Page 148 of The Guilty Girl

Like she was stupid!

‘It’s fine,’ she said, searching her bag for her bank card and then remembering it was in her jeans pocket. As she tapped it against the machine, her eye was drawn to the cigarette dispenser unit behind the counter. ‘I’ll take twenty Silk Cut as well.’

‘You could have told me that before I put the sale through for the coffee.’

‘Just give me the damn cigarettes.’ Her hands were jittery and she thought she was about to thump him or burst out crying. She couldn’t get Sharon’s death out of her head.

‘No need to get your knickers in a …’ He must have caught the anguished look on her face. ‘Sorry, bad day all round, I think.’

‘You can say that again.’ She wouldn’t have put it past him to repeat it and was thankful when he didn’t, because she was liable to drench him with the coffee.

‘Silver, blue, purple?’

‘Pardon?’

He rolled his eyes and blew out a bored sigh. ‘Light or strong cigarettes?’

‘Strong.’ She might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. The saying was one of Rose’s. She should be with her mother, shouldn’t she? No, Rose was better off with Chloe, who had more patience.

With the purple-branded cigarettes on the counter, she went to tap her card again and noticed the price on the tiny screen.

‘I think you made a mistake,’ she said.

‘No mistake.’ He smiled crookedly. ‘Missus, how long is it since you smoked?’

She tapped her bank card without answer and didn’t dare look at the restless queue behind her as she rushed out.

Back in the car, she dropped the window and lit up. She inhaled the nicotine before convulsing in a cough. Undeterred, she forced another drag. It did nothing to ease her despair. Cigarettes were useless as a salve on a wound. And in truth, she felt personally wounded.

She should have realised sooner that Sharon was badly injured and rushed her to hospital. Instead, she’d talked and talked, trying to extract information from the little girl. Though Sharon’s death hadn’t been caused by her directly, she knew she bore some responsibility. Her lack of action was akin to handing Superintendent Farrell another stick with which to beat her. The least of her problems.

Hands shaking with anger at her own ineptitude, she reached towards the cup holder for her coffee.

‘Fuck’s sake!’

She’d left it on the shop counter.

She flung the cigarette out the window and started the engine.

Wallowing in self-pity wasn’t going to find the killer, or killers. She needed to bury herself in work.

The incident room dipped into silence before erupting in horrified questions when Lottie broke the news of Sharon Flood’s death. She hurriedly dished out new tasks and called in SOCOs to examine the location where the child had been attacked.

Pausing to catch her breath, she decided to chance the canteen to see if she could salvage a late lunch and another coffee.

She caught sight of Superintendent Farrell storming along the corridor, so she scooted up the back stairs. With a feeling of being followed, she whirled around. Kirby was climbing the stairs behind her, wheezing.

‘God, boss, I need to join a gym.’

She despaired for her rotund, perspiring detective. ‘Kirby, you and I both know that’s never going to happen.’

‘I suppose you’re right there.’

His breath smelled of cigars and she longed for another cigarette.

‘What’s up, anyhow?’ she said.

‘Cormac O’Flaherty’s just finished a meeting with his solicitor. Are you okay to interview him?’

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