Page 101 of Final Betrayal

‘McKeown!’ she yelled. But there was no one there. She began to read, her eyes still stinging.

‘What?’

She jumped. ‘Don’t creep up on me like that.’

‘You shouted for me. I’m sure you were heard across the road in the cathedral.’

Sam McKeown stood in front of her desk, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. No tie. Beads of perspiration glistened on his shaved head under the fluorescent light.

‘Where’ve you been?’ she said.

‘Stuck in a cupboard-like office going through CCTV. It’s a sauna in there.’

‘I know. And in here. The superintendent is always going on about budgets, and here we are wasting gallons of heating oil.’

‘Why don’t you complain?’

‘Because if we get it turned down now, when the really bad weather comes it will be a running battle to get it switched on again.’

‘Can I make an observation?’

‘Sit down first. I’m dizzy looking up at you.’

He sat. ‘That’s part of my observation.’

‘What are you talking about?’ She wanted to discuss the notes, but she had to hear him out otherwise she might alienate him when she needed him enthusiastic for the investigation.

He coughed, cleared his throat. ‘It’s just that you don’t look great. You’ve been through a traumatic experience. Do you think you should be working?’

The cheek of him. He was hardly a day in the place and here he was voicing crap opinions.

‘Detective McKeown, I’m your boss. Never, ever question my ability to do my job.’

‘I wasn’t?—’

‘You were.’

‘I’m sorry. But have you looked in a mirror? You’re bruised, cut and bleeding. I’m genuinely concerned. Nothing more.’

‘Bleeding?’

‘Yes. You seem to have burst one of the stitches on your cheek.’

‘Oh feck. Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap. You’re right, it’s been an awful experience, but both Boyd and myself are fine. Or will be. My main concern is the four dead girls. When I find out who killed them, then I’ll take a break. Not before. Okay?’

‘Okay.’ He shuffled in the chair and placed his hands flat on his knees.

‘Tell me what I’m looking at here.’ She pointed to the pages, with lines of Louise’s handwriting marked in pink highlighter.

‘It was the only one I could find.’

‘What?’

‘The pink highlighter. No yellow anywhere. Believe me, I looked.’

Lottie hoped she hadn’t inherited another OCD detective. One Boyd was enough, thank you very much. ‘I mean the text!’

‘Oh, right. Sorry.’

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