No Other Darkness by Sarah Hilary Read Free Book Online Page B

was in the kitchen, stirring something red in a saucepan. ‘Pasta,’ he said. It smelt good. ‘I thought if you were late, it wouldn’t matter.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘I have Tupperware.’
    She leaned into him for a second. ‘You’re getting domestic, Belloc.’
    ‘You should’ve seen how long it took me to find a clean saucepan . . .’
    He abandoned the stirring and turned to look at her, searching her face the way he did whenever she came backhere, as if it was a new miracle each time. Steam had stuck his brown curls to his forehead and freckled his nose. ‘Tough day?’
    ‘Dead kids . . .’ She wanted to shut her eyes when she said it, but she didn’t, letting him look at her because it mattered to him. ‘So yes, not the best day . . . How was yours?’
    ‘Nothing as bad as that. Do you want to talk about it?’
    She unstuck a curl from his forehead. ‘Later. You’ve got pasta to make. I’m going to take a shower. There’s hot water, right?’
    Ed nodded, letting her move away. ‘Take as long as you like. This’ll keep.’
     • • • 
    In the bathroom, she undressed awkwardly, clumsy with fatigue. It was frightening how tired she was after one day on this case. Perhaps Ron Carling was right and she’d brought them all a thankless task. Six weeks from now, they might be no further forward, no nearer finding out what had happened to the boys. It bothered her that she couldn’t remember hearing about a manhunt four or five years ago. Missing children lit flags across the Met’s systems, pulling in people from across forces. How could she not remember? But she knew how.
    Five years ago, she’d been trying to deal with the huge hole torn in her life by Stephen Keele. She’d thrown herself into work, couldn’t remember details of any of the cases she’d taken on. She hadn’t cared enough, that was the trouble, only interested in the solve rate, in scoring points with Tim Welland to earn her another case, harder and faster than the last. The human cost hadn’t registered. Or if it had, only as an echo of the bigger pain, fresh pressure on the bruise she was safeguarding. It had taken her years to rebuild the part of her brain that connectedher compassion to her intellect. She was a better detective now. She didn’t solve cases as swiftly, but nor did she miss tricks because she failed to look where it mattered most: in the hearts of the people damaged by the crimes she was investigating.
    She put her clothes aside for the dry cleaner’s. Maybe they’d be able to get the smell of the bunker out of her suit. Luckily, she had a change of clothes in Ed’s wardrobe.
    She should talk with Ed, let him take custody of her tiredness and in return take custody of his. It was what couples did. Once, she’d have taken refuge in work, pulling its layers over her until she was numb. Even now, she was conscious of a nagging sensation in her skin, like an addict’s itch for caffeine or worse. Numb had felt so good, once.
    She removed her wristwatch, concentrating on what mattered. Ed, and this new case.
    Tim Welland was right, she had a good team. Debbie Tanner would make family liaison look easy. Ron Carling, once he was past his gut response, would work harder than anyone to find who did this. And Noah Jake was shaping up to be the best detective she’d worked with: compassionate, inquisitive and unsatisfied with easy answers. She was lucky.
    She stepped into Ed’s bath, pulling the shower curtain carefully along its pole; like everything else in Ed’s flat, you treated it with respect or it fell apart. At her place, the water pressure was like a jet-wash, but Ed’s shower was gentle, serving the water softly, as if conscious of her skin’s sensitivity, the rawness she’d brought back from Blackthorn Road.
    The Doyles had been playing and working in the garden for a year, digging a vegetable patch directly over the bunker. The developer, Merrick Homes, had planted the beginnings of the