Page 102 of Slack Tide Kill

He picked up his phone and stood, the room spiraling, then went to the narrow window. Outside, the rain had become a vaporous mist. Mermaid Street glistened under the lamps, all cobbles and old windows and crooked roofs, a town preserved by accident and stubbornness. Liam stood and gazed out, drunk and ashamed.

Then he raised his phone and found Mayhew's number. The screen blurred in and out of focus as he tapped out a simple message.

'Sorry I left, I felt sick. I'll give my statement first thing tomorrow.'

He hit send, then let the phone drop to the floor and toppled back onto the bed. Cold white sheets. A clean, plump pillow. All the misery he could swallow.

WEDNESDAY FEBRUARY 7

42 LOVE, ANTON

Sally woke in darkness, fumbled for her phone on the nightstand and checked the time: 5:13. Normally she'd get up, throw on her gear and take the first run of the day. An hour clean along the Thames from her apartment in Battersea, past the old Power Station, across Vauxhall Bridge near NCA headquarters and all the way to Big Ben.

The routine grounded her, running fast past slower joggers and dog-walkers. At the end of the line she'd stand and look up at the great clocktower as various activists set up their loudspeakers, politicians scurried from their dark saloons and journalists prowled amongst them.

Then she'd turn and jog more slowly back to the NCA HQ. Badge in, shower and set to work opposite Liam. They'd ignore each other largely, working down their paperwork stacks while she planned next steps in her hunt for the Louisiana killer.

Every day, that had been her routine. Her compulsion.

Today she felt no drive to run. No overwhelming urge to push herself. All she felt was a lump of cold fear in her chest.

She kicked her legs out of the covers, sat on the edge of the chilly bed and scrolled her phone messages. Nothing from Liam. She called him but there was still no answer. She got out of bed, opened the door and went to his room, knocking three times, then three times more.

Only silence.

Where was he?

Back in her room, she paced, numbly scrolling the rest of her messages. Only one stood out to her. Anton Mylovich, the Lincolnshire father still searching for his daughter's killer.

She brought it up.

There were always attachments to Mylovich's messages. Photographs, maps of the breakfast club, his latest research. This time there was one zip file, 83 megabytes in size.

She'd only met Mylovich once, in a coffee shop not far from his daughter's school. Two months after the killing, there'd still been flowers outside the gates, but wilted. There'd been cards and teddies sodden with rain.

He'd been manic, though. Clearly sleep-deprived. Driven to find an answer, but she'd had nothing to give him.

She opened the email.

'Dear Sally,

I'm sorry, this will be our last communication. It has become too much for me. I see my dear Clarabel everywhere, and I cannot bear it any longer.

Please find attached my research. There is something here, I know it, but I just can't find it. Perhaps you will have more luck.

I am sorry to ask this of you. I know you have suffered more than any of us. You and all your Sisters deserved so much better.

Do not fear for me now. I am with my Clarabel again.

Love,

Anton.'

Sally's breath stilled. She read it again, but jammed at 'my dear Clarabel'. Tears welled in her eyes as she thought of the lost girls of Lincoln, and the lost girls of Louisiana.

Her friends. Her sorority Sisters. All leaving her alone after Louisiana. No parents by her bedside. That old, overwhelming sense of loss swamped her like a tide rolling back in. Liam lost. Cagen dead. The case spiraling.

The urge to run crashed over her like a Dungeness storm. Her breathing grew harsh and tight, like she was back in the dirt of Dark Peak, back under the pile of bodies in the APB sorority house...