Talking to the Dead (Fiona Griffiths Mystery Series Book 1) by Harry Bingham

Author:Harry Bingham [Bingham, Harry]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: General Fiction
Publisher: Sheep Street Books
Published: 2016-01-30T16:00:00+00:00

27.

Home.

Anxiety at the front door. There’s a security light at the front of the house, so I’m not worried about possible lurkers outside. It’s the possible lurkers within that freak me out. I know the burglar alarm is now working properly, just as I was perfectly sure it was working properly before, but this is a fear that goes beyond reason.

Fuck feelings, trust reason, I tell myself. An old slogan. Not much needed now.

I insert my key in the lock. Turn it. Let myself in. The alarm starts blipping at me, as it always does, and I put in my access code to silence it.

House empty. Lights on, as I’d left them. No noise. Nothing untoward.

My brain is running through the checks, but my heart is racing as though it’s not too much interested in words from the boss upstairs. I go to close the front door. As I get there to swing it shut, my toe brushes against something on the floor.

Instant fear.

Instant, unreasonable fear. I fight down the unreason and make myself look down at my feet. It’s just a sheet of paper. An advertising flyer or something like it. I close the door, lock it, check the lock twice, then bend to pick the paper up.

Not a flyer.

It says this: WE KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE. No name. Regular office paper. Ordinary household printer. No need for forensics, because I know already that there’ll be nothing to find.

My panic is instant and convulsive. I’m down on my knees by the door, attempting the same dry-retching that I had after Penry left. My clutch bag is well named for once, because I’m clutching it obsessively in my right hand, so that I can feel the haft of the knife. I’m ready to stab straight through the end of the bag if needed, extravagant silk bow and all.

For ten minutes, fear is two tries and a penalty kick to the good. Griffiths, F. has yet to get out of her own half. I want to call Dad, have him come and rescue me. Call Brydon, have him come and rescue me. I’ll give him the best night of his life if he does. Or call Lev and get his menacing effectiveness working for me once again.

But those old slogans have their uses. Fuck feelings, trust reason. Dad, Brydon and Lev are all stopgaps. Good for the night. Useless for a lifetime. If I’m in the grip of fear, I need to deal with it myself. And besides, I’ve a funny feeling that my dad’s already helped me.

Checking the door locks again, I go through to the living room and my phone. I call Brian Penry. His landline, because I put his SIM card in the kettle. It rings four times and then he answers it.

‘Penry.’

‘Brian? It’s Fiona Griffiths.’

There’s a short pause. I’d pause if I were him. But maybe he just needs the time to find the right attitude to me. 1970s cop-movie attitude? Fucking-tit attitude? Slap-your-head-off attitude? He opts

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