Fallaize lay on a bed in the shitty B&B the force had put him in and tried to sleep. Every time he began to drift off, some fucked-up part of his brain jerked him back into consciousness. What the hell had he spoken to that Dorey bitch for? He’d had too much to drink, thought he’d try to throw Gilbert off his game, but it was just as likely to backfire. That woman was like a dog with a bone. She was never going to let it drop.
His phone pinged. He reached out for it, held it in front of his face, tried to focus on the words.
Shit. He sat up. She was panicking. If she was panicking, it was fucking bad. He tried to think of a vaguely reassuring response. He fumbled, pressing each letter firmly, deliberately.
I’ll deal with it.
But he couldn’t. He couldn’t keep a lid on things. Not here.
He closed his eyes. The phone pinged again. He was tempted to ignore her. But that would be stupid. And dangerous. He squinted at the screen.
It wasn’t her.
It was Gilbert.
Fuck.