Let the Dead Speak: A gripping new thriller. Jane Casey
Читать онлайн.| Название | Let the Dead Speak: A gripping new thriller |
|---|---|
| Автор произведения | Jane Casey |
| Жанр | Полицейские детективы |
| Серия | |
| Издательство | Полицейские детективы |
| Год выпуска | 0 |
| isbn | 9780008149000 |
It had been raining for fifty-six hours when Chloe Emery came home. The forecast had said to expect a heatwave; it wasn’t supposed to be raining.
And Chloe wasn’t supposed to be home.
She came out of the station and stopped, shifting her big black bag from one shoulder to the other. The rain poured off the awning, splashing onto the pavement in front of her. It coursed into the gutters where filthy water was already swirling, dark and gritty, freighted with rubbish and twigs and dead leaves. Chloe’s T-shirt clung to her back and her stomach. She twitched the material away from her skin, self-conscious about the swell of her breasts. She hadn’t ever really thought about them until her stepmother had mentioned them.
‘Big girl like you, you need a better bra. Better support. You can’t blame men for looking, you know.’ A thin, spiteful smile. ‘You might as well enjoy it, though. They’ll be down to your knees in no time and no one will care then.’
It had taken Chloe a long time to understand what she meant, which had annoyed Belinda. She still didn’t know why Belinda was angry with her about her body, or people looking at her. A wave of unease passed over Chloe, remembering – the familiar nausea of not knowing things that other people took for granted. It wasn’t her fault; she did try.
There was no point in waiting for the rain to stop. Chloe bent her head and trudged away from the station. Her clothes and hair were saturated within a couple of minutes, her jeans cold and heavy, dragging against her skin. Every raindrop felt like a finger tapping on her head, her shoulders, her back. Her shoulder was burning where the bag strap rubbed it. There were no other pedestrians, except for a mother pushing a buggy on the opposite pavement, striding fast, the hood on her sensible anorak pulled down low over her face. Who would be out for a walk on a wet Sunday afternoon if they didn’t have to be? Not Chloe, not feeling the way she did, sick and tired and still a bit sore. But there was no one to meet her at the station. No one knew she was there.
A car engine hummed on the street behind her and she didn’t think anything of it, even when it got louder and closer. It wasn’t until the car pulled in ahead of her with a jerk of the brakes that she noticed it in any detail. The driver was leaning forward to peer into the rear-view mirror, adjusting it so she could see his eyes staring into hers. The fear came first, a thud that shook her chest as if someone had kicked her. Then recognition: it wasn’t a stranger watching her walk towards him. It was a neighbour. More than a neighbour: it was Mr Norris, who lived across the road from her, who always smiled and asked her how she was, who had very bright eyes and white teeth and was Bethany’s father. Bethany was younger than Chloe but she knew so much more about everything.
Chloe went over to the car, peering in through the window he’d lowered on the passenger side.
‘Where are you off to? Going home? Jump in, I’ll give you a lift.’
Mr Norris never waited for an answer. She’d noticed that before. She didn’t know if it was because she was so slow or if he was like that with everyone.
‘I don’t need a lift.’
‘Course you do. You’ve got that heavy bag.’ He was smiling at her, his eyes fixed on hers. She stared at the bridge of his nose, unaware that it made her look slightly cross-eyed. ‘How come your mum didn’t pick you up?’
‘I can manage.’ It wasn’t a proper answer, and Chloe’s palms were wet from the fear he’d ask again, but there were good things about being thick and not having to answer questions properly was one of them.
‘Now you don’t have to manage. Stick your bag in the back and jump in.’
There was no point in arguing, Chloe knew. She trailed to the other end of the car and put her hand on the latch for the boot. It clicked and she tried to lift it. Nothing happened. She returned to the window.
‘It’s locked.’
‘Not the boot. Put it on the back seat, I meant.’ He bit off the ends of the words, obviously annoyed. And he hadn’t said the boot, Chloe thought, mortified. He’d said the back and she’d assumed he meant the boot. She’d got it wrong, as usual.
She fumbled one of the doors open and dumped her bag on the seat, then opened the passenger door and hesitated.
‘Get in. What are you waiting for?’ He was checking his mirrors, scanning the pavements. Getting ready to drive off, Chloe thought, remembering that and not much more from the three humiliating lessons that were the sum total of her driving experience.
She got into the car, scrambling to close the door and get her seatbelt on before he got annoyed again. He helped her with the seatbelt, smoothing it out carefully across her lap before he slid the metal tongue into the lock. The belt flattened the thin, sodden material of her T-shirt against her body and she thought he was staring at her chest for a second, but he wasn’t, probably. That was just her stepmother and what she’d said. He was a dad, after all. He was old.
‘So where’ve you been? Away somewhere nice?’
‘Dad’s.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Mr Norris went quiet for a minute, concentrating on the road. It didn’t occur