always read the papers and watch the news.’

He taps one half of the broken pencil against the table. ‘This is going to be a long night,’ he says. ‘We’re going to get this sorted.’

‘Then I’d better make myself comfortable,’ I answer, and I lean back in my chair.

chapter thirty-seven

Schroder was right and wrong. Right that it was going to be a

long night. Wrong about us getting it sorted. Landry showed

up on cue, but their routine at trying to shake something loose from me was ruined by the murder weapon. It was planted, they

both knew it, and that was the problem. They’d have had a better chance if they hadn’t found it. They held me long enough to go over the same questions and until they were satisfied the people going through my house had searched enough. And satisfied I

wasn’t going to offer them any further information. I could tell Landry was itching to keep me locked up, and that Schroder was tempted to go along with it, but in the end they had nothing to hold me on. Even the blood and dirt on my body I explained

away as a bad fall while I was out walking trying to clear my head.

Nobody bought it, but it didn’t matter.

A guy gives me a lift home in a patrol car. He doesn’t even

attempt conversation.

My house is locked up and I still don’t have my keys, so I get inside using the same busted window as before. Schroder never

mentioned the window, and I guess maybe he figured out why.

My house isn’t any tidier since the police have scoured their way through it. The articles and pictures from the bedroom I’d set up as an office have all gone. All that are left are pinholes in the walls.

The computer is gone, my notes are gone, even the whiteboard

has been taken. Landry will trawl through everything and he’ll get me back in to answer more questions —S maybe even later on today.

I make some coffee, and the caffeine wakes me enough to

realise I’m so tired I don’t even know what my next step should be. I haven’t had time to compile my thoughts on Father Julian being dead. Haven’t had time to consider how much it alters my investigation. Was he killed because he knew a killer’s secrets? Or for another reason?

The coffee tastes good but not good enough to consider

making another. I head down to the bedroom. Everything is

messy. The mattress has been tipped up and thrown back on the

base. All the drawers have been pulled out. The wardrobe has

been opened and everything inside pulled out.

I head down to the laundry and check the washing machine.

At some point the wash cycle was stopped. The clothes I put

in there have all gone. There are bloodstains on some of them

from the accident and from the trip into the woods, but those

bloodstains are mine.

I take a quick shower. Daxter stands in the bathroom and

watches me. I feed him and he seems appreciative.

It’s almost six in the morning before I climb into bed. I reckon Landry and Schroder will probably be going through the same

motions. I start to set the alarm, but in the end I can’t decide what time to set it for, so I switch it off. I bury my head into the pillows and try to get to sleep.

chapter thirty-eight

The house is full of warm colours and my neighbour’s face is

frozen with cold emotion.

‘What do you want to borrow my phone for, Theo?’

‘Because mine isn’t working.’

‘You think the police bugged it? They could have. They were

there all night. That was one stupid thing you did.’

“I know.’

‘After you losing your little girl and everything. Real stupid.’

‘Can I borrow your phone or not?’

Mrs Adams stares at me for a few seconds without saying

anything, and I can tell she’s really debating the issue. She doesn’t want me inside her house. This woman who looks like everybody’s grandmother and who brought cooked dinners to my house at

least once a week for almost a year after Emily died. This woman who I would occasionally find weeding my garden or trimming

some bushes. There was always a wave and a smile and a good

word that things would be okay, that Emily was with God, that

everything would be okay.

“I don’t know,’ she says. ‘You could have killed her.’

‘That wasn’t my intention,’ I say, as if that could possibly

excuse it. She doesn’t pick up on the comment, and instead stands aside.

‘Don’t take too long.’

Mrs Adams stays a step behind me, as if suddenly she thinks

I’m not only a drunk driver, but also about to steal one of the thousand knick-knacks covering the tables and bench tops.

‘Phonebook?’ I ask.

She sighs, and I have the impression that if she’d known in the beginning I was going to be this much trouble she wouldn’t have let me in. She rummages through a kitchen drawer and pulls out the white pages.

I call the hospital and ask after the condition of Emma Green.

It turns out that’s the girl’s real last name — Donovan Green wasn’t faking it after all. The nurse tells me she can only give information out to a family member.

‘Can you just tell me if she’s doing okay?’

‘When are you guys going to learn you can’t just keep chewing

up our time with questions all day long?’

‘What guys?’

‘Reporters,’ she says, almost spitting the word out. My guess

is that if she knew who I was it would only get worse.

I make my second call, this one to the morgue.

‘It’s Tate.’

‘Tate? My God, I heard about what happened. Are you doing

okay?’ Tracey asks. She’s the first person to have done so, and it feels kind of nice.

‘Doing okay? I guess that depends on your definition. Listen,

I need to ask if you can help me out on a few things.’

‘Tate, I’m sorry about everything that’s happened, but you

know I can’t help you on anything. Not just because of the last few days, but you stole that dead girl’s ring right out of my morgue.

I had Landry down here asking me about it this morning and

I didn’t know what to tell him.’

‘I’m sorry I had to put you through that.’

‘Yeah, well, I’m sorry too. Because now I’m the one who’s

getting a reprimand. This could end up being serious. For all I know, I could get suspended. Or worse. I gotta go.’

‘Listen, Tracey, please, it’s important.’

“I can’t.’

‘It’s the girl. That’s all.’

‘What?’

‘I need to know how she’s doing. The hospital won’t tell me.’

“I don’t know how she’s doing.’

‘But you can find out, right?’

‘You’re really pushing it, Tate.’

‘Please. It’s important.’

‘Call me back in five minutes.’

“I gotta come down there anyway. Put my name on the list. I’ll see you in a few hours.’

‘Look, I can’t just…’

‘Thanks, Tracey. I gotta go.’ I hang up before she can object.

Mrs Adams doesn’t seem too impressed that I’m taking up

so much of her time. Scattered across the kitchen are baking

ingredients that must all have come together to form whatever

fantastic-smelling thing is turning brown in the oven.

I make another call. My mother answers, slightly out of breath, as if she’s just run in from the garden.

‘I’ve been trying to call,’ she says. ‘Your cellphone isn’t switched on.’

“I lost it.’

‘And your home phone is disconnected.’

“I forgot to pay the bill.’

‘Is it true what the papers are saying?’

“I haven’t seen the papers.’

“I should have done more,’ she says.

‘What?’

‘This is my fault. I should have seen what was happening to

you ever since the accident. But don’t worry, we’re here to help you now.’