Page 1 of Nothing But the Night (Basic Instincts 2)

Chapter One

A Potential Scandal

The luxury of a good night’s sleep was something Marc Glass had learnt to live without. For several years he’d been getting by on three to four hours. Five was a rare indulgence. He couldn’t bear to lie in bed, idly staring into the dark, knowing there was no chance of falling off again. As soon as his eyes opened, he was wide awake. Two years earlier he had taken up late-night running, in the hope that physical exhaustion would be the trigger he needed for a full night of rest. While it helped him to fall asleep quickly, he still found himself alert at four a.m. most mornings.

Usually, he would get straight up and begin work, but some days, like this one, he pulled on his running shoes and went for another pre-dawn run.

It had gone six-thirty as he pounded the coastal path on the return route to the house. He had been out for an hour. The darkness and cold of a wet March morning did not deter him. He didn’t feel the cold or the drizzle when he was running. A podcast on Blyham history in the eighteenth century had occupied hismind for most of the course. Now that it had finished, his mind turned to the day ahead.

There was a sliver of light grey sky on the horizon. Sunrise was about half an hour away. The forecast was for cloud and rain for the rest of the week. Typical Blyham weather for this time of year. Not that it mattered. Marc had a full day of meetings planned, both at the factory and online with overseas buyers. There was a good chance he wouldn’t breathe fresh air again until his night-time run that evening, and he was already looking forward to the next episode of the podcast.

Through the week, one day was much like another. A cycle of exercise and work peppered with a couple of visits to his parents. They would cook dinner for him one evening and he would take then out for a meal on the other. Tonight, he had to fend for himself. He’d stay late at the factory to delay his return to an empty house. Probably pick up some food on his way home. Nothing too heavy. Not when he’d have to run it off later.

The drizzle strengthened into rain. Marc swiped his arm across his face, wiping the sweat and water away.

He still had his ear-pods in, but could hear the violent crash of waves below, battering the rocky outcrop beneath the cliffs. It sounded like things were getting rougher than had been forecast. If a storm was coming in, he’d just have to complete his evening exercises in his home gym, though he preferred the freshness and exposure of a night run.

Almost home, he put on an extra burst of speed for the last mile, coming off the track and onto the main road that led to the house. His breath rasped, searing his lungs and throat, pain burning in his thighs and calf muscles, but he powered through. Pain was good. Pain was a real sensation. It meant he was still alive.

As he turned onto the drive he saw a strange car parked in front of the garage. A dark BMW.

Marc slowed to a stop. His breath grated in his ears, and he removed the pods. He sucked in a chest full of air through his mouth. His heart pounded.

The driver’s door of the car opened, and an umbrella poked out and was put up. A woman with blonde hair stepped from the car. She was petite, in a pale trouser suit and impractical high heels. Marc rubbed his eyes and blinked away the stinging sweat, trying to focus. There was something familiar about the woman.

She approached with a tight, humourless smile. Beneath the umbrella, her hair was a blow-dried miracle. She must have got up as early as he had to achieve that look.

“I’d heard you were an early riser,” she said. Elocution and speech training couldn’t mask the original Geordie tones in her accent. “I thought I had already missed you. Ten more minutes and I was going to head over to the factory.”

Marc froze as he realised just who his visitor was.

Nadine Smythe.

He stepped around her, heading for the house. “You wasted your time coming here.”

The rain turned into a downpour. He took shelter beneath the front porch. He left the key under a rock in the garden when he went running, but he didn’t want to retrieve it in front of Nadine. She would think nothing of letting herself in another time.

“I’ve come about your brother,” she said, stepping onto the porch. She put down the umbrella and shook it out. “Awful morning, isn’t it? I should have brought a raincoat but it was dry when I left home.”

“You shouldn’t be here at all. I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

“Don’t be like that. You should be pleased someone cares enough about Theo to follow up the story.”

“My brother is not a story,” he snapped.

Nadine Smythe was a journalist forThe Blyham Chronicle. She also had her own podcast where she“exposed injustices and laid bare the truth.”She was beginning to gain fame beyond local news and had appeared on several national breakfast and mid-morning TV shows offering her opinions on news and current events. Her opinions were always bombastically right wing.

“You’re wrong there,” she said, her cold stare boring into him. “I’ve been working on this for several weeks and there’s most definitely a story. And I’m going to tell it. I’m giving you the opportunity to be part of it. To put your family’s position across.”

“I think you’ve done enough damage to me and my family already. The answer is no. Now get back in your car and take it off my drive.”

“I think Theo was murdered.” She let the words drop like bombs, studying his face for a reaction.

Marc had learnt the hard way to keep his emotions to himself. He would never allow a hack like Nadine to read him.

His face was stone.

Inside he was a mess.

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