Good Girls Don't Die by Isabelle Grey Read Free Book Online

Grace walked reluctantly as far as the blue-and-white tape where, certain it was not a good idea to be seen speaking to a journalist, she remained safely inside the cordon where the uniformed officers could hear every word.
    ‘Hey, Roxanne.’
    ‘Is it Polly?’ Roxanne’s eyes shone, her pen already poised over her open notebook ready to take down a quote.
    ‘You have to go through Hilary.’
    ‘Oh, come on! The whole national media pack’s going to be here by lunchtime. Give me a head start, at least!’
    Grace shook her head. ‘Ask Hilary.’ She turned away and, aware of Roxanne’s hungry eyes boring into her back, walked the few yards back to where Lance waited. He looked at her with raised eyebrows. ‘Did she know you were going to be here?’ he asked.
    ‘No!’
    Over his shoulder she saw Keith, exiting the tent with Samit, notice Roxanne and then direct a sharp, questioning look at her.
    ‘Shit!’
    ‘Come on,’ said Lance. ‘Work to do.’
    Grace saw that he was rescuing her, and was relieved to let him shield her from their boss’s displeasure.Suddenly she was desperate to know just how much Keith had been told about why she’d really left Kent. She’d given the breakdown of her marriage as the reason for quitting her job, and very much doubted that Colin, her old DCI, would have had the balls to deviate from that version of events in his reference. Grace imagined that her stepmother had probably told her old friend Hilary most of what she knew, which thankfully wasn’t everything, and Hilary had asked no direct questions. But news travelled fast: had Hilary gossiped with anyone here about the obvious gaps in Grace’s story? Grace hadn’t picked up any signals that she had, and now told herself firmly there was no point speculating on what Lance and the others did or didn’t know. Best just to keep her head down and get on with the job.
    Once they had finished signing over the evidence bags, they began the short walk back to the police station, weaving their way through quiet, narrow lanes where the shops were only just opening for the day. Although they did not immediately speak, Grace could sense Lance’s bubbling excitement.
    ‘Do you think the bottle was an afterthought,’ he said eventually. ‘A last-minute impulse? Or was it the whole point of the exercise?’
    ‘It must have been arranged like that postmortem. Which means he didn’t use it as a weapon.’
    ‘If I’m allowed to reference the FBI’ – he shot her a teasing look – ‘there’s a difference between “staging” and “posing”.’
    Grace nodded encouragingly. She was already familiar with the distinction but, pleased that they were evidently on good terms, didn’t want to steal his thunder.
    ‘Posing is what he likes to do for himself, his signature,’ he explained. ‘Staging is for our benefit, a message.’
    ‘So which is this?’ she prompted him.
    ‘I reckon she’s been staged.’ Lance checked over his shoulder to make sure they were not overheard; Grace was thankful that there was no sign of Roxanne trailing them. ‘Laid out all neat and tidy to taunt us because we haven’t found Polly yet.’
    ‘And the bottle?’
    ‘Has to be a sick joke, surely? No one in their right mind would –’ He shook his head in disbelief.
    ‘Who says he
is
in his right mind?’
    ‘True. But there was no other obvious violence; it wasn’t a sadistic attack.’
    Grace considered the grammar of the crime scene. Her immediate reaction had been that the almost gentle pose and delicately inserted bottle contained an eloquence she couldn’t yet decipher. ‘Her head was cushioned. He made her comfortable before he left her.’
    Lance shook his head stubbornly. ‘It’s a message for us. Some game he’s playing.’
    ‘He’s trying to communicate something,’ agreed Grace. ‘But I don’t think it’s a game.’ She wanted to say that the message, whatever it was, had seemed to her to be
sincere
, but now clearly