Katerina Diamond – The Promise: The twisty new thriller from the Sunday Times bestseller, guaranteed to keep you up all night (страница 15)
Mr Wallis, the P.E. teacher, blew the whistle and subbed Connor into the game. There were only a few minutes left, but he got the ball and ran hard with it, right into the fray. Within seconds, he was under a pile of guys. The whistle blew again.
‘Can I have a word, Connor?’ Mr Wallis called him over before shouting at the class. ‘Everyone back in formation. Start again.’
Connor ran to the teacher, slightly breathless, slightly out of practice. He had been kicked off the team a few months earlier at home and so his physical fitness was not as hot as usual. It wouldn’t take him long though, a bit of training and he would be back on top.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘You sure you’re up for this? You’ll have to unlearn a few things, and despite what you might think, it’s quite different to the football you’re used to, not harder – but different. Rugby is tougher in the sense that players play the ball continuously. But with American football, because of all the breaks, you get to play harder when the ball is in play. You’ll need to conserve energy at certain times with rugby. You don’t need to go full out every time you have the ball. You’ll learn soon enough, but if you play like that constantly you’re going to end up with some pretty nasty injuries in no time.’
‘I can handle it.’
‘I’m sure you think you can. But for now, humour me.’
‘OK, sir.’
Mr Wallis blew the whistle and the boys stopped playing immediately. They all rushed back towards the school building with much more enthusiasm than they had when playing rugby.
‘I read about some of your sporting achievements at your other school and we’re lucky to have you here. You just have to keep it together. We play rugby on Mondays and Fridays and then general games on a Thursday, until next term, and then we switch to football – or soccer as you might call it – for spring, then back to rugby in the summer term. We’re looking forward to seeing what you can do.’
‘Thank you, I’ll do my best.’
‘I’m sure you will. Now go get showered and changed.’
Connor grabbed his things and headed for the changing rooms. When he got in, all the other boys were out already and drying themselves off which was a relief as it meant he got to shower alone. One of the other boys in the class smiled at Connor as he opened his locker.
‘Hey, Connor.’
‘Hi …’ he replied.
‘It’s Neil. You did great out there, it’s good to have some fresh blood on the field. How did it feel without all that padded crap you guys wear?’
‘It felt pretty good.’ Connor was used to this kind of talk; he had heard it his whole life from his father.
‘Hey, I have my driving test soon. If I pass we’re all going out. Do you want to come?’
‘Sounds cool, sure.’
‘Great,’ Neil said, ‘I’ll let you know.’
Connor waited for Neil to turn his back and then slipped into the shower when he was sure no one was looking. He got under the water, the heat of the shower soothing against his bruises. They didn’t hurt as much as they should have because he was used to feeling bruised. The first few times it was much worse, but now, he could take it. This was the norm and maybe it was exactly what he deserved. Playing rugby would provide the perfect excuse for the large purple lesions left behind by the buckle on his father’s belt; it had pierced the skin as it always did, faded versions of the same marks mottled the rest of his body. There were several marks across his torso. It was the reason he threw himself into football back home. Because people just accept that you get bruised when you play sports. He never got asked any questions, not once.
Connor put his clothes on, his hair still wet, the collar of his shirt cold and damp against his neck. He gathered his things and threw his backpack over his shoulder, both eager to get out of here and anxious to get home. He hoped his father would be out at work today, he couldn’t handle the pretence and he hadn’t seen him all weekend, not since the beating.
Walking home, he saw the girl from the house next door on the opposite side of the street to him. She kept her head down as she walked. He hadn’t noticed her at all at school during the course of the day. She obviously hung in different circles. He could tell she knew he was there, she must have seen him and she didn’t want him to speak to her. She walked a little faster and then disappeared into her house. He found himself walking faster to get home, to get to his tree house, to watch her.
‘Nothing,’ Adrian said flatly.
‘What do you mean, nothing?’ Imogen put two cups of coffee on the desk and sat down next to Adrian, looking at the clock – it was a little after ten in the morning. He picked his up immediately and started drinking. She wondered how long he had been sitting here.
‘Absolutely nothing on the CCTV, not even her. I’ve watched everything from around the cathedral and the circle outwards to her house. I even got hold of the surrounding shops. Everything that was working, anyway. It’s taken forever and there’s not one single image as far as I can see.’
