The One That Got Away: A DI Heather Filson Novel by JD Kirk

Author:JD Kirk [Kirk, JD]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Zertex Crime
Published: 2023-05-24T16:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-THREE

Linda and Michael Harrison had been driven straight home after the press conference, and now sat in their living room, flanked on all sides by uniformed liaison officers, hot, sugary teas slowly turning cold on the table in front of them.

They hadn’t yet turned to the window, so they hadn’t seen Heather standing outside, watching them through the rain-streaked glass while the constable who’d driven the couple home filled her in on everything that had happened.

They’d left Ibby with a neighbour that morning, and while, between her silent sobs and her hysterical screaming, Linda had insisted they go and get her back, Michael had reasoned her out of it, one hand stroking figures-of-eight on her arm, the other draped across her shoulders.

There had been whispering, too. Michael had leaned in close to his wife and spoken hushed words into her ear. Whatever he’d said, it had been effective, and she’d fallen silent for the rest of the journey, save for the occasional choked whimper.

As Heather listened, the soft squeaking of brakes and the purring of a well-maintained engine caught her attention, and she turned to see a green Jaguar car pull up behind her Audi.

“Fuck. That’s all we need,” she muttered, marching off and leaving the uniformed constable standing awkward and alone by the garden gate.

She reached the car before Cowan could open the door, and stood by the driver’s side window, one hand on the roof, blocking his exit.

“Move,” he said, his voice muffled by the window.

“What are you doing here, Shuggie?” Heather asked.

“What the fuck do you think I’m doing here? Move.”

They glowered at each other through the glass for a moment, then Heather sighed and stepped back, letting the bulky big bastard open the door and haul himself out.

His face was pale, making the swastika-shaped scar on his forehead stand out even more than usual. His eyes were ringed with red, too, and Heather realised with a start that Shuggie Cowan—the actual Shuggie Cowan—had been crying.

For a moment, she didn’t know how to react, her brain refusing to put what had, until then, been the warring concepts of ‘Shuggie Cowan’ and ‘shedding tears’ together in a way that made any sort of sense.

By the time it had, Cowan had already barged past her and was marching towards the house. The Uniform was standing her ground in front of the gate, but with each thunderous step from the gangster, she was becoming more and more jittery.

“It’s fine, let him through,” Heather said, and the constable practically threw herself sideways out of Shuggie’s path, like a goalkeeper making a dramatic diving save.

Shuggie stopped when he reached the gate. From several paces behind, Heather heard his breath catching in his throat as he caught sight of his daughter and son-in-law sitting together on the couch.

Linda had her head in her hands and was rocking back and forth now, Michael pulling her in close against him, squeezing her like he could hold back her waves of grief.

“Oh. God,” Shuggie whispered.

Heather stopped beside him.

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