Cold Blood by Jane Heafield (great books to read txt) 📕

seems to be trying to sell her a dream that’s not feasible. I think the only way Sally’s mother can properly move on is to accept that her daughter’s gone and grieve the way she wants, even if it involves a tree, or a headstone, or talking about her in front of people. But she’s been told not to, hasn’t she?’

Turner looked puzzled. ‘Told not to?’

‘I think the Keys gave an order to the whole village: don’t go around talking about the missing kid, because we don’t like to be reminded of that. And people have become plugged into a hive mind that now sees Sally not as a vulnerable little girl, but as a dark cloud over this village.’

Now the councillor’s puzzlement was replaced by anger again. ‘An order to not grieve? Not accept her loss? We gave only advice, you fool. I care for that woman and I did everything I could for her, to help her get past this. Just ask the woman, for God’s sake.’

‘Oh, she sang your praises, Mr Turner. You were very nice to her after the tragedy. A good friend. You bought her a dress. But this is where my understanding falls short. You gave her some age-progression photos, for instance. Paid for out of your own pocket.’

‘Convincing her that dwelling on her daughter is bad is one thing. I could hardly tell her to forget Sally altogether, could I? It was a nice touch I felt she deserved.’

‘This is the first time I’ve known of age-progression photos being given in advance. When Sally would have been forty, giving the mother a picture of her daughter aged forty is fine. The way you did it says Anika will need it because she’ll never see her again. Yet, in contradiction, the village doesn’t accept that Sally is dead.’

‘Sally is twenty now, and what if she doesn’t return until she’s sixty? And what if there are no photos of her in the interim? Anika will want to know how her daughter looked growing up, and I provided that.’

Bennet could hardly believe what he’d just heard. Either Turner was clueless and running himself in circles trying to get a handle on it, or he was too proud to admit and correct his mistakes. Or maybe there was something out of whack in his head.

Turner drained his glass and stood up. ‘All I ever thought about was Anika. What I did helped her to avoid drowning in grief. Now, I’ve given you enough time, Detective Bennet. Your film crew came, got ignored, and left, and your business here is done. I’ll bid you a safe trip home.’

Bennet went for the door. His time with Richard Turner; bachelor, vet, councillor, had left him as drained as the toughest interrogation-room conversation with a deranged killer. But he had to have the last word.

‘You remind me of Kim Jong-il.’ Before Turner could take offence, Bennet grinned and added, ‘Big Hennessy fan.’

19

It was a long shot, but he’d kick himself if he didn’t scour the internet for Donald Ducke and later discovered it was actually the director’s real name. So he did that.

He found numerous people on social media and whittled them down by photo – the guy was black and about fifty – and location – he lived in England – until he had a list of possibles. But there he got stuck. The possibles were only such not because of relevant details, but a lack of them. Some on Facebook had no profile picture, or no personal information, no posts, no hobbies list. Learning anything further would involve contact via message and he didn’t have the energy or will to embark upon what would probably be a lengthy, dead-end endeavour. Who was to say all these Donald Duckes weren’t also fake funny-name profiles? Why would anyone respond to his query anyway?

So he gave it up. All of it. He’d been desperate to find Lorraine, fast, but why? To give Joe a nice surprise after school? The kid had waited years and he probably didn’t feel the rush his dad felt. It was unlikely Bennet wouldn’t get hold of Lorraine within the next week or so, and Joe would be fine with that. So Bennet would be, too. It was time to end the chase.

Once on Lampton’s main road, heading towards freedom, his eye caught a street on the left. He turned into the corner, figuring he could spare five minutes for old times’ sake. Out of habit, he put the gearbox in neutral as he drove over the crest and down a road that fell away like a ski jump.

He’d played this game hundreds of times. Roll down the hill without power and see how far up the other side he could get. He’d never made it as far as the grit bin. He grinned as the truck gained speed, yet ran almost silently. So determined was he to succeed this time, he didn’t even touch the brakes as a car started to reverse out of a driveway. He hit his horn and the car jerked to a stop, and a woman mouthed unsweet things as he blew past just inches from her bumper.

At the bottom of the hill, Liam bent forward and lifted his feet, as if somehow that would aid aerodynamics, and as the Pathfinder started to climb up the far side and began to slow, he coaxed it with soothing words.

The Pathfinder gave a good showing, but lost the battle ten metres short of the grit bin on the pavement. Not even close to his best. As the truck started to roll back, he put it in gear and drove the last twenty metres to his destination.

The houses on this street were all two-storey semis barely a few decades old, but many had ivy climbing the walls and trellises lashed to the red brickwork and ornate porches, as if to present the illusion of age. The house he sought had not subscribed to such trickery;