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

‘Martha Wonsag.’

‘Who is she?’

‘One of the new recruits, joined the same time as Foster, five or six months ago. They were on guard duty together. She radioed it in.’

‘Where were you when you received the call?’

‘In the guard hut.’

‘By the main gate?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Inside?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Why?’

‘It was raining.’

‘Are you made of sugar?’

‘Wot?’

Callan looked at the sullen ferret face. Sugar,spiceandallthingsnice.Hardly. ‘Do you dissolve in the wet, Corporal?’

Harris didn’t answer. He had retrieved a stainless steel Zippo lighter from his pocket and was rolling it in his fingers like a worry bead.

‘Why weren’t you outside checking on the guard detail, Harris?’

‘Because, like I already said—’

‘It was raining. And nothing ever happens out there,’ Callan cut in.

Sitting forward, he planted his elbows on the desktop and steepled his fingers. Wasthisguyforreal? ‘Until last night.’

Flicking the lid of the Zippo lighter half open with his thumb a couple of times, the noise irritatingly tinny in the bare room, Harris sneered and curled his lip. ‘Until last fucking night.’

‘Were you alone?’

‘I’m not sure exactly what time Foster died, sir, so I can’t say.’

‘Were you alone at any time during the night?’

‘For a brief period, sir.’

‘How long?’

‘Five or ten minutes. Ten max.’

‘Where were the gate guards?’

Harris frowned. ‘They were around.’

‘Around where? Around the gate?’

Harris didn’t answer; his gaze had found the window again. Callan looked over. Two male pigeons had settled on the windowsill, were strutting back and forth, fluffing their feathers to beef up their size, preparing for a fight. He shared their sentiment.

‘Where were the gate guards, Corporal Harris?’

Silence. Callan waited.

Eventually, Harris sighed. ‘One of them’s girlfriend turned up.’

Callan didn’t even want to ask the question, knew what answer he’d get if he did. Instead, he let the silence hang, saw Harris’s hands begin to churn around the Zippo.

‘She’s off travelling for six months.’

‘And?’ He twisted the knife.

‘You know what – and – sir.’

‘What about the other guard?’

‘I sent him back to my accommodation block to get my fags. I’d run out.’

Callan rubbed his hands across his face, massaging his fingers right into his eye sockets. He felt knackered, would rather be anywhere than sitting in this featureless, white-walled box, facing this moron.

‘So Martha Wonsag radioed that she’d found Stephen Foster dead,’ he said.

‘Yeah.’

‘What time was that?’

‘Three ten a.m., sir.’

A stake in the sand. Onestake,inquicksand.Infinitesimalprogress.

‘So where the hell was she when Foster died?’

‘She said that she was on a toilet break.’

‘A toilet break? How long does a toilet break last?’

‘Mine? Ten seconds. But I can piss up against a tree, can’t I.’ Harris clicked his tongue sarcastically. ‘Hers? You’ll need to ask her that question, sir.’

‘Did you ask her?’