by Alex Scarrow
‘She drowned in her own vomit, George. She took too much of the stuff that night and –’
George raised his hand to silence him. ‘I don’t want to hear.’
‘Listen to me… She got drunk. She wasn’t used to… Look, it wasn’t my fault!’ Tim whined.
‘No, you listen to me, you piece of shit! I already know what happened. I know you drugged her and then raped her.’
Tim felt his cheeks burning. ‘It wasn’t just me. There were others…’
‘Fuck you, Tim. You are the one linked to our party, to this cabinet and to this prime minister.’
‘What’s going to happen to me?’ Tim could feel tears brimming.
‘You’re going to be expelled, Tim. And then very shortly afterwards the nation is going to find out precisely why. We’ll find child pornography on a government computer. The worst kind of pornography. The prime minster will announce that he’s horrified and disgusted, that he thought he knew you, and that there’s no room for a paedophile in the party.’
‘Oh no… not that. Please!’ Tim, white as a sheet, began to shake.
‘You’ll be arrested, you’ll definitely do time, and you’ll be on a register for the rest of your life.’ George pressed the central-lock control on his dash and the doors clicked. As far as he was concerned, their meeting was over.
‘And if you say one thing. One. Little. Thing – to anyone – you’ll be found hanging in your cell.’ George glared at him.
Timothy Portman began to sob into his hands.
‘Get out of my bloody car,’ snarled George.
72
Boyd had been quite right. The following morning, he’d been unable to get out of bed. Moreover, his body was mottled with livid purple bruises. And, yes, the nice young paramedic had been correct: the diagonal abrasion caused by the seatbelt across his chest and belly stung like the worst case of sunburn he’d ever experienced.
He was signed off work for the rest of the month, with a medical and psych evaluation, PTSD screening and counselling scheduled for the end of the month. He suspected the bruises, aches and scrapes would be long gone before Sussex Police would let him get back to anything vaguely resembling an operational role.
A bit of time off work sounded just fine to Boyd. Time to wind down, to finish redecorating the house and turn the garden into something presentable. And of course, with Emma starting her new job at the hotel, he’d be at home to mind Ozzie. Unlike the cliché of the battered, bruised and stoic TV detective, he wasn’t particularly desperate to get back to policing the ‘mean streets of Hastings’.
He spent the morning alone at home with Ozzie, nursing a neck that spasmed every time he made the mistake of absently turning his head. He’d resorted to wearing the neck collar that had been given to him, which Ozzie stared at with great interest, and would have laughed, if he could, at the bizarre picture they made, sitting together with their cones of shame.
He purveyed the headlines on his iPad over toast and marmalade. The newspapers hadn’t got hold of the story yet. In fact, they were salivating this morning over the news that a married Premier League footballer had been caught sending dick pics on Instagram. Of less interest to them was the story about the PM’s cabinet reshuffle, which had been postponed while unspecified ‘scandalous’ allegations regarding a recently appointed minister were examined.
Boyd suspected he’d be combing the papers every morning for the next few weeks to see what exactly was going to break the surface. He was relying on an unofficial daily update from Okeke and at the very top of his list of questions would be what was happening with Douglas Lane.
He’d texted her private phone earlier.
Is there any chance of an update on the case sometime today?
She’d replied:
Tomorrow lunchtime maybe? Her Madge holding a team briefing on the Sutton case tomorrow AM. Minter acting SIO, but rumour that maybe Met stepping in. Need anything dropping in meantime, guv?
He had several packs of paracetamol and some weird healthy lentil gunk that Emma had left him for lunch.
Maybe you could drop by tomorrow? Beers? Update me then? Pls bring real food.
She replied almost immediately.
Deal
At one o’clock, with the painkillers finally kicking in, Boyd felt mobile enough to attempt a walk with Ozzie down to the beach. If they both took it slow and steady, with no sudden jarring neck swivels, he figured they’d be okay. At this time of day, mid-week, the beach wouldn’t be too crowded despite the hot weather. With the recent sunshine, the old town, particularly the east end, was a no-go zone at the weekends.
He’d picked this time, poo bags in hand, hoping to catch sight of Charlotte. He’d sent her several texts this morning. None of them had triggered a reply from her so far.
He’d also had a go at calling. But it had rung through to the voice-message thing and he’d bailed out rather than say anything. She would have known it was him. His name would have come up.
