‘Oh gawd, it must be nearly time,’ the boy shouted. He rattled at one of the big buckles on the straps that now held him to his jump partner. ‘This will hold, man, won’t it?’ he called over his shoulder. The man behind him nodded reassuringly. As if he’d say ‘no’, thought Chloe. She and the boy were now facing one another. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

‘Josh,’ he said, grinning suddenly at her. He was even cuter when he smiled.

Impulsively, Chloe grabbed one of his hands. ‘Good luck, Josh. See you back on the ground.’

‘You too – er?’

‘Chloe.’

‘Yeah, you too, Chloe.’

At that moment, Chloe’s phone vibrated against her hipbone. The phone was in the front pocket of her jeans, inside the massive blue romper suit they were all wearing. She knew she was supposed to have left it in the locker on the airfield with her other possessions, but she never went anywhere without her phone, so it was coming with her. It’s probably Mum, wishing me luck, she thought as she managed to un-Velcro the lower part of the jumpsuit, fish out the iPhone and peer at the screen. She frowned in confusion as she glanced at the abbreviated message that appeared on her home screen:

 

Hey Chloe babe, it’s Shawn here, how—

Before she could click on it to read the rest of it, her instructor tapped her shoulder again. ‘We’re up first – let’s go!’

She hastily slid the phone back into her pocket and did up the jumpsuit with shaking hands, unable to process the words she’d seen. Her instructor guided her over to the wild blowing of the open door and she fixed the goggles firmly onto her face. Her breath was coming in great ragged gasps. No backing out now. Why did she have to be first?

The next few moments were a blur of wind and sound and adrenalin as they edged closer to the lip of the plane.

‘Aaaand – GO!’ yelled her instructor, and they were out before she could scream that she’d changed her mind, she wanted to be at home watching TOWIE in her bedroom; then they were whirling and falling into the great tumble dryer of sky and wisps of cloud and cold, cold air, up and down and round or maybe just down – she couldn’t tell until she opened her eyes, then shut them again fast as they plummeted, her scream ripped out of her.

Thirty seconds later she felt a colossal jerking sensation, like being snatched upwards by a giant hand, and a huge whoosh as the parachute – thank God, thank God – opened and ballooned above them. I’m alive, she thought, spreading her arms wide and screaming with relief and exhilaration. I survived!

It was only then, in the stillness and utter calm of the descent, patchwork fields spread out beneath her, that she had another thought: OMG, did I really just get a text from Shawn Barrett?

Chapter 38

Day 12 – Patrick

Gill looked askance at Pat as he laced up his ancient grey Vans, the ones he usually only ever wore to do DIY or gardening in. The left one had a large dark stain on the top, where Bonnie had vomited Ribena on it some months ago.

‘You’re even more stubbly than usual – aren’t you going to work today?’

‘Of course. But I don’t want anyone to know I’m at work,’ he replied, raising his voice to be heard over Bonnie singing ‘Let It Go’, off-key, along with the DVD.

‘They’ll never recognise you with those shoes on,’ Gill commented sarcastically.

‘I’m not going to the incident room yet – I’m going back to the Rotunda first. I just can’t believe that those clowns haven’t managed to uncover anything at all. They’ve been door to door round the flats above the car park. They’ve been all over the Rotunda for two days now – nothing. It’s ridiculous – someone must have seen something!’

Gill put a hand on his arm. ‘Um . . . far be it for me to tell you how to do your job – but shouldn’t you leave that to the other team?’

Pat straightened up and scowled. ‘But they clearly aren’t doing their job, are they? I owe it to Wendy.’

He’d called Carmella as soon as he woke up. She hadn’t been able to find anything useful on the OnTarget forum yet. No strange gaps in conversations, no signs that someone had been through and deleted evidence that they’d chatted with Wendy.

‘I didn’t realise you were that close to her,’ Gill said.

‘I wasn’t.’ He hadn’t told Gill about the Valentine’s card. He was going to, but didn’t know how she’d react. Would she be suspicious, think he’d led Wendy on? In the end, he’d decided not to risk it. ‘But she was part of my team. And I told you about the phone call . . . I fucked up, Gill. I need to make amends.’

‘As long as you don’t do anything that could potentially harm your career.’

‘Especially now mine’s the only income we have?’

She flinched like he’d slapped her and he instantly regretted his words. How easily his resentment bubbled to the surface. He and Gill needed to talk . . . about everything. But now wasn’t the time.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .’

‘It’s fine. I’ll be back at work soon anyway.’

‘I know. I have to go,’ he said, gathering Bonnie up in his arms, tipping her upside down and kissing the soft podgy underside of her chin until she squirmed and giggled. ‘Bye, then, monster. Be good for Mummy.’

Then he kissed Gill politely on the cheek – ‘Bye, Gill. Text you later’ – and let himself out of the house before he could see the expression of disappointment that he instinctively knew was on her face.

The private messages that Graham Burns had emailed Patrick – which he’d forwarded on to DCI Strong, explaining they came through a contact on Operation Urchin – had confirmed to Patrick what he suspected. Wendy had gone to the Rotunda to meet someone who’d contacted her on the OnT forum: a user called Mockingjay365. The 365, Patrick guessed, was a reference to the OnTarget song, and the room in which Rose was murdered.

Frustratingly, Burns had only been able to find Wendy’s side of the conversation. Mockingjay365 had deleted his own messages; indeed, he had deleted his entire account.

‘It was set up using an anonymous Gmail account,’ Burns explained. ‘No real name given. I knew you would ask me about the IP address, so I already looked it up. It was set up in an Internet café in Soho.’

Patrick knew DCI Strong would ask one of her team to visit this café, but had little hope it would lead anywhere. Which was why he was doing this. Risking the fury of both DCIs: Laughland and Strong. But he didn’t care. If he found Wendy’s murderer, it would all be worth it.

The basement bowlplex at the Rotunda was swarming with teenagers even though it wasn’t yet noon. Patrick was momentarily perplexed by this, until he remembered it was half-term. A short, barrel-shaped security guard leaned on the railing halfway up the curving staircase leading back to the ground floor, looking as though he’d been standing there for about a week. Patrick stood next to him in silence for a moment or two, both of them surveying the alleys and café below, until the man spoke.

‘Looking for someone?’

Patrick arranged his features into a sorrowful, bitter expression – without much difficulty, he realised. It was pretty much his default expression these days. But the bouncer wasn’t looking at him anyway.

‘Kind of.’ He tried to emulate the cadences of Wendy’s Black Country accent, just slightly, hoping that he didn’t sound like he was channelling Noddy Holder.

The bouncer grunted uninterestedly. ‘You ain’t a journalist, are you?’