BAD TIMES (The DCI Peter Moone Thrillers Book 1) by Mark Yarwood

Author:Mark Yarwood [Yarwood, Mark]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Biscuit Books
Published: 2021-09-12T23:00:00+00:00

The rest of his workday had gone by as he’d figured it would, just staring at a computer screen, filling in reports, collecting everything together that made sense and staring at the other facts that didn’t. The truth was they had little to go on, and it seemed it was only the comatose Ian Macdonald who would be able to shine some light on the death of Danny Sawyer, if he ever woke up. Which looked increasingly doubtful. Moone had been in touch with the hospital and found out that only one person, apart from West’s creepy little visit, had been to see him; it had been his older brother, who the nurses reported didn’t seem very sad about the state his brother had found himself in. ‘What he deserved,’ one of the nurses heard him mutter.

But Moone couldn’t gather any kind of sorrow for him, only for the boy whose remains could not yet be released to his poor parents.

He thought all this over as he drove, guided by his Satnav, towards a part of Plymouth called Plympton, which seemed to be a wide endless Suburban area, filled with quite newly built tidy estates. It was the area where PC Carthew lived, apparently tucked away in one of the red brick new builds, just past a large family pub, he’d been informed. He found the short close she lived in, then parked up and headed for the door of a small, neat red brick house that had a nice little garden out the front. It was quiet around there, and only the sound of birds tweeting filled his ears. He suddenly realised how far away from home he truly was as he rang the doorbell.

It took a few rings of the doorbell before the door slowly, achingly slowly, opened and a washed out, ponytail wearing, Faith Carthew looked out at him. She looked as if sleep had evaded her for sometime, too, and that made her look older.

‘What’re you doing here?’ she asked, her voice hollow, empty.

‘I came to see how you are,’ he said, putting on a smile. He recognised the telltale signs of depression, he’d been there himself. ‘I heard you were on sick leave.’

‘I’ll be fine again soon. Thanks for coming.’ She started to close the door, so he stopped it with his hand. ‘Hang on. Least you can do is make me a cup of tea.’

She stared at him, then turned and walked inside, her body almost trailing behind her head.

‘Maybe I’ll make the tea,’ he said as he observed her slump on to a corner sofa that backed onto an archway that led to a narrow modern kitchen.

He found a kettle and filled it up. ‘So... I take it this isn’t just man flu?’

She huffed out an attempt at a laugh. ‘No.’

‘Is this? Is this to do with...?’

‘You? No. Not completely. I don’t know. Can’t you just leave me alone?’

He went back to the kitchen, made her a cup of tea and put it down on the coffee table in front of her.

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