Even a dimwit would conclude from the available evidence that she wasn’t interested in hearing from him. He’d puzzled over what had weighed the scales in that direction. She’d seemed so pleased to see him at the barbecue, turning up with the Pavlova and that pleased to meet you all smile. He was pretty sure he’d been well behaved in spite of things, although recollections of the afternoon varied depending on who in his team he asked.
As he hit the shingle and let out Ozzie’s extendable lead, he looked left towards Rock-A-Nore, then right towards the pier. It looked as though he had the beach all to himself. But then some movement – a figure silhouetted at the base of one of the pier’s legs – caught his eye.
There was a small dog splashing into the surf and a person idly walking along the sand, just shy of the water’s reach. The figure was too far away for him to be sure it was Charlotte and he was damned if he was going to go charging down, calling out her name like this was an episode of Poldark.
He pulled out his phone and texted her once more.
Is that you by the pier?
A moment later, the figure stopped walking. It could have been coincidence, but he was pretty sure the dog walker was now looking down at something in their hand. And then his phone pinged.
Is that you too?
He smiled as he tapped out a reply.
Fancy some chips?
THE END
DCI BOYD RETURNS IN
THE LAST TRAIN available to pre-order
here
Acknowledgments
It’s time, once again to send out some thank yous to the other less visible members of the team behind DCI Boyd. First and foremost, a big thank you to my wife Debbie who has to digest the hideously rough first drafts that I write and make them digestible enough for others to read. Without her this series would simply not exist.
Also, a shoutout to Wendy Shakespeare, my copyeditor. We worked together on another series ten years ago, and as she was then, she is now, the safest pair of hands in the business.
For this book I want to thank two people from the Facebook group UK Crime Book Club. Firstly Kon Frankowski for some detailed and grisly information on forensics and burned bodies. Secondly, to Paula Najair for crucial information about the Hastings Fire Service. You were both very prompt and more importantly… very right. Any mistakes in the book are mine and mine alone…
This amazing group has also introduced Ozzie and myself to a whole host of invaluable ARC readers. They are an incredible group who read at short notice and are quick to give feedback. A special mention goes to Lesley Lloyd, Lynda Checkley and Maureen Webb for your error spotting… It’s a heartfelt thank you from me and a big sloppy kiss from Ozzie!
Following on from this, I’d also like to thank the UKCBC as a whole, members and admins, for being so supportive of this series. It is much appreciated.
My heartfelt thanks as always go to Spaniel Aid UK, for allowing us to adopt our adorable boy Ozzie in 2017. He’s as much our dog as he is DCI Boy
d’s. If you would like to know more about Spaniel Aid and the work they do, please visit their website: www.spanielaid.co.uk
Finally, to my partner in crime - or grime to be more accurate - Ozzie himself. When writing Boyd I have to reach inside, with Ozzie, I only have to reach down. He’s always right there… aren’t you boy?
Gruff!!
Also by Alex Scarrow
Thrillers by Alex Scarrow
LAST LIGHT
AFTERLIGHT
OCTOBER SKIES
THE CANDLEMAN
A THOUSAND SUNS
The TimeRiders series (in reading order)
TIMERIDERS
TIMERIDERS: DAY OF THE PREDATOR
TIMERIDERS: THE DOOMSDAY CODE
TIMERIDERS: THE ETERNAL WAR
TIMERIDERS: THE CITY OF SHADOWS
TIMERIDERS: THE PIRATE KINGS
TIMERIDERS: THE MAYAN PROPHECY
TIMERIDERS: THE INFINITY CAGE
The Plague Land series
PLAGUE LAND
PLAGUE NATION
PLAGUE WORLD
The Ellie Quin series
THE LEGEND OF ELLIE QUIN
THE WORLD ACCORDING TO ELLIE QUIN
ELLIE QUIN BENEATH A NEON SKY
ELLIE QUIN THROUGH THE GATEWAY
ELLIE QUIN: A GIRL REBORN
About the Author
About the Author
Over the last sixteen years, award-winning author Alex Scarrow has published seventeen novels with Penguin Random House, Orion and Pan Macmillan. A number of these have been optioned for film/TV development, including his bestselling Last Light.
When he is not busy writing and painting, Alex spends most of his time trying to keep Ozzie away from the food bin. He lives in the wilds of East Anglia with his wife Deborah and four, permanently muddy, dogs.
Ozzie came to live with him in January 2017. He was adopted from Spaniel Aid UK and was believed to be seven at the time. Ozzie loves food, his mum, food, his ball, food, walks and more food…
He dreams of unrestricted access to the food bin.
For up-to-date information on the DCI BOYD series, visit: www.alexscarrow.com
