Girl A, Dan Scottow [best short books to read .TXT] 📗

something… not right about her. And all this started happening pretty soon after she showed up. I don’t like her.’

‘Okay. You think she could be connected?’

‘She wouldn’t even have been born when Billy Noakes was murdered. I don’t know what her connection is. Unless she’s one of these weirdos who’s obsessed with grisly murders. She was grilling me about it tonight. I got the impression she was digging. She wanted me to think she was joking, but I’m sure she meant it. I don’t know how or why, but my gut tells me she’s connected in some way.’

‘Right. I’ll see if I can find any info on Billy’s family. The lad, he’ll be harder to track down. He’s protected. But someone will know where he is, I’m sure.’

Beth nodded.

Charlie placed his hand on top of Beth’s.

‘I love you. I won’t let anyone hurt you. I’ll protect our family. I promise.’

‘Thank you.’ She stood up. ‘I need to get to bed.’

‘You go. I’ll be up soon,’ Charlie replied.

Beth trudged up the stairs. Charlie heard running water from the en suite.

He pulled the folded newspaper from his pocket. Skimming it once more, he made a note of a few names. A quick internet search on his phone revealed that Detective Matt Simms had retired a few years earlier on medical grounds.

Hardly surprising, Charlie thought. He couldn’t find any further information. So he changed tack. He scoured the page for the reporter.

Tom Cavanagh.

Bingo.

Charlie typed the name into the search engine, and within seconds he had all the details he needed.

He must have been a rookie at the time of the case; still looked relatively young now. He found a mobile number, tapping it into his phone.

After a couple of rings, Cavanagh picked up.

‘Hello?’ The voice was thick Brummie. Grouchy, probably from being called late at night by a stranger.

But when you’re a journalist, that’s par for the course. Charlie explained who he was.

‘Okay, mate. So why are you calling me this late? You got a story for me?’

‘No. Sorry, I don’t.’

Silence. Charlie could hear the occasional long breath, maybe drawing on a cigarette.

‘I’m trying to find Matt Simms.’

No reply.

‘Matt Simms was–’

‘I know who he is.’

‘Okay. Do you know how I can get in touch with him?’

Another pause.

‘Perhaps. What do you want him for?’

‘It’s complicated.’

‘Mate, you’ve called me after midnight. I think the least you owe me is to tell me what this is about.’

‘It’s about Billy Noakes.’

‘What about him?’

‘It’s actually more about Kitty Briscoe.’

More silence.

Not even the sound of breathing.

‘Do you know where she is?’ Cavanagh asked excitedly.

‘No.’

‘Are you sure? My paper would reward you handsomely for dirt on her.’

‘Do you have a number for Simms or not?’

‘Sorry, mate. No can do.’

The line went dead.

‘Shit,’ Charlie cursed under his breath.

He sat staring at his phone for a moment, then hammered a text message into it.

Someone thinks my wife is Kitty Briscoe.

That person is terrorising my family.

She’s innocent. I need to find out what happened to Kieran Taylor. He’s our prime suspect.

Simms is the only one who can help me.

Charlie typed in Tom Cavanagh’s mobile number and hit send.

A few minutes passed, and Charlie had almost given up hope, when three small dots appeared below his message. Cavanagh was replying. A few seconds later a reply buzzed onto his screen. An address in Birmingham, followed by a warning.

Simms was affected hugely by that case. He never really got over it. Raking it up again now will open old wounds for him. Be sure you want to go there.

Charlie was sure.

He didn’t want to cause upset to anyone else, but he had to do this. He had to protect his family.

Tomorrow he would drive to Birmingham.

22 June, 1985, Perry Barr, Birmingham, England.

As the setting sun fell on Kitty Briscoe’s face she inhaled the sweet scents of honeysuckle and jasmine and smiled. She loved summer evenings. Smudge, her kitten, sidled up behind her, rubbing himself against her. His tail swayed above his head as he purred loudly.

Kitty turned and ran her hand across the soft fur of his back. Smudge dribbled as she stroked him.

Kitty’s mother had brought the animal home a few weeks earlier. Her father had been furious, of course. Nothing new there.

She closed her eyes and reclined slowly onto the grass. Resting her fingers on Smudge she lay peacefully, watching the sun set.

She didn’t like it when her mother was out. She tried hard to keep out of her father’s way, but sometimes it didn’t work.

A door slammed inside the house, and Kitty’s eyes sprang open. She sat upright on the lawn.

‘Kitty!’ Her father’s booming voice carried out into the garden and the cat scurried away.

It hadn’t taken him long to learn.

‘Kitty, get in here now!’ her father roared.

He was getting closer.

Kitty jumped up. She didn’t want to see him.

She ran to the fence, slipping through a gap. Crouching on the other side, she held her breath.

Didn’t dare breathe. Didn’t dare move.

‘Kitty, where the hell are you?’

He was outside now.

A bead of sweat trickled down her forehead. She wiped it away carefully.

‘I’m warning you, you little shit. You better get here right now or you’ll bloody well regret it!’

Kitty backed away, the skirt of her pink gingham dress snagged on a rough edge, or a nail, she wasn’t sure which. The fabric ripped.

She held her hand to her mouth, resisting the urge to cry.

Don’t. Get. Caught.

She moved further from the fence, stepping on a twig.

The cracking sound may as well have been a gunshot. She ducked down again, peering through the gap. Her father span around, unsure which direction the noise had come from. Vodka had lessened his ability to think straight. Kitty had learned at a very young age that her father was stupid when he drank.

Stupid, but dangerous.

Kitty watched as his shirtless, fat body wobbled. He swayed back and forth. She hoped he might fall, but he held his balance, taking a step back.

‘Where the hell are you?’ He was furious now.

The kitten ran across the garden, past her