Dark Game

by Rachel Lynch

  Dark Game

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Dark Game

  Rachel Lynch

  Chapter 1

  Kelly opened her eyes and struggled to remember where she was. She’d been dreaming. Again.

  It was the same dream. In it, she walked slowly towards a door – a wooden door that had been bashed in. It was swinging lazily on its hinges, tempting her to go through it. As she approached, closer and closer, her heart beat faster, and although she knew she was dreaming, she could do nothing to wake herself up.

  Her hand pushed in vain at the space where the door would be if it were closed tight, and the hinges creaked as the door swayed back and forth, inviting her to go in and take a look. She had no gun, no cuffs, no radio and no time. But she had to keep going. She already knew what was inside; it was the same every time. But each time she still tried. She would never give up. The squeaking door was her only companion as she walked hazily forward, finally making her way into the room.

  There, waiting for her, was the victim: a woman about Kelly’s own age but who appeared much older. She didn’t move as Kelly shuffled towards her on sleepy feet.

  The pressure on her throat caught her off guard and struck her with terrifying force. When she woke, she was holding her breath. She could still feel his hands. Air charged into her lungs and she gulped at it greedily. Her heart rate caused her chest to rise and fall, and she took a few minutes to assure herself that it was, after all, just another dream, exactly like the last.

  Bastards. All of them.

  Her mouth was sticky and she felt the familiar queasiness of a hangover. She’d only been back here five minutes and was supposed to be impressing her new unit. She hadn’t got very far, and screwing the local mountain rescue wasn’t the kind of start she’d hoped for; but still, it had been a pleasant experience. She looked at her watch: it was still early, and she had plenty of time for a pick-me-up coffee. Then she’d have to get to work.

  Johnny slept soundly next to her. His back moved slightly with his breathing, and he was tanned from a long, hot summer on the fells. She’d forgotten how fit the mountains made you. Her stomach knotted briefly. The memory of the last man she’d shared a bed with crept into her consciousness, and it was unwelcome. This was a new start and she wouldn’t mess it up.

  She hadn’t screwed up last time; she’d just trusted the wrong person. Matt Carter.

  Twat.

  The day Matt Carter hung her out to dry in front of her team, he’d kept his face straight and his eyes away from hers, not even the corner of his mouth moving as she’d been reprimanded for being too much of a risk-taker. Reckless, they’d called her, and Matt never said a word. She’d wanted to scream like a stroppy toddler, but it would’ve got her nowhere. Instead she left with her pride bruised and her reputation in doubt.

  She was tired of London anyway, or at least that was what she told herself every morning when she looked into the mirror and listened to the unfamiliar hush, wondering where all the sirens had gone. If her instinct was interpreted as recklessness, they could shove it. She’d had enough of dead bodies anyway. Enough of sick fucks doing twisted shit to people. The kids were the worst. Images filled her mind: a boy of four lying discarded like waste on the floor of a dirty apartment in Bethnal Green, a rib sticking out of his side, having been kicked to death.

  She rubbed her eyes and felt the mascara stick to her lids. As usual, she’d forgotten to remove it. The women’s magazines all said it was disastrous for skin – especially ageing skin – but she wasn’t very good at taking advice. However, after a night with a man she might want to see again, it was important to look at least semi-seductive, and she wondered where the bathroom was.

  She sat up and stretched. She’d leave him asleep, she thought; she could do without being detained by conversation. She looked at him. He seemed like one of the good guys, but it was too soon to know for sure. Naked, she slipped out of bed and didn’t bother dressing as she wandered around. The house was small and she found the bathroom easily. She looked in the mirror and shook her head. Christ, she thought. Her eyes were smeared in black and she took a tissue to wipe them. Her hair was tousled and messy, but she had nothing to tie it up with, so she wrapped a towel around it to keep it dry and stepped into the shower.

  Johnny was still asleep when she returned to retrieve her clothes from the floor. It took her a while to find her pants, but she eventually gathered everything, then took the pile to another room and got dressed. The clothes felt dirty against her clean body, but she had no choice. The liaison hadn’t been planned; that was what made it so enjoyable.

  Her handbag was in the lounge and she used the make-up it contained to bring some life to her dull skin. It wasn’t perfect, but she felt satisfied that it wasn’t totally obvious what she’d been doing. She felt a pang of shame at the thought of facing her mother, but it was mingled with defiance too. Kelly had yet to find her own place to live and was unused to explaining her every move. She was thirty-six, but lately her mother had made her feel fifteen again.

  She hadn’t been back to the small terrace in at least five years and it had barely changed. The only difference now was the absence of her father, whose force used to pervade every square inch of it. Now Mum was lost.

