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

and stamped her foot.

‘Take that back. It’s not nice.’

Kieran smirks.

‘No. It’s true. My mum says your mum is a liar. Everyone around here knows it.’

Kitty stuck out her bottom lip.

‘You’re mean, Kieran Taylor. Sometimes I really hate you!’

Kieran swatted a dismissive hand in her direction, turning back towards the hotel. He pushed a few of the boards that sat in front of an old doorway and eventually one of them bowed inwards. He slipped inside through the gap.

Kitty looked around.

‘Kieran?’ she shouted after him.

There was no reply.

Kitty walked closer to the doorway, pushing her ear against the wall.

Silence.

‘Kieran.’ She trembled. She was whispering, but she didn’t know why.

Kitty pushed a board where she had seen Kieran push it. She wasn’t as strong as him, and she had to push with both hands, as hard as she could. The board gave way and Kitty tumbled in through the hole.

Into the darkness.

25

The rain had started about halfway into Charlie’s journey and hadn’t stopped. As he pulled up outside the terraced red-brick house, he yawned. Four hours on the road and an early start were taking their toll on him. But he couldn’t afford to be tired. He stepped out onto the pavement and assessed his surroundings. A pleasant enough estate.

Large houses, bay windows, pretty, manicured front lawns. Marigolds growing in neat rows in a few of the flower beds. Nothing like a bit of gentrification, Charlie thought.

They would have been desirable, once. He looked over his shoulder. A group of teenagers who had been kicking a tennis ball around the road had stopped and were watching him. Or were they looking at his car? He glanced at the scratch along the length of his A5 and decided to take the risk.

Pulling out his phone, he checked he had the right address and descended the path before him.

He arrived at a white door, with small, coloured window panels in the top. Pressing the doorbell, he waited.

Eventually, he saw movement but couldn’t make out anything other than dark, jumbled shapes, distorted by the glass. The door opened slowly. The smell of stale cigarettes wafted out, making Charlie grimace. He recoiled, then realised he was being assessed, trying to regain his composure.

A rotund woman of about seventy stood in the doorway, eyeing Charlie suspiciously. Her clothes were smart, but her white hair was wild.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked, her voice thick like treacle.

‘I’m looking for Matt Simms.’

‘And who are you?’

‘Is he here?’

She stared at Charlie, waiting for an answer to her question.

‘He doesn’t know me, but I’d really like to talk to him.’

‘What about?’

Charlie wished he had formulated more of a plan before he drove all the way to Birmingham.

He heard a series of knocks and rattles from inside the house.

‘It’s okay, Jude. You can let him in.’ An old-sounding, raspy voice.

The woman stepped to one side, opening the door fully. Charlie saw a fat, elderly man in a wheelchair.

‘Cavanagh told me to expect a visit. Didn’t think you’d be here this quick though. You must be desperate.’

Charlie stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets.

‘I suppose you’d better come in then. Jude, be a love and put the kettle on, would you?’

The woman’s eyes flicked back and forth between her husband and Charlie, as she shut the door and scurried away down the hall.

The man manoeuvred himself into an adjacent room. Charlie followed. Simms was a different person from the pictures on the internet.

You wouldn’t have called him handsome, but there was something kind and intriguing about his face. He had been fit, healthy-looking.

A distant shadow of the creature before Charlie now, a cigarette tucked behind one ear of a pallid, grey-skinned face. Deep crevices and folds lined the surface. Thinning grey hair, stained yellow at the ends from nicotine, hung limply around his jowls.

‘Sit down then,’ he said as Charlie stepped into the living room. The house was tidy and soulless. There were no photos on the mantel. No art on the walls.

The furniture was clean and modern, but this didn’t feel like a home. No ornaments. Nothing personal.

Charlie sat on a large floral settee, fidgeting with the buttons of his leather jacket.

‘So what do you want, Mr…’

‘Carter. Charlie Carter.’

Simms coughed. A repugnant, rasping noise. He sounded like he was choking on phlegm.

‘Well?’

‘I need some information about Kitty Briscoe.’

‘I’m sure you’re aware that her identity is unknown. She was relocated. Rebranded. She got the chance of a new life. To have her childhood. To grow up.’ A sadness entered his eyes. Charlie felt there was more he wanted to say but didn’t.

‘Yes, I know. But I wondered if you perhaps had any idea where she might be. Or who she might be.’

‘No, I don’t. And I don’t care.’

The wife shuffled into the room carrying a tray with three mugs and a teapot. She poured the tea and handed a cup to Charlie. No milk, no sugar.

‘Jude, could you give us a minute please, love?’ Simms said tenderly to her. She shot daggers at Charlie, then retreated, closing the door behind her.

‘Why do you want to know, Mr Carter?’ he continued.

Charlie watched him. He didn’t look healthy. His eyes lingered on the wheelchair. Simms saw the direction of Charlie’s gaze.

‘There’s not a lot right with me these days. Emphysema. Too many fags. My legs don’t work too great either. Let’s just say I’ve not treated my body well over the years. God knows why Jude stays with me. That’s devotion for you.’

Charlie cleared his throat.

‘Someone thinks my wife is Kitty Briscoe.’

Silence.

Charlie continued. ‘She’s not. But this person is making our lives hell. I’d like to find proof that she isn’t, before somebody gets hurt. I’d also like to know who is doing this to us. We suspect it may be Kieran Taylor.’

‘Taylor is long gone.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘When he got out of prison he disappeared. He was to report to a social worker regularly. After he’d been out a few months, he vanished.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Yep. We weren’t supposed to know who he