Page 92 of Not That Impossible

“I’m about to do you a favour,” he said. “The biggest fucking favour in the world, all right? It happened again, and I’m putting you on it. Don’t fuck up.”

“Wow,” I said. “That sounds exciting. Thanks, Ralph. Putting me on what, though?”

“On the case! The story! The dead guy!”

“Someone died?” I said.

“Yeah. Guess where?”

“I’m assuming somewhere in Chipping Fairf—”

“Number fifty-two, Sycamore Close,” Ralph said. “Ring a bell?”

“Ray’s house?” I said. “It’s not Ray is it?”

I had complicated feelings about Ray. On second thought, I had one feeling about Ray, and it was searing, boiling jealousy. So. Not that complicated.

But I didn’t want him dead.

“No, it’s not fucking Ray Underwood. I heard from my contact on the police that he found another dead body on the premises, same deal as last time, and called it in to the police.”

“Holy crap.”

“I know,” Ralph said, his abrasive voice quavering with excitement. “Get your shit together, kid, get over there, and get me the story.”

“I am on it!” I glanced across the room at the blown-up article Adam had framed for me. I’d hung it on the wall above my computer, having to move myWrite! Write! Write!banner to make room. Maybe there’d be another framed article up there soon.

Maybe there would be loads.

I’d been up and down about the article since I’d hung it, especially as seeing all those spelling mistakes in a huge large font made me want to edit it and reprint it, but it must have been good. Ralph was trusting me with a breaking story when he could have asked Mrs Strickland.

“I’m sending Strickland as well,” Ralph said.

“Ralph, come on.”

“I don’t care which one of you gets it. Honestly? I’m hoping it’s you. Strickland is good. You’re not as good, but you’ve got a certain readability. That’s what I want for theInquirer. This is it, Jasper. The big one. Your big break.”

He hung up and I stood frozen in the centre of the room, heart pounding, still holding the phone to my ear.

Another body in Ray’s house. What were the odds? How did he keep finding them?

What were they doing there in the first place?

Was Ray really an innocent bystander, or had Adam pledged his eternal devotion to a clever minx of a sociopathic murderer?

It was time to ask some questions.

And I’d better get my arse into gear and get out the door, or Mrs Strickland would scoop me again.

I darted into the hall and pulled on my trainers. I shoved my phone in my sweatpants pocket and shrugged on a parka over my t-shirt. My gym bag was waiting by the door, and I kept a notebook and a couple of pens in the side pocket. Grabbing the bag and my car keys from the hall table, I rushed out of the house.

I was focused. Aimed like a deadly arrow. Less than two minutes after Ralph had hung up, I was on the road.

“You can do it, Jasper,” I said with conviction. I suppressed a nervous giggle and firmed my jaw. “Showtime.”

I knew better than to even try and turn down Sycamore Close. I blew past the cordoned-off junction and turned down the street running parallel.

I kept a wary eye on the parked cars as I trundled down the road, dreading seeing that green VW Beetle with its chillingly misleading flower decal.

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