Dark Waters: The addictive psychological thriller you won’t be able to put down. Mary-Jane Riley

think what to do next. But I did blow it up.’

      The growing chatter in the police station conference room brought Alex back to the present. The bank of microphones looking like furry caterpillars on the table was growing. Alex scanned the room, looking for someone from The Post. She was bound to recognize them, wasn’t she?

      No one.

      She brought up the newspaper’s website on her phone – surely Bud would have run what she’d written by now? He wasn’t one for hanging around before he published. Normally, he took a chance. ‘Not wrong for long,’ he used to say.

      But there was nothing there. No breaking news, no colour piece from her. Perhaps he was having to play it safe this time for one reason or another.

      She refreshed her phone again. Nothing.

      Someone slipped into the seat beside her. A lemony fragrance wafted over.

      ‘You’ve been keeping my seat warm, then?’

      Alex shook her head. Bloody hell. Not him. ‘Hello, Heath,’ she said.

      Heath Maitland grinned at her, all white teeth and Hollywood smile, floppy fringe half over his eyes. Designer jacket. Handmade shoes. Claimed to be late thirties but more likely early forties. Money; not courtesy of The Post, but of his family, so the rumour mill had it. His name courtesy of his mother who was an authority on the works of the Brontës. Heath – he had dropped the ‘cliffe’ bit pretty early on in life – had the reputation of being able to get any woman into bed. Not her, she wasn’t that stupid. But he never ceased trying.

      ‘When Bud said you were looking at the story, I couldn’t believe it. Long time no see and all that,’ he said. ‘Christ, these chairs are hard. Don’t they give you cushions or something?’

      ‘If he’d told me he was sending you, I wouldn’t have bothered,’ she replied, tartly. ‘And no. No cushions. This is a police station, remember?’

      ‘Come on, Alex, you know you’re pleased to see me really.’ He nudged her arm.

      She felt her lips twitching. ‘No, I really am not.’ But, in truth, Heath Maitland was impossible not to like. Irritating. Pushy. Arrogant. Lazy. A dilettante. But fun to have around – mostly.

      ‘You win some you lose some.’ That megawatt smile again. He turned it onto a journalist a few rows away. To Alex’s annoyance, the woman returned it. ‘Last I heard,’ Heath continued, ‘you were hanging around with some dodgy character.’

      Alex stiffened. ‘I don’t know who you mean.’

      ‘Yes, you do. Some bloke who fancied himself—’

      She snorted. ‘And you don’t?’

      ‘You know me better than that.’ He glanced sideways at her. ‘Malone. Wasn’t that his name?’

      It was. Malone who had run out on her twice now. Malone who she thought would stay the course this time despite the fact that his life was a mess. Malone who’d helped her son find his father, told her she was beautiful, wanted to make a go of things. And then he’d fucked off. That Malone.

      ‘Yep. But we’re not together any more.’ She hated articulating it out loud, but she couldn’t go on hoping he’d come back, or even get in contact with her. He’d been out of her life for seven months and three days now and she knew she had to move on. But that would not be with Heath Maitland.

      ‘Really?’ He raised an eyebrow.

      ‘Yes, really.’

      ‘Doesn’t know what he’s missing.’

      Oh, that smile.

      ‘No. And nor do you,’ she replied tartly. ‘Now, do you want to know what’s going on here or not?’

      He yawned and glanced at what looked to be a very expensive watch on his wrist. ‘Two stiffs on a boat, that’s what I know. Are they going to be long?’

      ‘How should I know?’ she snapped, and immediately regretted her petulance.

      ‘Chillax,’ he said.

      That made her laugh. ‘“Chillax”? Who did you learn that one from?’

      He looked indignant. ‘My godson, if you must know.’

      ‘Hah. He was pulling your leg.’

      ‘I don’t think so.’ Heath looked around. ‘Took me hours to get here. No decent roads.’

      ‘What do you mean? They’ve only recently dualled the A11.’

      He laughed. ‘Maybe, but bloody hell, they still allow tractors on it.’

      Alex laughed. ‘We don’t want people like you discovering Norfolk and Suffolk. We like to keep it to ourselves.’

      ‘Some of the countryside I drove through was lovely,’ he admitted.

      Alex liked him for saying that. She was so used to the wide open skies that went on forever and the special soft light that shimmered and the air that was fresh and clean, she sometimes forgot how special a place it was. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate it – two years in London breathing in fumes and dust that was other people’s skin made sure of that – but she occasionally needed to step back and look at it anew. She thought about ripples on water, trees that were green and lush, ducks and geese on the commons, and the Broads that welcomed every new visitor, and the cerulean blue sky. She smelt the tang of brine when she was by the sea, and the scents of early summer flowers when she went walking. ‘I love it here,’ she said.

      ‘And did you leave London in such a hurry because you were dying to get back to sticksville or because of Malone?’

      She glanced sideways at him. ‘I didn’t think anyone had noticed I’d left.’

      He didn’t look at her. ‘Oh, they did. Well, I did.’

      ‘Don’t be daft. I was in a completely different department to you.’

      ‘Only the other side of the desk.’

      ‘Features versus news, hey? Soft bubbles versus proper journalism?’ Now she nudged him with her elbow. ‘Anyway, I wasn’t there often.’

      ‘Often enough.’ He looked at her with those blue, blue eyes. Flirting as ever.

      For a brief moment Alex was flattered. Then she remembered his reputation and thought she had better get on with the business in hand. She cleared her throat, leaned forward and whispered: ‘Right. Two men dead on the boat, one from London. I’m reliably informed it is Derek Daley. And—’

      He stared at her for a moment. ‘That’s confirmed, is it?’

      ‘Well, I’ve confirmed it and I’ve sent a piece to Bud, but there’s nothing up on the website. Don’t you think that’s strange?’ She tried to sound offhand about it.

      Heath shrugged. ‘Not necessarily. Perhaps he wanted to keep it for the paper. Exclusive. Not bother with the website – you know what a Luddite he is. I mean, if it really is Derek Daley—’

      ‘Sssh, not so loud.’ Alex glanced around to see if anyone had heard. It didn’t look like it. ‘And it is.’

      ‘Then it should make great headlines. And the other?’

      ‘A man from Suffolk. Roger Fleet. Don’t know any more than that at the moment.’

      ‘And how did you get this information?’

      She smiled. ‘I’ve got an “in” with the owner of the boat hiring company.’

      ‘Really?’ A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

      ‘Not that sort of “in”.’

      ‘Right. Okay. So Derek, and Roger from Suffolk. I’ve never heard anything on the grapevine