I can hear Claire’s breath coming out in little huffs.
‘Told you I’d be quick,’ Boyd says to her.
She doesn’t respond, but I can smell her perfume, her fear propelling the scent into the air.
Inside, I deflate. She must have texted him, summoning him for support before she noticed the errors with Roger’s autopsy.
‘Boyd,’ she murmurs, ‘I don’t understand.’
He adjusts his gloved grip on the gun. ‘Maybe Gemma wants to explain.’
I don’t say anything—I’m trying to work out how to get away from him. He must have come in via a back entrance, and he must have driven here. Surely someone knows he’s here. I think about screaming for help but worry I’d just put Claire in further danger, along with the receptionist. I wonder if the woman would even hear me scream—morgues are soundproofed to mute the horror of skulls and chest plates being sawn open.
‘Claire, come here,’ says Boyd.
She cries and shakes her head, frozen in place.
He sighs. ‘High maintenance as always.’
She just keeps crying.
‘Stop that, please,’ he says politely.
With a ragged gulp, she quietens.
He smiles at me as if everything is normal. ‘Of course you’re not crying, Gemma. You’re notoriously tough. I was telling Claire all about you last week, giving her the lowdown on your colourful history.’
I muster as much confidence as I can. ‘You killed Roger.’
‘Is that your latest theory? Moments ago you had your hopes pinned on poor Claire.’
She emits another shaky sob.
Boyd slides his backpack off his shoulders, keeping his gun to my head. Then he points my gun at Claire again. He drops the backpack onto the floor. ‘Open this for me, please, Claire, and get everything out. Now.’
She scrambles across the floor to him, coming up alongside me, and pulls items out onto the floor.
‘Why did you kill Roger?’ I ask.
Boyd winks at me and grins. ‘Always trying to work out a motive, detective—why, why, why. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I admire that about you. You’re not lazy like a lot of your fat-arsed colleagues, who parade around town like they’re god’s gift to policing. But it’s still very tedious.’
I push the fear down, trying to ignore the guns and focus on his face. ‘What did he have on you? Did he try to blackmail you?’
‘Wrong!’ he says in a cheesy game-show voice. ‘She’s got it wrong, folks.’ He walks in a circle around me, sliding the gun to the small of my back. ‘Hands where I can see them, ladies.’
Still on her knees parallel to me, Claire sniffs and lifts her hands to the back of her head.
‘Detective, you too.’ Boyd nudges the gun into my skull again, and I lift my hands as well—just as my phone lights up with a call. ‘I’ll get that,’ he says cheerfully.
From the sound, I think he jams his gun into his waistband but keeps mine pressed into my scalp as he takes my phone from my hand. I slide my eyes to Claire, hoping she might use the distraction of my phone as a chance to overpower him, but she looks like she’s in shock.
‘Ah, how sweet,’ says Boyd. ‘Detective Everett checking up on you, no doubt.’
Lee, I think. Maybe Everett has an update on Lee and the baby.
‘Lee Blight,’ I blurt out.
‘Lee Blight,’ Boyd repeats, his voice close and low behind my left ear. ‘Name rings a bell. A messed-up no-hoper, if I’m thinking of the right person.’
His own mobile rings. A thought snags in my mind—could that be Everett calling him? Boyd surely isn’t doing all this on his own. He might have killed Roger on his own, but if he was involved in running my sister off the road or stealing her body he had help, because his alibi is airtight.
He checks his phone but doesn’t answer, the shrill ringtone needling my addled brain. I feel hot, like I might pass out. I close my eyes, trying to think; I don’t know who to trust.
I hate that I can’t see him and try to keep him talking so I can get a sense of what he’s doing behind me. ‘What about my sister? Where is she?’
‘Shut up.’ He jams the gun into the rear of my neck. ‘Just shut the fuck up.’
I feel the same terror as when I was attacked at my home. It must have been him. He knew I was heading home, and he wanted me so scared I’d drop the case. But what did he think I knew? I’d asked him about Carlyle, about his business, about the negligence claims made against Lyle Lodge. Does Boyd have a stake in Carlyle’s business? Were he and Roger involved in some kind of scheme and had a falling-out?
Suddenly the pressure of the gun recedes. I consider trying to get him in a headlock, but it feels too risky, and the moment passes. Then Claire starts crying again, but as far as I can see without moving my head, he’s not hurting her. I tense, preparing to pounce.
‘This is not the time for heroics, detective,’ Boyd says, apparently picking up on my body language. ‘There’s no need to make things worse.’
His serenity is very concerning: he clearly has a plan. ‘This doesn’t make sense,’ I say. ‘People know we’re here and will come looking for us. Our cars are here.’
‘It’s not ideal,’ he replies agreeably, ‘but I’m a solutions-orientated person. Even my ex-wife would acknowledge that—and it can be hard to get a compliment out of her, let me tell you. Remember, no one knows I’m here. My bike is stashed next door, and I came in through the back. I even called my assistant Polly on my way here to tell her I’d be hiking this afternoon and uncontactable for a few hours.’
‘The receptionist—’
‘Has been taken care of,’ he finishes. ‘Thought of everything.’
Claire whimpers like a dog.
I try to keep my breathing steady. Has he killed the receptionist? If not, what has he done with her? I try to think of what to say, something to unsettle him, so I can attack.
‘There’s evidence tracing Roger’s murder to you.’
‘Nope, that’s incorrect. All roads lead to poor old Claire, I’m afraid. Of course, I’ll help piece together how she fooled everyone, including me, when I do her autopsy.’
‘No,’ she whispers. ‘Please.’
He returns the gun to my neck, where I can feel a bruise has formed, and nudges me to move closer to Claire. I shuffle along until I’m less than a metre from her. I’m about to kick behind me, praying I get him in the kneecap so I can spin around and fight for the gun, when Claire lets out a cry. She falls forward, lying limp on the floor.
Boyd bearhugs me from behind, forcing the air from my lungs. His cheek is hard against my face. ‘Your turn.’
This time I’m anticipating the needle, but there’s nothing I can do to stop it. I feel it enter my shoulder, and the numbness radiates down my arm and across my chest. Then I’m fighting the inevitable fall, faintly aware of strong arms guiding me to the ground.