscured by the boxes, glinting from the man’s expensive-looking cufflinks. Harley carefully sat in the chair, instantly annoyed as the backrest fell backwards.

‘Sorry about that,’ Andrew said. ‘I’m waiting on a replacement. Delivery companies, hey?’ It was a lie which Harley didn’t seem convinced by. He certainly didn’t respond to Andrew’s lighthearted chuckle.

‘I’m not sure this is what I expected,’ Harley said. His voice was full of authority, the type of terrifying tone that made Andrew think of teachers and parents. Or worse, his former father-in-law.

‘I can assure you, I run a very professional service,’ Andrew said, only half-believing his words. He swivelled slightly in his chair, wondering if ‘the Big Daddy’ would impress this prospective client.

If it did, then the man hid it well. ‘I’ve never come to a private investigator before. I found you in the phone book. I think I was expecting some sort of ex-policeman around my age.’

Andrew had forgotten about the phone-book advert as he had been focusing mainly on Internet advertising. ‘I offer the highest class of service . . .’

The investigator tried to look confident as Harley again scanned him up and down. ‘How old are you?’

‘Thirty-four,’ Andrew replied without thinking.

‘Hmmm . . .’ Harley was squinting slightly, apparently wondering what to ask next. ‘It might be better that you’re younger . . .’

Andrew sat up straighter, thinking he might be on to something. ‘How can I help you?’

The man ignored his question. ‘Are you married? Kids?’

It wasn’t the response Andrew expected but, given the man’s resonating tone, he felt obliged to answer. ‘I was married, I’m not any longer. I don’t have children.’

‘Hmmm . . .’

Andrew watched Harley repeat the examination. He was beginning to grow more and more uneasy under the older man’s gaze. The suit he was wearing was a little tight and compared to the quality of the garment the man in front of him was wearing it felt insufficient for the air of professionalism he was trying to portray.