Discarded M. Hunter (the snowy day read aloud TXT) 📖

needs to be said about it. I always knew that Mila would come first – as she rightly should – in his life, and actually, our working relationship will probably be stronger without the romantic element hanging over us like Damocles’ sword.

The silence of the car journey gives me time to once again reflect on who is behind the sending of these photographs to me. My conversation with DC Knox in Manchester effectively rules out a member of Faye’s family, and there is still no evidence to suggest that Faye and Cormack were taken by the same people, even if that is what the voice in the back of my head is screaming. And if it isn’t Faye’s family, the possibility that the pictures are from Cormack’s family also feels unlikely. So who does that leave? The person who did take them? But why would he – and yes, I am assuming it’s a he responsible – want to highlight what’s been going on under everyone’s noses? Is it for some kind of twisted fame like Tina Neville? If so, why target me and not just contact the police directly? It just doesn’t add up in my head.

Could there be an unwitting witness out there who was somehow embroiled in these abductions and murders? Again, I’m not convinced. If I’d witnessed someone being killed and secretly buried, I’d go straight to the police, rather than anonymously sending cryptic messages to a writer who may or may not receive them. There’s just too many elements of this that don’t make sense, and it’s giving me a headache. I crack the window on the car as we pass through Richmond and Kew, the Thames already snaking beside us, its mixture of pollution and hidden secrets as cloudy as my head.

If it isn’t a perpetrator or a witness, then I’m at a loss. An amateur sleuth trying to flag these unconnected cases? A frustrated police officer finding no traction with their bosses? Usually I get a sixth sense about what’s happening. If presented with enough facts, my brain is good at deductive reasoning, and that was how I saw through Arthur Turgood’s lies when I first met and interviewed him. This was back when I only had Freddie’s word, and at the time Turgood was arrogant enough to think I wouldn’t keep digging for the truth. It was only when I found corroborative witnesses that he clammed up and refused to speak to me. It was the final nail in his coffin as far as I was concerned, but this time I have no such instinct as to who is responsible.

Once parked, we hurry along the road to Maddie’s office, finding her in reception ready to sign us in through the security gate. Maddie’s agency occupies half of floor 6 in this ten-storey building; the other floors are occupied by a variety of other small businesses – including two other literary agencies – who can’t afford to let an entire building in London without support. Usually the lobby takes my breath away, but today the overhead lights reflecting off the shiny marble walls make me feel as small as a pea. I’ve always been in control of how I investigate a situation. Be it Freddie’s story about St Francis, the Cassie Hilliard abduction, or even the Sally Curtis disappearance, it’s always been me asking the questions and hunting for clues. This is different though; I feel like a puppet being made to dance a jig at someone else’s whim.

She leads us through the barrier, up in the lift, and into her office, where she is careful to make sure the door is closed before removing the envelope from a locked drawer; it seems the importance of what is in her hands hasn’t been lost on Maddie either.

Jack snaps on plastic gloves and delicately takes it from her, placing it into the evidence bag he brought with him from the boot of his car.

‘Don’t you want to know what’s inside?’ Maddie asks, ever the curious creature.

I look at Jack, also somewhat surprised he is so prepared to accept that the envelope will contain the image of another missing child.

‘It’s safer to open it in protected surroundings,’ he says, ‘to prevent potential cross-contamination.’

Maddie bites down on her finger, pulling an awkward grimace that speaks volumes to me, even if it is somewhat lost on Jack.

‘Maddie, what did you do?’ I ask, reserving my judgement.

Her face almost folds in on itself as she shuffles awkwardly from foot to foot. ‘Okay, listen, I didn’t realise what I had at first. I’d just got in from my run and I fell into my chair as I always do, and started opening my post. I’ve been waiting for one of my other clients to forward me some work, and… I’m sorry, I opened it without even looking at who it was addressed to.’

Jack removes the envelope from the evidence bag. The slit in the top is more obvious now. The ceramic letter opener that was used for the deed shimmers on the desk.

Jack glowers but doesn’t say anything, I guess realising that taking it to the lab for forensic examination is less pressing now. Tipping the envelope upside down, he catches the image as it slides through the paper lips. I’m relieved that he’s the one who caught it as my palms are clammy in anticipation. I’m dreading the prospect that he’s about to flip over an image of Anna, along with an address. I’ve already been through the shock of the prospect of her being dead, only to be corrected; I’m not ready to about turn again just yet.

I rest my forearm on the filing cabinet beside me, leaning into it for strength, as Jack flips the image over. For the briefest of seconds I see Anna’s face staring back at me, and my legs almost give way, until I blink and realise that it isn’t her. In fact, it isn’t a picture of a child at all.