Alex Barclay 4-Book Thriller Collection: Blood Runs Cold, Time of Death, Blood Loss, Harm’s Reach

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. It was a compliment. I wasn’t talking about –’

‘I’m sorry. I just was hoping you didn’t think we were all robots.’

‘Not at all,’ said Patrick. ‘I’ve seen the grief. And it was very touching.’

Breckenridge looked closed by the time Ren drove through. When she got back to the inn, she grabbed a book from the shelf in the living room, something set in a pretty place with a pretty girl and a handsome guy. She went up to the suite, locked herself in and turned on the bedside lamp. She went to the bathroom, brushed her teeth, changed into pale pink flannel pajamas and got into bed. She lay back with the book on her chest under her hand. She leaned up, opened it and started. Line four talked about a woman with blonde hair. Jean Transom. Two paragraphs later, someone’s bedroom was painted lavender. JeanTransom. By page two, the book was on the night stand and Ren’s eyes were dead ahead. Tiny pulses of anxiety struck up all over her body. Her breathing was a mess.

I am a failure. Everyone has been working underme. I have led them all into a dead-end. I cannot takemy mind off all this with a book.

She pulled back the covers and got out of bed. She grabbed the coffee pot, turned on the kettle and laid files across the bed while she waited. When her coffee was made, she took her mug and wandered over to the window.

Staring out at the damp, late-evening streets and the solid mountain peaks, she could believe for as long as she stood there that the world was a beautiful place.

Chapter 55 (#ulink_e18a279a-a910-5489-910d-b8d016735db7)

Ren sat on her bed with a bottle of water beside her. The sun was slowly warming her room. Someone knocked on her door. Quick, relentless knocking – her favorite.

It was the maid. ‘Excuse me? Can I clean your room?’

Shit. Ren checked her watch. It was nine a.m. What? She had slept twice that night, an hour each time. She looked around the room. There were towels draped on the side of the bath, coffee mugs on every surface, chocolate wrappers, empty and half-empty chip bags, shorts, tops, shoes. Please clean my room. Then she looked at the bed and its cute patchwork of crime scene and autopsy photographs.

‘No thank you,’ said Ren. ‘Maybe, if you left a tray for me outside and maybe a cloth and some cleaning supplies …’ I would be miserable.

‘Maybe when I finish the rest of the house.’

Ren stood up and escorted herself into the shower. When she was finished and dressed, she went to tidy the pages on the bed. In the back of one of the files was the work photo of Jean Transom. Little Amber Transom had touches of her aunt in her features. Ren pulled out another photo of Jean – the one Gressett had given her. It was a long shot of Jean at a summer party, half-turned to the camera, laughing and holding a red Frisbee by her side. When she smiled, all you could see was dark, straight, long lashes. Ren stopped. Oh my God. She grabbed the photo of Amber and the photo of Jean and looked back and forth between them. Oh my God.

The drive felt epic. No speed was fast enough. Ren called Gary to let him know what she had discovered and where she was going. If she was taking definitive action on something. Gary needed blocks of complete information – a thoroughly considered theory that explained why she was doing what she was doing. You could theorize with Gary, but if the pieces weren’t all in place, you did not act on it until you knew more. It made Ren be a better agent. And it drove her nuts.

She was reeling from a wave of hits about Jean’s life. Jean had been murdered and the life she had kept so secret was going to have to be exposed. Ren wished it could be another way.

She pulled up outside the small stuccoed house where Caroline Quaintance lived and walked up the path to the front door.

‘Caroline,’ said Ren, ‘it’s Ren Bryce again.’

There was movement behind the stained glass of the door, but no response.

‘Please let me in,’ said Ren.

Caroline Quaintance opened the door and looked like she was about to try a smile. Ren was looking at her from a new angle. And Caroline knew it.

‘I’m guessing you know why I’m here,’ said Ren.

‘I have no idea,’ said Caroline.

‘Right, OK,’ said Ren. ‘Well, I’m going to have to just say it. I know you are Jean Transom’s daughter.’

Caroline turned away from Ren, but pushed the door open wider behind her as she walked into the living room. Ren followed her.

‘I haven’t known long.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Ren.

‘How did you know?’

‘The pathologist discovered Jean had given birth. And when I looked at photos of Jean, when she was relaxed and off-duty, there was something about you and her that connected. Then, when I met her niece, Amber, it was amazing how all three of you have similar expressions.’

‘I read that you found her body,’ said Caroline. ‘I don’t know how to feel.’ She sat slowly into the corner of the sofa.

Suddenly the young woman started crying with an extraordinary, complex grief. Ren stood rigid, holding her breath, fascinated by the intensity of her emotion.

‘I just don’t know,’ said Caroline eventually. ‘She was my mother. It even sounds weird. I didn’t know her. But I liked her. We had a connection. But can I say I loved her?’ She shrugged. ‘Why do I feel I love her, then? I don’t get it.’

Ren put a tentative hand on Caroline’s arm. ‘She was your mother, that’s why. She’s family. And whatever you feel is what you feel – you can’t argue with that.’

‘But you read about people in magazines and they have no feelings for their biological family. They feel nothing. Or they hate them. Or they’re angry.’

‘Everyone reacts differently,’ said Ren.

‘I’m sorry, but I wish I was more like them now. I wish I felt nothing at all. Because this is way too hard. I’ve readjusted my whole life to fit Jean into it. And I had the extra pressure of having to hide it, because of her job and well, I don’t really know what else. I mean – would you get fired for that? I wouldn’t have thought so. And now what do I do?’

‘I know how heartbreaking this is,’ said Ren, ‘but you can feel proud of what you overcame and for how open you were to having a relationship with her.’

Caroline looked at her. ‘Thank you. Thanks.’

‘Can I ask?’ said Ren. ‘What did she tell you about your father?’ Because whatever it was, it wasbound to be a lie.

‘Just that he was a football god in high school … she was this pretty blonde …’

Don’t say cheerleader.

‘… cheerleader,’ Caroline finished.

‘Did you ever think of tracing him?’ said Ren.

Caroline shook her head. ‘I thought – well, he didn’t treat her well. And I don’t want to meet a man who treated my mother badly. Based on what I’ve heard about him abandoning us, I feel that I got most of my personality from her, anyway. So I didn’t think I needed to connect any dots, if you know what I mean.’

Ren nodded.

‘Yes …’ said Caroline.

Jean Transom had told her daughter a trite story of young, beautiful love, even if it had ended badly. Everyone wants to be born of two parents who were in love. It’s an easy story to throw out and an easy one for an abandoned child to swallow.

The only truth you have about your parents, CarolineQuaintance, is that your father did treat your motherbadly. A twelve-year-old mother could only ever havebeen treated badly.

* * *

Ren pulled into the church car park opposite the Firelight Inn and turned off the engine. She sat still, gripping the wheel. Jean’s body has been found.I have no excuse. But it was not a negative. She had hope.