‘Hi Angie,’ he said, moving in front of the screen to catch her attention without shocking her.
‘Boss.’ She struggled to push herself further up on the mound of pillows behind her.
Francis didn’t offer to help her. He knew that would embarrass her even more, so he waited until she’d settled herself and then sat down on the chair by her bed.
‘How are you doing?’
Angie’s eyes brimmed with tears. Francis knew what the problem was but couldn’t think of any words of comfort. He picked up the box of tissues on the night stand and held it out to her. Angie took one and blew her nose.
‘Thanks, boss,’ she said. ‘I’m getting better slowly. Afraid this,’ – she lifted her plastered arm a few inches from the bed – ‘is going to keep me off for a while.’
‘No problem,’ said Francis. ‘Take as long as you need.’
‘When’s Tony’s funeral?’ she said.
‘Friday week. You’ll be well enough to come, won’t you?’
She shook her head, the tears threatening again. ‘I don’t think I should . . . In fact, I can’t. I wouldn’t be able to face Barbara.’
‘I understand. I’ll tell the team you’re still too ill.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, and blew her nose again. Then she looked up at him. ‘How are you doing?’
‘I’m okay. Going home, thank God.’
‘Are you sleeping all right?’
‘Not great.’ It was true. Francis had suffered broken nights ever since it had happened. He was plagued with the vision of Jered Stapleton’s back, criss-crossed with the scars of a broken mind.
‘Me neither,’ said Angie. ‘If I do sleep, I have nightmares about being chased and about drowning in sewage. And when I’m awake I relive every moment I spent with Tony down there, and how I lost his body.’
‘It’ll take time,’ said Francis. ‘But I’ll give you as long as you need. I’ll be here for you, Angie, every step of the way.’
‘And the worst thing,’ she continued, ‘I know I’m clean now – I must have had a hundred showers – but I just can’t get that stench out of my nostrils.’
Francis knew exactly what she meant.
69
Friday, 8 September 2017
Francis
Twenty-four hours back in the real world, and Francis was already getting used to people staring at his face. The black mark on his cheek wasn’t huge, but against his pale complexion, it stood out – and now that it had scabbed over it looked more like an ugly cancer than a tattoo.
When he’d appeared in the incident room that morning, for the first time since Jered Stapleton’s attack, half the team didn’t know which way to look, while the other half simply stared at him unabashedly. No one asked him about what had happened – there were just a few quiet ‘good mornings’. Rory had filled them in on the events down in the sewer and the mood was subdued. Tony was dead and Angie would be off for the foreseeable future. The killer had short-changed them by taking his own life so, though the case was over, there was nothing to feel celebratory about.
A morning in that dour atmosphere was enough for Francis. After making inroads on the mountain of paperwork the case had generated, he left at lunchtime for an equally sombre destination – Tash Brady’s funeral. Rose had released her body and finally her family were going to be able to pay their last respects. The funeral was being held at St Peter’s on York Place. St Catherine’s was nearer to where Tash had lived, but the family had chosen not to have it there for obvious reasons.
Francis walked up to the church from John Street, marvelling at how fresh and cool it had become ever since the storm. The rain had lasted for a couple of days and now, in the sunshine, Brighton looked freshly washed, a layer of dust swept from the streets and pavements and down the drains. And without the oppressive blanket of heat, everything felt lighter.
The mourners were still congregating outside the church when Francis arrived. He hung back, on the other side of the road, and watched them filing inside – Kath and Richard Brady in elegant black clothes that did nothing to hide their despair. A lot of people he didn’t recognise. Faye Roderick and Marcia Cornwallis, from the art college, flanked by a number of what looked like colleagues. And Tash’s friends, some more, some less appropriately dressed.
He scanned the faces. There was no sign of Alex Mullins. But then Kath Brady had more or less accused him of murdering her daughter, so he would hardly feel welcome here. It was a shame. The Bradys owed Alex an apology. The world owed Alex an apology.
Once the last mourner had disappeared inside, Francis went across to the church and slipped in at the back. At the top of the aisle, Tash’s white coffin was already in situ, covered by a profusion of flowers, and with at least half a dozen wreaths lined up on the steps in front of it. Tash had been a popular girl. Francis knelt and sent up a prayer for her, for her family and for all the people who had been affected by Jered Stapleton’s actions – not least his sister. When he opened his eyes, he noticed the back of Tom Fitz’s head a couple of rows in front of him. It gave him a sour taste in his mouth.
The organist stopped playing the funeral dirge they’d walked in to. There was a second of silence, then ‘Lord of the Dance’ thundered out and gave life to the huge portrait photo of Tash at the front of the church. The congregation stood and started to sing.
As he filed out at the end of the service, Francis saw Marni standing outside in the small parking area at the front of the church. She must have come in the back after the service had begun. He looked round for Alex – he wanted to talk to the boy if he could.
‘Hello Marni,’ he said. He noticed that her right hand was heavily bandaged.
She nodded at him and there was an awkward moment when he didn’t know whether to embrace her or not. She stepped forward and did the job for him.
‘That doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you,’ she said.
For arresting her son? Or for the car crash he’d made of their relationship? Both?
‘Isn’t Alex here?’
She nodded in the direction of a group of Tash’s friends. Francis looked but couldn’t see the boy. And then he realised – Alex Mullins had cut off his dreadlocks. His black hair was cropped close to his skull, and in a dark jacket and black jeans, he looked like a completely different person.
‘Do you think he’ll talk to me?’
Marni shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me. He’s his own man.’
Alex saw them talking and came across to where they were standing. But there was no friendly greeting. Instead he focused on his mother.
