Her Deadly Friend (The Gloucestershire Crime Series Book 1) by Rachel Sargeant

Author:Rachel Sargeant [Sargeant, Rachel]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hobeck Books Limited
Published: 2024-04-23T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

SATURDAY 7TH JULY

“Your phone’s going.”

I peer over my duvet.

Jake puts my ringing mobile on my bedside locker. “You left it in the hall. Thanks a lot for waking me up, Mum.”

I accept the call as he grunts he’s going back to bed and shuts the door.

“Steph?” It’s Harriet and there’s a weird question in her voice.

Despite a thumping headache I join the dots. I’m about to point out that the male voice she heard in the background was my son, but decide what the hell. Let her think I have a life.

“The DCI’s called a briefing,” she tells me. “We have to go to the station before we do the interviews with Gerald’s counselling clients.”

“Now? I’ll be half an hour.” How quickly can I get my migraine out of bed, showered, dressed and behind the wheel of my Golf?

“I can give you a lift.”

“No need,” I say quickly. With my head still thumping to the bass of the nightclub, I’m going to need that time alone in my car to practise being a functioning human.

There is a cavernous silence before she says, “See you in thirty minutes.” She hangs up.

A thought dawns. Does she think I declined the lift because I’m not at home? She must be picturing me doubling-back to town to pick up a one-night stand after we went our separate ways last night. I should be so lucky.

In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face and look in the mirror. A pair of panda eyes and a head of snakes stare back. With parted fingers, I pull taut the skin around my eyes. I’m out of wipes and the kohl isn’t coming off with a wet flannel. It’s going to need a full face cleanse and I’ll be late for the briefing. Tongues will wag if Harriet shares her bad guess about my set up this morning.

Typical of the genre, the artist woman at the nightclub called me last night. I look in the mirror again. I’ve always thought of myself as the perennial thirty-five-year-old, but my reflection beckons a different future: withered hag with perfect nails. My clock is ticking. Maybe it is time to sign up to some sad singles club, hunt down a partner and join that exclusive club: The Couple. The ultimate stamp of success. Supper chez DCI Kevin Richards, where I’ll discuss Le Creuset saucepans with his wife and still do the odd bit of policing while waiting for my jam to set.

Snapping out of my mood, I work on my face until it’s clean, then apply a new layer of camouflage. After a breakfast of dry bread and two glasses of tap water, I head to work. Miraculously the water sees off the worst of my headache, and by the time I swipe into the police headquarters car park, I’m focussed on the case.

But my thoughts are still fuzzier than I need them to be. One clubber last night said something that nags in my brain, but I’m baffled why an Australian marriage guidance counsellor would want to murder a young mother of three.

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