Fatal Act by Leigh Russell Read Free Book Online Page A

Geraldine was worn out. Sam was tired too and they parted as soon as they arrived at the station. It was gone nine and they still had to get home.
    ‘See you tomorrow.’
    ‘Good night.’
    ‘Have a good evening.’
    Geraldine nodded. As she turned away, she wondered whether Sam was also going home to put her feet up, or if she was planning to get changed and go out. It was Saturday evening, after all, and Sam was still in her early twenties.
    A lone, Geraldine made her way back through the evening traffic. The streets in Islington were crowded with pedestrians. Gangs of young women tottered on absurdly high heels, dressed in flimsy fabric and fake fur. Couples sauntered hand in hand, studying menus as they passed the cafes and restaurants along Upper Street. Other people hurried by on their way to the station. Later the mood would deteriorate as growing numbers of drunken revellers wandered the streets, but for now there was an optimistic atmosphere, everyone intent on having a good night out. Her flat felt empty when she closed the front door and kicked off her shoes. It was a relief to shuffle into her slippers, but the silence which was usually welcoming felt somehow oppressive. The contrast to the bustling Saturday evening streets was stark.
    G eraldine loved her flat. It was her own space. She could put her things wherever she wanted. Usually she stacked her small dishwasher as soon as she finished eating, but if she chose she could leave her dirty dishes in the sink without anyone criticising or nagging her. It was the same everywhere in the flat. Naturally quite tidy, there were times when she lazily left the place in a mess for days on end. To be fair, that usually happened when she was absorbed in an investigation and had neither the time nor the energy to bother with chores. But sometimes her solitude slipped into loneliness and she wished someone was there to greet her when she came home, someone else to put the kettle on, and ask her about her day. She tried not to think about her long term boyfriend, now married to someone else. It was a while since Mark had walked out on her and she rarely thought about him any more. But at times like this she couldn’t help missing him.
    A fter a quick shower she fixed herself a plate of pasta and settled down with a glass of Chianti to watch an old film on TCM. A good film generally succeeded in taking her mind off work, but this evening she wasn’t distracted by the cleverly executed twists of a Hitchcock plot, nor did she lose herself in the skilfully built suspense. Her mind kept wandering back to the white-faced girl in the mortuary, barely twenty years old and brutally murdered on a London street not far from where Geraldine was relaxing at the end of the day. As the black and white drama played out on the screen, she pictured a figure leaning forward over the wheel of a van, driving towards Anna’s Porsche. In her mind’s eye she watched the two vehicles crash. As Anna lay injured, possibly dying, her assailant reached in through the window and sliced through her neck with a sharp piece of glass, to vanish moments before a taxi cruised into the street. All that was missing from the scene was the identity of the van driver, and the killer who had appeared so suddenly, and disappeared without trace. If Geraldine had been superstitious, she might have been tempted to suppose Anna had been attacked by a supernatural force. Not only had the ghostly driver crashed into Anna’s car, he had mysteriously spirited her killer away. The whole scenario was impossible, like a teasing mystery film, only this story had actually happened, and there was no rational explanation for the strange series of events. The credits came up to tell her the film was over and she switched off the television with a sigh.
    B efore she climbed into bed, she took her mother’s photograph out of a drawer. Since having it framed under protective glass, she had kept it on display beside her bed. She