LAUGHTON ENDS HER CALL TO another achingly polite admissions person and checks the time. Her next lecture starts in just over ten minutes, so she could probably squeeze in another call, but her heart’s not really in it—there’s only so much of the kindness of posh strangers she can take in one day.
She closes the browser showing the list of schools and opens her research folder instead, defaulting to her usual mode of sinking into work and the ghosts of crimes past whenever the present day gets too much for her. She turns her mobile phone back on then clicks on a file marked IAN COULTHARD, ready to seek comfort in a double murder in Edinburgh in the mid-eighties, when her mobile phone buzzes. Again, the number is withheld, and again, she is about to ignore it when a sudden thought assaults her.
Gracie!
Something might have happened to Gracie, and this is her panicked school calling. She snatches the phone from her desk and answers it.
“Hello?”
“Hi, am I speaking to Laughton Rees?” The voice is male, unfamiliar, a bit breathy like he’s running, which is vaguely creepy.
“Yes, this is Laughton. Who am I—”
“I wondered if you were aware that one of your books was found at a murder scene this morning?”
Laughton feels relief that the call is not about her daughter but guarded suspicion about where it might be heading. “Who is this?”
“The title of the book is How to Process a Murder, and it seems the murder scene was wiped clean using information apparently gleaned from your book.”
“That book is a procedural guide for investigators,” Laughton says. “It’s not a manual for how to get away with murder.”
“Yeah, but given who your father is, the presence of your book in particular at a crime scene is still pretty embarrassing, no? I mean, there’s plenty of books on forensics and investigation procedure, but it was your book specifically that was left at the scene. I would be very interested to talk to you about it.”
“I don’t have anything to say. I don’t work on active cases.”
“So I understand, however you’re already part of this one so I thought you might make an exception. I can pay you, of course.”
Laughton’s standard response would be to say “Thanks but no thanks,” probably not that politely, end the phone call and carry on with her day.
“With your distinguished credentials,” the voice continues, “as well as your personal ties with the commissioner, we’d easily be talking five figures, maybe even more if the story has legs.”
Five figures.
Her eyes drift down to her notebook and the list of private schools with their yearly fees, also five figures. “Let me think about it,” she hears herself saying.
“OK, but don’t take too long. I’ll ping you over an email with my contact details so you can get in touch directly. Look forward to hearing from you.”
He hangs up abruptly, leaving Laughton frowning and listening to the dial tone. He never did say who he was or what paper he worked for. Not that it makes much difference. Laughton has had an instinctive mistrust of journalists ever since they camped out on her doorstep following her mother’s death. She starts tapping her fingers in patterns of three at the ghost of this memory. All those shark-eyed cameras and shouted questions whenever she left the house. The feeling of being exposed and vulnerable at a time when all she wanted to do was disappear, like her mother had disappeared.
Her PC pings softly as an email arrives.
BSlade@TheDaily.com—subject line “Interview request.”
The Daily. Of course he’s from The Daily, biggest beast in the sewer with the biggest circulation too. No wonder he could afford to wave his big fat checkbook at her.
The first story is about to drop, the email says. You’re already in this one for free, so if you want to be paid to be part of the next one, give us a bell. Might as well be on the bus rather than under it. :) x
Underneath is a link.
Again Laughton feels the stirring of something unpleasant and half-forgotten. There is a very good reason she doesn’t work active cases. All her cases are old, and obscure, and low profile. They don’t get picked up by the newspapers and turned into circuses. Active cases are messy, uncontrollable, dangerous. They can bring unwanted attention. They can even be deadly.
She checks the time.
Her next lecture starts in less than four minutes, but the lift is working, so she can get there in two. She clicks the link and a new window opens, displaying the shouty color of The Daily.
The lead story is about some footballer she’s never heard of on trial for something grubby. There’s a large picture of him leaving court wearing a suit that manages to look both expensive and cheap at the same time. More stories are stacked along the right-hand side like a colorful tower of kids’ building blocks, more people she doesn’t recognize looking glamorous on red carpets and beaches, or looking terrible as they emerge from cars and drab front doors.
She scrolls down the page, scanning the headlines, her stomach feeling like a stone is forming inside it. She pauses at the ones with red EXCLUSIVE banners pinned to them, figuring these must be the scoops, but they’re all about celebrities—singers, reality stars, movie stars, more footballers.
None of them seem to be about a recent murder.
She refreshes the page, clicking the button three times out of habit, but the page comes back unchanged. She checks the time. Three minutes to her next lecture.
Three.
She sees this as a sign, clicks the refresh button three more times, grabs her notebook, and leaves her office.
She doesn’t see the page refresh behind her, the picture of the footballer replaced by the cover of a book with her name on it, lying on a blood-soaked carpet.