Page 108 of The Black Trilogy

“Just peachy. Let’s see what we’ve got, shall we?”

He ran the package through a scanner, much like the ones at airports. An indistinct blob showed up in the corner. What was it?

Test-tube donned a pair of latex gloves, gingerly sliced through the flap, and peered inside.

“Well?”

He looked up at me. “Have some patience.”

He’d known me too long to take my stroppiness. Grrr. I nearly snatched the thing off him, but I forced my hands to my sides as he tilted it over a tray. Something tumbled out, and I took a step closer.

“Oh, fire truck.”

Nick raised an eyebrow. "Fire truck?"

"Remember that bet I made? Well, I'm still not swearing."

Which was really bleeping difficult considering what was on the table in front of us. A fingernail. As in a whole fingernail, yanked out at the root. The gaudy paint job, shocking pink with silver and black stars, spoke of happier times for its owner.

“Tia’s?” Nick asked.

I swallowed down the lump in my throat and nodded. No doubt about it. My toes sported the same design, painted by her last week as we’d watched a movie. I borrowed a pair of tweezers and angled the nail under the light. Yep, I even recognised the wonky star where the brush and her language had both slipped. Luckily, Luke hadn’t been around to hear her turn the air blue.

While I planned which parts of the kidnapper’s anatomy I was going to remove, Test-tube fished around in the envelope and extracted a note. One line, typed on plain white paper:

Further instructions will follow.

Relief jostled with my anger. We had another chance.

Meanwhile, Test-tube dug out evidence bags and gathered everything up.

“I’ll take this lot for analysis.”

He’d cover all bases, but I doubted we’d find anything. Everyone and their dog watched CSI nowadays and knew not to lick the envelope, and I couldn’t believe we’d be that lucky.

“Where was it posted?” I asked.

Test-tube turned it over. “Penge, South London.”

Two minutes later, I was in the Aston.

Traffic wasn’t kind, and it took me almost an hour to reach the post office, a tiny kiosk at the back of a convenience store.

“Hi.” I smiled at the blond kid sitting behind the counter, and he looked at his hands. “Were you working yesterday?”

He shifted nervously on his stool, struggling to make eye contact. Was he even old enough to have a job?

“Hang on, I’ll check the rota.” He made a show of flipping through a wedge of papers. “Uh, yeah.”

If he couldn’t remember being there yesterday himself, how would he remember if the kidnapper came in? I should have brought a shovel to dig for his IQ. His answer to my question about the package was an echo of the gardener’s.

“It might have been a man that posted it.”

I dropped a tenner onto the counter. His eyes lit up then rolled back in his head as he tried to remember.

“His hair might have been brown.”

Arrrgh!

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