‘Come on, let’s go,’ he said, taking her arm. ‘We won’t be welcome at the wake.’
‘Alex?’ said Francis.
Alex looked at him properly for the first time, making eye contact with a fierce gaze.
‘Alex, I wanted to say sorry for what happened in the sewer. You should never have been cuffed down there.’
‘No, he shouldn’t,’ said Marni, but Alex shot her a sideways glance to shut her up.
‘I wasn’t the bad guy,’ said Alex. ‘We were on the same team.’
‘I know,’ said Francis. ‘I’m sorry.’
Liv Templeton beckoned to Alex and he turned away.
Francis looked back at Marni.
‘He looks good with his haircut.’
Marni laughed. ‘You would say that, Frank. But after the sewer, his dreads stank. We couldn’t get them properly clean.’
‘Will he grow them back?’
‘Probably not – but who knows?’ She peered up at his cheek, then ran a finger lightly over the black mark. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Getting there,’ he said. ‘What happened to your hand?’
Marni’s expression clouded. ‘I had an encounter with my brother-in-law and a knife.’
‘Paul was here
?’
‘I told you he was coming.’
‘Will you report this? Then we can try and bring him in.’
‘He’s long gone.’
‘Will it affect your work?’
Marni glanced down at her bandaged hand with a rueful shrug. ‘It’s too early to say. I just have to let it heal.’
Their conversation ran out of steam and they took leave of each other with a couple of nods.
Francis walked back to John Street. He felt exhausted. It would be a while before he was totally well again and he was supposed to be taking things easy. He thought about the events of the previous couple of weeks. They’d messed up. Maybe, if they’d worked faster, Lou Riley wouldn’t have had to die. Maybe Tony Hitchins would still be alive. Maybe Angie would still be happy.
But he’d saved Liv’s life.
They’d taken a killer off the streets.
And wasn’t that, after all, why he’d become a police officer?
Then he wished he’d asked Marni out for a drink while he’d been talking to her, and wondered how she’d answer. He pulled his phone out his pocket and dialled her number.
Acknowledgements
It’s no secret among writers that the second book can be ‘the difficult one’! After the excitement of seeing one’s debut published, one comes back down to earth with a bump – there’s a blank sheet of paper waiting to be turned into a novel, and this time it comes with a deadline and a weight of expectations. Thankfully, throughout the writing experience, I’m lucky enough to have had a great many people cheering me on, willing me forward and helping me out in all sorts of practical ways.
First and foremost among these is my brilliant agent, Jenny Brown of Jenny Brown Associates, a dispenser of reassurance, excellent advice, coffee and stronger drinks. Likewise, thanks are due to my two amazing editors at Trapeze – Sam Eades who shepherded me through the early writing stages and, when Sam went on maternity leave, Phoebe Morgan, who stepped in to pick up the baton and keep things on track. Much gratitude also to the rest of the Trapeze/Orion team, which includes, but is not limited to, Jennifer Kerslake, Laura Gerrard, Kim Bishop, Alex Layt, Jessica Tackie, Paul Stark, Jessica Purdue, Hannah Stokes, Richard King and Krystyna Kujawinska. And huge thanks to long-time and rediscovered friend Candida Gubbins for her brilliant reading on my audio books.
Her Last Breath went through several incarnations as I wrestled with a badly behaved plot – and I had a huge amount of help from my ‘super-editor’ Karen Ball, of Speckled Pen. Sometimes, as a writer, you can’t see the wood for the trees and Karen is an expert at unpicking plot threads and straightening out tangles!
Once again, there was invaluable input from my expert witnesses – Doctor Jo Harris, Dean of Medical School, University of Buckingham, who showed immense patience with me over all things medical, and Superintendent (Retired) David Hammond of Staffordshire Police, who set me straight on my police procedure.
As always, a huge number of other writers, friends and family have given their time and support to my writing endeavours – probably far too many people to mention here. But notable among them are my brother Nick Higgins, who read almost as many versions of this book as I wrote, my fellow writers Jane Anderson, Vanessa Roberts, Jane Bradley and Gill Fyffe, my head cheerleader and unofficial PR Katie Wood, my hugely supportive friends Sarah Simpson and Caroline Wilkinson, and the members of my longstanding book group (of which I’m now an absentee member!) – Diana Barham, Amanda Hyde, Jo Harris and Sue Collier. Sue, finally after seventeen years, I think I’ve got your name right this time!
And, of course, love and thanks to Mark, Rupert and Tim for always being there for me.
I know as I write this, I will have missed someone critical off the list – so forgive me if it’s you!
About the Author
Alison Belsham initially started writing with the ambition of becoming a screenwriter and in 2000 was commended for her visual storytelling in the Orange Prize for Screenwriting. In 2001 she was shortlisted in a BBC Drama Writer competition. Life and children intervened but, switching to fiction, in 2009 her novel Domino was selected for the prestigious Adventures in Fiction mentoring scheme. In 2016 she pitched her first crime novel, The Tattoo Thief, at the Pitch Perfect event at the Bloody Scotland Crime Writing Festival and was judged the winner. The novel became an international bestseller upon publication, and has now been translated into eleven languages. Her Last Breath is her second book.
Also by Alison Belsham
The Tattoo Thief
Copyright
First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Trapeze
an imprint of The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Carmelite House, 50 Victoria Embankment
London ec4y 0dz
An Hachette UK Company
Copyright © Alison Belsham 2019
The moral right of Alison Belsham to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library.
ISBN (eBook) 978 1 4091 8268 9
Typeset by Input Data Services Ltd, Somerset
www.orionbooks.co.uk
Her Last Breath: The new crime thriller from the international bestseller (Sullivan and Mullins) Page 34