Page 90 of She Saw What He Did

‘I really can’t divulge any information,’ said Scott stiffly.

‘Right, well I’ll see you tomorrow then.’

Scott hung up, scratched his head thoughtfully and then turned the computer back on. He clicked into the Miller file and read through Abby Miller’s statement. ‘It wasn’t a handgun,’ she’d said, ‘It was bigger than that, with two barrels.’

Damn, why hadn’t he read these reports properly when it all happened?

‘The man shot at us,’ she’d said.

He read the statement over and over until he knew it back to front. A tremor of excitement ran through him. If he couldn’t go to Porthaven then he’d have his own little excitement here.

He was right when he’d suggested they should have guns. If there was a murderer on the loose then surely it was only sensible. If Gareth Richards hadn’t had a break in then it meant only one thing: someone Gareth knew had stolen his cartridges, which meant it was someone on the island. Why would they steal cartridges unless the gun they had was obtained illegally? He should phone Ellen. Then again what would he tell her? No he’d wait until he’d seen Farmer Richards. Who knew, by the morning he’d most likely have found the missing cartridges. Scott knew one thing though. It stood to reason that the only person on the island, who had a gun illegally, was surely the man that Abby Miller saw committing a murder, and if that was the case then he could still be on the island.

Chapter Fifty-Four

The hotel was quieter now, but no matter how many times Sparrow scribbled out the instructions they still made no sense when he read them back. He scrunched up the paper and threw it into the bin along with the rest, and then stared in horror at all the discarded sheets. He couldn’t leave them there. He lifted them out and crammed them into the Co-op carrier bag that lay on the floor. His eyes were sore and gritty from lack of sleep. At least the kid had been better behaved this evening. He didn’t know what had brought on the change, but he was grateful for it. He was pleased he’d bought her the Haribo sweets. It was a pleasure to give them to her when she was being nice. It made him feel a whole lot less guilty when she was calmer. Did they think he enjoyed keeping them in that basement? He’d even considered taking them out for a drive tomorrow. They’d probably like a bit of air. He couldn’t go far. He didn’t have time for that. The thought of the drive reminded him that he needed to phone in sick. Damn, it was getting hard to remember everything. Soon, though, he wouldn’t have to think of anyone apart from himself. He’d take the rubbish out in a while and burn it. Why did nothing go to plan?

He finished the last of the lagers he’d bought from the Co-op and made his way downstairs, bumping into a couple of drunken louts as he did so.

‘Mind where you’re going,’ snapped one knocking the carrier bag out of Sparrow’s hand. He had google eyes and they seemed to penetrate Sparrow’s very being. The papers fell from the bag and Sparrow cursed. He grabbed the Co-op bag feeling the cold hardness of the gun inside. His hand curled around it. He reached for the papers, but the other lout got there before him.

‘Writing a novel,’ he laughed, looking down at the papers.

Sparrow tugged them from the lad’s hand.

‘Mind your own business,’ he said, his mind conscious of the gun in the carrier bag.

If these lads started, then he’d take care of them too. He’d had enough now, more than fucking enough. It was alright for people like Abby Miller with her charmed life and pots of money.

‘Story of a hostage is it?’ said the lad stupidly, breaking into Sparrow’s thoughts. Sparrow saw the man had some of the papers in his hand.

‘Go on give us the rest,’ laughed the other. ‘It’ll be fun to have a preview copy.’

Sparrow was perspiring heavily now. He just wanted to get out into the fresh air; out of this stinking hotel with its idiot guests. His hand reached into the carrier bag.

‘I need to go now,’ he said with a hint of menace in his voice.

He pulled the paper from the lad’s hand.

‘Let him go,’ said the one with google eyes who was now looking uncertainly at Sparrow. ‘He’s just a wanker. A real writer wouldn’t be staying here.’

‘Yeah, fuck off Stephen King.’

They laughed raucously, and Sparrow had to fight down the urge to shoot them both in the back. That would serve the bastards right, he thought.

He fumbled about picking up the papers and then hurried to his car, remembering suddenly that he hadn’t phoned to say he was sick.

Chapter Fifty-Five

The man’s face flashed onto the screen. Jaime stared at it and felt his heart hammer in his chest. He strained to hear the newsreader, but it was too noisy in the pub. He vaguely thought he heard the word ‘Ukrainian’ and exhaled loudly. He pulled on his pint and realised he’d finished it.

‘Want another?’ asked his mate, Josh. ‘I’m getting them in ready for the match.’

‘Yeah,’ said Jaime but he was sidetracked by the news on the screen.

Jaime Foster was scared. More scared now than ever. He’d struggled to forget that day he’d taken the drone out. The face flashed again onto the screen and he winced at the sight of it. That was the man alright. His face and that of the murderer were imprinted on Jaime’s brain. He had a good memory for faces. When they hadn’t found a body, Jaime had stupidly thought that the bloke must have been alright. He’d allowed himself to relax. But clearly the guy hadn’t been alright at all. Jaime hadn’t handed over the recording. He wasn’t interested in the money they offered. They hadn’t been bluffing, he’d learnt, and twenty-four hours later he’d returned to find his flat ransacked and the video gone.

Josh came back with the drinks and threw a bag of crisps at him.

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