The Turning of our Bones by Ed James

Author:Ed James [James, Ed]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-01-31T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Marshall knew he should just get inside the hotel and go up to his room. Not that he’d be able to sleep, but he could channel the fizzing energy into his work, read the profile again. Spot the glaring errors and maybe unearth a new path through it. Maybe it would congeal into something he could action, some insight into why Derek Cameron had done this. Why he’d been killed. Where Wendy Malcolm was.

But he was too keyed up to focus. That tingle of panic sat at the top of his stomach, above the fatty dinner he’d managed half of.

He walked right past the hotel.

Rain thudded down on him. Soaked already, but sod it, he needed to get all this shite out of his skull. He sloshed past the butcher’s where his mum had bought that lamb. Half the town seemed to be butcher’s shops. The place hadn’t changed that much since he’d lived here, and certainly hadn’t been ravaged by the pandemic, but there were differences, mostly in the shops. A new café where an interiors shop had been. A new interiors shop where a café had been. A new bookshop wedged between two units he thought had changed too, but he wasn’t sure. The old bookshop was now a gift shop.

The police station was up ahead.

Go inside, see what Elliot had to say, if she’d eaten, see if there was an update. Or just get on with the profile. Taking time out for a family meal was a luxury, and he couldn’t afford luxuries.

No. If there was an update, Elliot would’ve phoned. Or Siyal.

Marshall checked his mobile and he just had six emails from Amazon and a spam text.

Unwanted by anyone.

Stop feeling so sorry for yourself, dickhead.

He wiped the raindrops off the screen and pocketed his phone.

Besides, Elliot would no doubt ask how his family dinner had gone and he just didn’t want her to know anything more about his family life on top of the slight details she had. Elliot seemed the sort to—

Paranoid, much?

Instead, Marshall took the right turn and walked around the one-way system, passing another old pub they used to drink in underage, which was now a Greek restaurant.

The rain was getting heavier and he was a stupid twat for doing this. His jacket was soaked through and would unlikely be dry by the morning. He hurried on, desperate to get back and into the shower, cutting up past the ice cream shop, still open at this late hour even though the bored teenager behind the counter didn’t have any customers. Marshall hurried up to the square. The wine shop was still there on the corner.

Open.

Warm.

Tempting.

Bugger it. A glass of red in his room to stop him obsessing about the case. Or to help him.

Aye.

He pushed in and got a meep-maw from the buzzer.

No other customers, but the big shop was crammed with posh booze. Some displays mounted on old whisky barrels. Two bulging racks of red, two of white, one for summer rosé, then a spirits selection where gin and single malt whisky battled it out for supremacy.

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