Don't Come Looking by AJ Campbell (top 100 novels of all time TXT) 📕

head out to a cafe up on the High Street. One which always seems to smell of burnt toast but is far fancier than the greasy spoons he likes to frequent. It’s not a particularly relaxing place. The sound of clinking cutlery, plate scraping and clanking from the kitchen is over-stimulating, but the aroma from the coffee machines draws a crowd. We take the only spare table by the window, and order coffees from the young waitress whose body language suggests she would rather be somewhere else.

Rob tells me about a witness in the Shane Baker case and a possible connection to Jason Harper while we wait for our drinks to arrive. When the waitress plonks them on the table, slopping coffee into the saucers, Rob rips open three sachets of sugar and asks, ‘Why are we really here?’

I open up about Marc. And not before time. If I were him, I would have been asking a lot more questions as to why I was being asked to sit outside someone’s house and wait for him on more than one occasion.

‘No chance. Arthur will never spare scarce resources to chase after someone who has explicitly stated they don’t want to be found.’

‘I know. That’s what I keep telling Sasha, but I wanted to pass it by you in case you can think of anything.’

‘What’s your gut feeling?’

‘There’s too much weird stuff going on. I mean the computer being wiped, the whiteboard in his office too, the depression, the meeting with the lawyer, Hannah – the daughter – seeing him outside school yesterday.’ I mention the drugs but keep the driving ban to myself. Certain things, I’ve learned, are best kept to yourself. Especially actions you’ve taken that constitute a sackable offence if you were ever found out.

‘Nothing solid to go on, though.’

‘Right.’

‘Have you looked him up on the PNC?’

‘What do you take me for?’ I say calmly, despite the wave of shame rising to redden my cheeks. ‘We’d better get back.’ I grab the bill. ‘I’ll get these. And don’t forget I’m off early today and on annual leave for a week.’

‘Such a slacker,’ he says, dodging the slap on his arm I send his way. He grabs my elbow and looks seriously into my eyes. ‘Do you want me to do some digging?’

‘No, you’re alright. Thanks, though, Rob.’

The ever-increasing admin that loads into my inbox on an hourly basis eats the rest of my morning. I pick up the Jason Harper file but get nowhere. Mr and Mrs Shirley are proving tricky to get hold of by phone. I leave them another message to call me. At two-thirty I ring Jim to make sure Mick has arrived to pick him up and take him to the gym, then mouth to Rob, who’s on the phone, that I’m leaving now. He puts his palm over the mouthpiece and mutters something about keeping part-time hours before reverting to his call, stealing my opportunity to retaliate.

Art’s gym is far from what I expected. It’s more of a bodybuilders’ haunt than your average place for people wanting to keep fit. For the time of day, it’s busy. Mostly men crowding nearly every workout station, but a few women are also going for the burn. Where do all these people work that allows them a mid-afternoon workout session? High-energy songs I could never name pump through the floor as vibrations radiate through my body. Industrialised fans are positioned in all four corners of the windowless, warehouse-like structure, providing a continuous flow of warm air, but it still smells of vinyl and BO. Art could do with investing in some air conditioning.

I spot Jim at a rack of dumbbells where Art is demonstrating how to properly perform a bicep curl. I weave over to them, through the grunts and groans of what appears to be a circuits class. Art has his hands on Jim’s shoulders, easing them back to straighten his spine. ‘He’s done here,’ Art says. He lifts the dumbbell from Jim’s grip and slots it in its space amongst the rows of metal.

I swing the car keys around my finger. ‘You’ve been working out too?’ I ask Jim.

‘No, just the massage. Art was showing me a couple of techniques while I was waiting for you. I’m ready to go.’

Art chats with Jim while I peer around the place. Men dressed in shorts and sleeveless T-shirts, and women in Lycra pants and bra tops, are flexing and lifting and pumping and pressing. A trio of men occupy the far corner, taking it in turns to pound a heavy punchbag which is barely swinging despite the force of their strikes. ‘He’s all yours, Eva,’ Art says after a couple of minutes. He firmly pats Jim’s shoulder as he looks towards the entrance. ‘See you Saturday as planned.’

I follow Art’s gaze to see a spaghetti-thin man with a mass of dark curls entering the building. I can’t help but stare at him. Dressed in jeans and a canvas jacket, he clearly doesn’t fit amongst the tribe of lifters working out here. He and Art exchange nods before Art swiftly bids Jim and me goodbye. The man approaches the reception desk. A modular unit with a till and various tubs of supplements for sale. He leans against it, drumming his fingers on the surface. He has that cold, dead look; “nobody’s home” eyes. My skin turns cold despite the heat of a summer’s day in a stuffy gym.

I hear Art mutter to him, ‘Be with you soon.’

‘What’s wrong?’ Jim asks, when we get in the car.

I put the keys in the ignition and start the engine, but the detective in me drives me to go back inside. ‘I need the loo. I don’t think I’ll make it home. I won’t be long.’

I walk over to the reception area. Behind it stands a cooler unit packed with bottles of Evian, sports drinks and flavoured electrolyte water. And next to that, commercial shelving filled with more tubs of power