‘What about the drawing? The one Tanya Maslin instructed on?’
‘Here. Take a look at that and tell me what you see.’ He handed her a photocopy of the picture Tanya Maslin had come in to create with the sketch artist that morning before she started work. There was something very familiar about him.
‘Isn’t that Kurt Cobain?’
‘She must have her wires crossed or something. We know it wasn’t him at least, he’s dead.’
‘Well, if you believe the theories, then he’s living on a desert island somewhere. Or at least I like to think so.’ Imogen had cried when she’d heard that Kurt Cobain had shot himself; she had idolised him as a teen. Now just reduced to being another member of the twenty-seven club, an ever-expanding group of celebrities who’d died at that age – Cobain, Winehouse, Hendrix, Joplin, Morrison. Strangely, all musicians that Imogen had listened to growing up. Twenty-seven, the same age as Imogen.
‘According to Tanya Maslin, he was in The Bay Tree with Erica Lawson,’ Adrian said.
‘She didn’t seem like a liar, maybe he really did look like this.’
‘Seen anyone like that wandering around town?’
‘Maybe he wasn’t local.’ Imogen shrugged. ‘What did the DCI say?’
‘She didn’t think he was that hot.’ Adrian let out a cheeky smile.
‘I mean about what she wants us to do with it.’
‘Hit the neighbours again, see if they saw him come or go. Maybe the pic will jog their memory,’ Adrian said.
‘Fair enough. Anything else?’
‘Gary has some news on the social media front, but Erica was conspicuously absent from all the usual haunts. He wants us to go see him.’
Adrian stood up and rubbed his eyes. She guessed he had been here all night watching all those tapes, and probably slept at his desk. Worrying about Adrian was definitely a good way to distract her from her own problems. They made their way to Gary’s office.
‘How are you holding up? You look tired,’ Imogen said.
‘Home is crazy. It’s hard. Andrea is acting like the wife I never had and it’s just so overwhelming, I never get any time to …’ he trailed off.
‘Is she looking for her own place?’
‘No, she’s in major denial about what’s going on. We’re headed for a big conversation. I don’t want to, but I just need some space.’
‘You can’t have your ex living with you, especially with you guys’ history.’
‘I can’t kick her out, Grey.’
‘Well if you ever need a break, you’re welcome at mine,’ she offered.
As they arrived at the tech lab, Gary shot Imogen a look, a question in his eyes:
She shrugged almost imperceptibly in response.
‘Welcome! Can I get you some coffee?’ Gary asked. ‘I bought my own machine, one of the ones with the little capsules. Don’t tell everyone though.’
‘Just had one thanks. But you’ll be getting a lot more visits from me in the future,’ Imogen said.
‘Why do you think I got the machine?’ he said, grinning.
‘So, what do you have? Did you find out anything new about her? Was her relationship with her sister as solid as it seemed?’ Adrian asked, skipping past the small talk.
‘Sarah Lawson gave me access to their personal emails and texts and as far as I can see the sisters were very close. No big arguments, just the occasional passive-aggressive advice. As far as Sarah Lawson goes, she wasn’t aware of any social media accounts Erica had and it’s definitely trickier without her laptop to see what websites she was using, but we contacted her ISP and got a full history.’
‘And?’ Imogen said impatiently.
‘She had a Facebook account under a different name. All her own pictures, but the name is Nina Lawless. I searched Nina Lawless and found several profiles on various free social messenger and dating sites. She wasn’t stupid though, there was no indication of where she lived from her online photos. You would be surprised how many people post pictures that show their house, street name, all sorts.’
‘She was hooking up with people?’ Imogen said.
‘I don’t know how many she actually hooked up with, but she was most active on one of the apps connected to Facebook. It’s a social game where you trade on your avatars, your profile photos, buy and raise each other’s value, like commodities. It’s all done online, like a stock exchange type thing. People from all over the world take part. Everyone owns someone and everyone is owned by some else. You can see her profile here.’ He pulled up a profile and some music started to play: ‘Where Have All The Cowboys Gone’. It was a hazy romantic visual of Erica, photos of her sitting on her bed, a little cleavage showing, a little pout, then a picture of her hugging her cat, the camera angled to make her eyes look bigger. The next photo was her holding her hands in a heart shape. Further down the screen was a little bio. Erica was looking for love, or at least some affection.