Destroy Me Karen Cole (guided reading books txt) 📖

I wonder where Sergeant Fisher is. I don’t like this new guy. He’s not at all friendly and he has a smooth, observant manner like a cat watching its prey.

‘I went there once or twice when we were at school, but that was more than seventeen years ago.’

In truth, I only ever went to that house once, on the evening of Nessa’s party. Chill creeps into my bones. Can it be a coincidence? After the pub, Nessa’s house was our next stop. The possibility that this is all unrelated – the picture of the park in Dylan’s book bag, Nessa’s house, the photofit, Charlie’s murder – is receding rapidly.

‘So, just to be clear for the purpose of the tape, you’re stating that you haven’t been to this house recently?’ Clarke taps the desk, drumming his fingers in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

‘Right.’ I nod firmly. ‘I haven’t even been to South Baunton – not for years. Why are you asking me, anyway?’ I ask, meeting his eyes defiantly, not sure if I really want to hear the answer.

‘We received this yesterday, along with a note.’ DI Littlewood hands me another piece of paper. Just a scrap really, torn at the edges. The message is written in capitals in blue biro. ASK CATHERINE BAYNTUN.

‘Who sent it?’ As I place the note back on the table, I can’t help noticing that my hand is trembling, and I don’t want them to see that. Clarke spots it anyway. I catch him taking it in, as if it’s a plump, tasty mouse. I can almost imagine his tail twitching under the desk.

‘We don’t have any idea,’ he says, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair. ‘We thought maybe you might know.’

‘Don’t you have ways of tracing the paper or the handwriting?’ I say, fear making me angry. ‘Did it occur to you that the person who sent that note could be Charlie’s killer, trying to pin the murder on me?’

‘What makes you think this has anything to do with Charlotte’s death?’ says DI Clarke, pouncing. His eyes glitter with the thrill of the chase.

‘Nothing really,’ I say, mentally kicking myself. ‘I just assumed. Well, doesn’t it?’

‘We really don’t know,’ says Littlewood. ‘We were hoping you could tell us. Think carefully, Catherine. You don’t have any idea who wrote this and why?’

I shake my head and shift uncomfortably in my chair. ‘No, I haven’t a clue,’ I say firmly.

Sixteen

2002

We piled into my mum’s old Ford Fiesta and wound along the country lanes towards Nessa’s. ‘Get the Party Started’ by P!nk was blaring out of the CD player, the windows were wide open, the wind rushing in our hair and the sinking sun was casting a golden glow over everything. It was one of those evenings when everything felt right with the world. I felt as if anything was possible. I felt invincible.

The party was already in full swing when we arrived at Nessa’s, loud music swelling out into the quiet of the village. There was no sign of Nessa, but her brother was sprawled across the porch, drunk or high, muttering something incomprehensible about spiders. We clambered over him into the hallway where a couple were snogging on the stairs.

‘Get a room,’ May Ling shouted, cackling with laughter as we flounced past.

The living room was smoky and crowded, lit only by fairy lights draped over the doorway and windows. It was difficult to make out who was who, but as soon as we entered, Charlie nudged me sharply in the ribs.

‘Look who’s here,’ she hissed in my ear and nodded towards the corner where a small huddle of boys were passing around a bong made out of a plastic bottle. My heart leaped to my throat because among them, with his back to us, was James. He’d recently had his hair cut and just the sight of the shorn hair and the small mole at the base of his neck made me feel weak at the knees with what I thought was love.

Charlie nudged me. ‘This is your chance. Why don’t you go over and say hi?’

‘I can’t,’ I muttered and dashed into the kitchen before James could turn round and see us.

‘Do you want me to talk to him for you?’ Charlie asked, following me into the kitchen.

‘Oh my God, no!’ I wailed. ‘What would that look like? Like we’re little kids. “My friend fancies you.” Don’t you dare!’

‘What’s the problem?’ asked Nessa, who was in the kitchen pouring crushed ice into a big plastic container of beers.

‘There’s a boy she likes here, and she won’t talk to him because she’s chicken,’ Charlie said, removing the lid from a bottle of beer and taking a swig. ‘Tell her she’s being an idiot.’

I threw her a dirty look and she raised her eyebrows. ‘What? I haven’t said his name.’

‘Why don’t you have a drink to give you confidence?’ suggested Nessa.

‘I want to, but I can’t,’ I said sadly. ‘I’m driving.’

‘Just one won’t hurt,’ Nessa said.

‘I need more than one to get the courage to speak to him. I need about a million drinks.’

‘You can both stay here the night, if you like,’ said Nessa expansively. ‘Then you can drink as much as you like.’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Charlie.

‘Course I’m sure. Lots of people are sleeping over. My parents are away for the weekend and I’ve got spare bedding. You’ll have to sleep on the floor though. Just enjoy yourself, Cat. We deserve it after all the work we’ve been doing.’

I willingly accepted the drink she poured me, took a swig and then spluttered it out while Charlie and Nessa cracked up laughing. It had a strange strong taste, something like liquorice.

‘Oh my God, what’s that?’ I said, choking, the alcohol burning the back of my throat.

‘Pernod,’ said Nessa. ‘Don’t you like it?’

I took another experimental sip. ‘No, I do like it. I just wasn’t expecting it, that’s all.’

I downed a couple of glasses of Pernod in quick succession. And then moved on to margaritas, which