Just purpose.
She stumbled outside onto the gravel driveway and into the rain that fell like a deluge. It plastered her long hair down her back and poured into her eyes so that she could hardly see which way to turn. Her car was parked in the staff car park along an access road to the left but she found herself veering right, skidding down a wet gravel pathway leading into the trees.
She heard panting breaths not far behind and she ran faster, feeling the soles of her shoes slipping against the pathway. She sobbed as she scrambled down the slight incline, tripping against the potholes but pushing herself to reach the iron bridge which spanned a small river running between the crag where the house stood and the trees on the other side. Once she crossed the bridge, it was only a few minutes’ run through the trees until she reached her destination.
If she could only make it to Ryan’s cottage, she’d be safe.
The footsteps were getting closer.
*
Melanie Yates let herself into the front door of her parents’ house and immediately heard the refrain of a well-known soap opera playing on the television in the living room. “Mel? Is that you?”
“Yes, Mum. I’ll be through in a minute!”
She took her time hanging up her coat and slotting her shoes neatly into the rack her father had built from scraps of MDF wood, back in the days when home improvement shows had dominated Saturday night prime time telly. Twenty years had passed since the country’s obsession with Changing Rooms but still the little shoe rack remained to remind her of the passage of time.
Melanie thought of all the years she’d been coming home and slotting her shoes onto the flimsy rack and experienced a wave of cabin fever. She loved her parents but it was time to strike out, to be independent.
Her mother came into the hallway to seek her out and clucked her tongue.
“You’re late for dinner, love.”
“I’m sorry, Mum. Remember, I told you I’d be working odd hours over the next while. I’ve been seconded to CID,” she said proudly.
Her mother’s face didn’t alter.
“That’s nice, dear. I’ve kept some shepherd’s pie warm for you in the oven.”
Melanie forced a smile.
She had never, in all her life, liked shepherd’s pie. But it was her father’s favourite and, in their household, that was all that mattered.
“Thank you,” she said, and leaned in to peck her mother’s cheek.
She smelled the gin immediately, although there had been a liberal dose of mouthwash to try to hide it. Some days, you couldn’t smell the booze, which usually meant the tipple of choice had been vodka. Either way you looked at it, her mother was a functioning alcoholic and had been for over ten years.
Ever since Gemma died.
Her twin had been the shiny half of the coin, the glossy version of herself that she could never hope to emulate. Much as Melanie tried to carve out her own existence, the knowledge that she was a pale comparison to the child they’d lost was a constant wound and every day she continued to spend beneath her parents’ roof was a reminder of her own inadequacy.
Melanie watched her mother stumble back through to the living room and decided to bypass dinner. She headed upstairs to the room she’d had all her life and closed the door quietly behind her.
*
Thunder crashed in the skies far above where Alice Chapman dashed along the rocky pathway. It led down from Cragside house toward a vast wrought iron bridge spanning two sides of the steep gorge which separated the house from the forest and gardens on the other side. It was also the route toward Ryan and Anna’s rental cottage, and safety.
Adrenaline compelled her to run faster, to push her aching muscles to the limit of endurance, but shock and fear worked together with the driving rain to make progress impossible. Her feet tripped and stumbled against the stone steps that were slick with water and her heavy bag knocked her off-balance.
Alice cast it away and the bag thudded into the shrubbery as she scampered past.
Behind her, the person who raced after her made a mental note of its position, in case they would need to recover it. Their lungs screamed for release as their feet pounded after her and, remarkably, tears began to fall.
It was not supposed to be this way.
If only she hadn’t seen the bag.
No time to think about that now.
Fear was a powerful motivating force and their stride lengthened, closing the gap between them and their quarry.
CHAPTER 12
Less than a ten-minute walk away, Anna watched Ryan pace the living room floor for the hundredth time and wondered what she could do to ease his mind. He’d changed into a fresh shirt of wash-worn cotton and had rolled up the sleeves in deference to the humidity but he had no appetite for dinner.
“Why don’t you come and sit down beside me?” Anna patted the cushion next to her on the squishy, oatmeal-coloured sofa.
Ryan ran an agitated hand through his black hair and let it fall again.
“I’m going to ring the pathologist,” he said. “Pinter should have done the autopsy on Swann’s body by now.”
“It’s been less than twenty-four hours,” Anna reminded him. “You told me yourself, he has more urgent cases to deal with. Besides, it’s”—she paused to consult her watch—“almost seven-thirty. Would he be at work at this hour on a Sunday?”
Ryan swallowed his frustration because she was perfectly correct. There was no sense in hurrying the pathologist, who he knew to be highly competent and dedicated to his work. Harassing the man at home would only hinder the process.
He would just have to wait.
“Without any physical evidence, all I’ve got is a very bad gut feeling.”
He rapped a fist against his abdomen.
“I can’t justify any more man hours spent diving into Swann’s personal history unless I have something to substantiate it.”
Anna nodded her understanding.
“You’re doing all you can.”
She studied him as he roamed about the room like a caged tiger. The compassion he felt for the dead and their loved ones swam so close to the surface it was almost tangible. Ryan’s vocation was to seek justice for the dead, to avenge them and re-balance the scales, but that came with a weight of responsibility. She wondered how he coped with the ones he couldn’t avenge; the families to whom he couldn’t bring justice, whatever that meant.
“Come and sit down,” she urged. “You’re making me seasick.”
Ryan drummed his fingers against the side of his jeans and made a conscious effort to shrug off the tension. He joined her on the sofa and they sat quietly with their hands clasped together while Billie Holiday sang dulcetly about summertime on the stereo system.
Moments later, there came a tremendous crash of thunder and they both jerked around in shock. Outside, lightning blazed through the sky and the wind circled, wailing like a banshee.
“Did you hear that?” Ryan said urgently, rearing off the sofa to draw back the curtains and look out the window.