Scared to Death: A gripping crime thriller you won’t be able to put down

Headlights suddenly, even though it was still daylight, high up, lighting the interior of her Mini operating-theatre bright. She held her breath, hoping her Mini was doing the same, while a huge metallic black Range Rover Sport squeezed past on the narrow lane, the woman driving, a slim blonde, mobile clamped to her ear, the nose of a chubby-faced, blonde toddler pressed to the back window, her breath clouding the glass.

‘So the Branch need to clear this one up quickly before the press get hold of it and turn it into a public relations nightmare for the Army. Holden-Hough has requested our help.’

‘Why?’

‘The victim, all the key suspects and witnesses are trainees. Sixteen-year-olds. They’re young, vulnerable and frightened.’

‘More babies. Sounds like a nightmare brief.’

‘I’m sure that you can handle it, Doctor Poppins, after this morning’s practice and the Sami Scott case.’

Her mind cast back to this morning, skirting around the baby boy playing on the floor-mat as if he was an explosive device; four months earlier to four-year-old Sami Scott. The death of Sami’s mother, a bitter pill that she hadn’t yet managed to swallow. Still believing that she could, should, have done something to predict and alter that outcome.

‘It’s a bit less Mary Poppins and a bit more Doctor Doolittle with new recruits.’

‘Thank you, I appreciate it.’

‘I haven’t said yes, yet.’ She paused, heard nothing but Gideon’s measured breathing. ‘Who’s the Senior Investigating Officer?’ Her own breath caught in her throat as she waited for Gideon’s answer, waited to hear if it was Callan.

‘Holden-Hough didn’t say.’

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‘Is the SIO on board with the idea of a psychologist’s help?’

‘In the Special Investigation Branch what Holden-Hough says, goes.’

‘I’ll take that as a “no” then.’

‘You can handle it.’

Jessie didn’t answer, because her answer was irrelevant. She was going anyway, no choice. She glanced at her watch: 5 p.m. Relatively early, but she felt wiped out, knew that it wasn’t jet lag. Something about today – Joan Lawson, Malcolm, baby Harry playing happily, unaware that his world was shattering, Ryan Jones, suicide, madness – had sucked her dry. The tingle from the electric suit that she had felt first at the hospital, a tingle that had intensified during her session with Ryan, refused to subside, a background itch coating her whole body, barely there, but omnipresent all the same.

‘Can you go straight to Blackdown?’

‘Is there no one else?’

‘No one who has acres of time in their diary because they’ve come back from three months away.’

‘Working. Away, working.’

A heavy sigh. ‘You know what the government has done to our funding.’

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‘We’re all stretched to breaking, and you have experience of working with the Branch. What was that officer’s name? Cooper?’

‘Callan,’ Jessie murmured. ‘Captain Callan.’

‘Right, Callan. He seemed like a good guy. It might be him.’ The clink of metal stiletto heels on a wooden floor suddenly, echoing down the line, and a woman’s voice Jessie recognized as Jenny, the service’s secretary. ‘I need to go,’ Gideon said.

A click. Silence. Only the sound of her own heartbeat, slightly elevated, beating in the hollow car.

17 (#ulink_c5104b18-d299-540a-9689-a0e78950a1a0)

The afternoon sun cast a feeble rectangle of pale yellow over the bare wooden desk in the room that Callan had hastily commandeered for his interviews.

‘You were the Duty Staff Officer for last night’s guard?’ he asked, though his tone made it more of a statement than a question.

Corporal Jace Harris, wiry, dark-eyed and dark-haired, intense and on edge, facing him across the desk, gave a brief, fretful nod. Callan tilted back in his chair, crossing his legs, one ankle resting on the other knee, slid his hands into his pockets; a deliberately relaxed, matey posture. An obvious tactic, which always surprised him with how effective it was at breaking down defensive barriers.

‘So talk me through what happened last night.’ He fixed Harris with a steady gaze.

Harris shrugged. ‘Nothing much, sir.’

‘Nothing much?’

Harris lifted his shoulders again and his small brown eyes slid to the window.

‘One of your guard duty died, Corporal.’

‘Apart from that.’

Was this guy for real? He didn’t seem overly concerned that a sixteen-year-old under his command had been found dead. Or was it an act?

‘On your watch, Harris. Someone died on your watch.’

‘It was personal. A mate.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘It’s the word on the street.’

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‘Who from?’

‘Dunno.’ Harris swallowed as if his mouth was suddenly dry. ‘It’s not going to be a random murder though, is it? A terrorist or nothing. Not down here in middle-of-fucking-nowhere Camberley.’

‘Why not?’

Harris jerked his thumb towards the window. ‘Because nothing ever happens out there.’

‘Until last night.’

A reluctant nod of acquiescence. ‘Yeah, right. Until last night.’

‘Who found Stephen Foster?’ Callan asked.