DARK WATER an absolutely gripping Scottish crime thriller by Caro Ramsay

Author:Caro Ramsay [RAMSAY, CARO]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Joffe Books crime thriller, mystery and suspense
Published: 2021-05-03T22:00:00+00:00

‘I don’t know why you had to join the police. If you’d left nursing to be a teacher, do the same hours as the kids, that would have made sense . . .’

Browne sighed, holding her mobile from her ear while she waited for her mother to take a breath.

‘Now, your sister’s friend . . . you know the one—’

Browne took her chance and butted in. ‘Mum, Irene’s having the kids tonight. They’ll be fine. And she’ll take them to school in the morning.’ A recurring vision of Donna lying battered and dead in the gully flashed through her mind, and she said firmly, ‘Mum, I really do have to go,’ and cut off her mother in mid-rant. She shut her eyes, breathing in the moist earthy warmth of the great Victorian hothouse.

The darkness was lit only dimly by the security lights over on the far side of the pond. Browne switched on her torch and adjusted the beam to give a diffuse light that would illuminate everything, but not too much. Overhead she could see wrought-iron beams, their ornate moulding obliterated by layer upon layer of gloss paint over the years. A couple of bare light bulbs were strung loosely over them.

She removed her glove to stroke a tiny fern with the pad of her finger — so delicate, so beautiful. She began to relax in the warm air, savouring the lovely smell of paraffin and clean moist soil. It was so comforting, the scent of mother earth, she could almost fall asleep in here. Indeed, it looked as though somebody else had exactly the same idea and did so, frequently. At the end of the central concrete path stood an old armchair, its seat and back moulded to the shape of a body, with an old golden cushion with tangled tassels jammed down the back. Somebody habitually sat there, falling asleep and snoring, somebody who might slip their wellies off and warm their socks on the paraffin heater. She slipped her other glove off and stuck the pair in her pocket. The darkness lay heavy above the glass roof. She could see light bulbs overhead, but she could find no switches. Maybe by the door, she thought. The greenhouse had two doors — one for people to walk in from the gardens, the other a big double door, more like a garage door. Tyre marks and the odd patch of oil stained the concrete, suggesting that something was regularly parked there. She wondered if it was the wee white van that was sitting at the side of the path. Littlewood had stopped to examine it. Well, he’d stopped for a cigarette and a breather, leaning against the roof of the vehicle. Browne had decided not to hang about in the cold and had come into the warmth of the greenhouse.

She shone her torch up into the roof, trying to act like a detective, searching for CCTV cameras or security lights. Nothing. She wiped the glass with her sleeve and peered out at a driveway, unkempt and with a grassy midline.

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