Lost Souls Jenny O'Brien (summer reading list .TXT) 📖

be adamant that is?’ he said, his grey eyes narrowing with a steely determination. ‘You obviously don’t know Martin as well as I do but he’s on his final warning. The truth is I should never have employed him. He hasn’t got the wherewithal for the job but he gave me some sob story about not being able to make ends meet.’

‘That’s beside the point,’ Owen said. ‘Mr Penrose came to see us about his discovery and, however unlikely his story might be, we are duty-bound to investigate.’

‘Of course you are, officers. So, I repeat, how can I be of help? It’s not as if I can produce a body,’ he added with a laugh, a laugh that didn’t make his eyes.

Gaby watched Owen stiffen. As interviews went this one wasn’t going to plan. She couldn’t actually say that Trevor Beeton was hostile but he wasn’t the usual cooperative member of the public they were used to.

‘As you can’t produce a body, we need details of the cremations performed over the weekend. In particular, Duncan Broome’s. Obviously this is only an informal chat but we can easily obtain a warrant for something that is, after all, a matter of public record.’

Gaby hid a smile at the corner Owen had neatly propelled him into, her attention on Trevor as he considered his options. There weren’t any. If he made them get a search warrant it would only delay the inevitable and, with death notices freely available online, there was no reason for his objection except perhaps bloody awkwardness.

With a loud sigh, he heaved to his feet and made his way to the filing cabinet positioned to the right of the window. Maintaining a heavy silence, he searched through the files, withdrew two and dropped them neatly onto his desk. Apart from the squeak from his chair when he retook his seat, the silence persisted as he searched through the top folder.

‘As the nearest cremator for hundreds of miles, in addition to arranging funerals, we also allow other firms to use our very extensive facilities and that’s the case with Mr Broome. Apart from his details, there’s very little to add. You’d need to speak to Hayley Prince, over at Prince and Sons …’

‘I’ve just come from there,’ Owen said, leaning forward in his chair. ‘Mrs Prince was very helpful,’ he continued, the stress being on the very, in contrast to Mr Beeton’s lacklustre efforts so far. ‘So there’s nothing to add,’ he repeated. ‘Nothing odd about the cremation?’

‘Not a thing.’ Trevor withdrew a piece of paper and, after glancing at it briefly, slid it across the desk. ‘We made our usual record of the funeral timings, a list of attendees and who made floral contributions. I’m happy to email you a copy for your records?’

‘Thank you. What about the previous cremation? It’s something we need to look into if, as you’ve suggested, the problem is down to “sloppy housekeeping” rather than anything nefarious.’

Trevor opened up the second folder without a word. Removing the contents, he spread them out, his expression impossible to read as he quickly scanned the sheets for the relevant page before handing it across to Owen.

Gaby felt a clinical detachment at odds with their current situation. She hated funerals almost as much as Marie but, after a life well lived, she could rationalise that they had to be viewed as a celebration more than anything. The truth was people died. There was nothing she or anyone else could do to change that.

The silence extended, both Trevor and Owen reluctant to speak first. Owen cleared his throat, his gaze fixed on the sheet in his hand, his knuckles blanching through the skin, even as Gaby glanced down at the name typed in capitals at the top of the page.

MISS OLIVE JOHNSON, AGED TEN.

Chapter 14

Ronan

Monday 3 August, 2.40 p.m. Llandudno

For once Ronan was in a pickle not of his own making. With two younger brothers, he no more knew how to act around a ten-year-old girl than he did a stranger in the street, and strangers were the people he was most wary of. If a pair of supposed schoolmates could assault him on school premises, how was he meant to trust someone he’d only just met?

He couldn’t remember a time when he’d had the ability to trust anyone apart from himself. Perhaps when he was younger but since then the world had let him down in such a spectacular fashion as to make a mockery of his previous dependence on others. It wasn’t his mother’s fault that she’d developed cancer but he could certainly blame her for the way it had changed her. He gripped Ellie’s hand firmly within his, pulling her away from Mostyn Street and down one of the side streets towards the train station. No, for all his mother’s faults, she couldn’t be held responsible for her illness or the changes it ultimately wrought on his family.

‘Hey, where are we going?’ Ellie said, interrupting his thoughts, her voice the gruff squeak he’d told her to adopt.

He dropped her hand now that they were out of sight of the main artery of the town but instead of answering, he carried on walking, ignoring the sound of her feet racing to catch up with him.

‘Hey, I asked you where we were going,’ she said again, her voice breaking into a sob.

He halted in his tracks and turned, staring down at her upturned face. It was hard to remember the girl she’d been before the haircut. All trace of her long hair was gone, the boyish crop just about concealed by one of his brother’s baseball caps. He’d expected hysterics when she’d first caught sight of herself in the mirror but instead he’d got silence. He’d been proud of her then, this slight girl with eyes so large they nearly filled her face. She still hadn’t told him why she was on the run and, despite everything, he’d let her be. She’d tell him in her own