  Kelly had been pushed by London and pulled by the death of her father. Pushed by betrayal and pulled by duty. The job with the Cumbria Constabulary was a good opportunity and allowed her to escape. She’d jumped at it, desperate to get away. She told people she was going to support her mother but made no mention of the feeling of failure. The dizzy heights of the capital city hadn’t delivered a pot of gold after all.

  Mum had aged. Her sister, Nikki, had aged. Her friends had aged. Life had moved on quickly here in her absence. She’d missed so much, and now she felt guilty. She wished she could have spent more time with her mother, but her father, the great John Porter, had been all-consuming in his perfection. Nikki had idolised him, but Kelly had competed with him.

  ‘What do you want to join the Met for? Fancy you
rself as Sherlock Holmes, do you?’ he’d taunted her.

  It’d taken her years to finally realise that her father was really not extraordinary at all. He felt the same fears, searched for the same answers and made the same mistakes that everyone else did, but he hid it well, and that was what Kelly had learned to do too. People said it made her hard, but underneath she cried, failed and got damaged like everyone else. Her bullishness made her father smile, but it only made her mother shake her head and give her that look. It could be the smallest thing: emptying the entire contents of her parents’ drinks cabinet for her friends when she was fifteen; hitching to Manchester on her own to meet a boy no one knew. She couldn’t be controlled and so she didn’t fit into anyone’s conventions; it made people uncomfortable. Nikki, on the other hand, ticked so many boxes that they had to be stacked up: homemaker, cake-maker, Julie fucking Andrews.

  John Porter, Cumbrian Constabulary legend, had stayed in uniform, calling it real police work. Kelly had disagreed and followed the detective route. Her father had sniffed. Mum had worried. And her sister, aping her parents, had rolled her eyes every time Kelly veered further from the sacred path of marriage and children. If only someone would write down exactly what was on that path that was so compelling, and distribute it to all ten-year-olds, then maybe kids would try to stay on it. Or maybe not.

  Kelly did fancy herself as Sherlock Holmes. But she was better. And in the Met she’d proved it. Until the last case and a back-stabbing twat called Matt. Matt the twat. Move on.

  She filled a kettle and flicked the switch, then looked into cupboards for coffee. Johnny’s house was well stocked for a man on his own, and she noticed a framed photograph of a girl, aged about ten, sitting on the side. God, he’s got a kid, she thought. She wondered if the little girl would stay on the path or wander off it and forge her own. She knew which one she wished for any children of hers. The problem with paths was that you knew where they were going.

  She heard a noise and reached for a second cup. She made two coffees, each with a sugar in them, and took them to the bedroom.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said, smiling down at Johnny. He propped himself up on one elbow and reached out to take a cup.

  ‘You look fresh. Where are you running off to?’

  ‘Some of us have proper jobs. I’m reviewing cases all day and it’s going to be long and probably dull. But first I need to get out of these clothes.’ She indicated last night’s attire.

  She went to the window and looked out, sipping her coffee. ‘Nice place,’ she said. The familiar caffeine rush soothed her. Silence sat between them and she guessed he didn’t do this a lot. She’d been in London for so long that casual sex had become ordinary, pedestrian even, but this was the Lakes, where everybody was married, wholesome and normal.

  ‘How long are you hanging around, Kelly Porter?’ he asked eventually. ‘Or are you heading back to the big city as soon as your mum’s better?’

  God, what had she told him? She smiled. ‘Christ, I’ve got no idea. I’ll see how the job goes.’ A vague recollection of babbling on about her mother being unwell came back to her, and she felt uncomfortable: the paranoid anxiety that alcohol brought with it the next day. It was true, her mother hadn’t been feeling well lately, but she was sure she’d exaggerated it. She was fine really.

  ‘Are you sure you need to go straight away?’ Johnny pulled the covers back.

  She walked over to the bed and began to undress.

  Chapter 2

  Kelly opened the door as quietly as she could. She felt like a naughty schoolgirl. She even removed her shoes so she could tiptoe in undetected.

  When she’d first returned here, three weeks ago, her bedroom was exactly as it had been left when she’d gone off to university nearly twenty years earlier. She’d never come back, except for weekends and holidays.

  The first thing she’d done was clear out the room. Old posters, books, and bits and pieces went into boxes in the loft. The space was tiny and she wondered how she’d managed as a teenager. Most of the stuff she’d accumulated during her time in London was left in suitcases under the bed. She asked her mum if she could paint the room.

  ‘What’s wrong with it as it is?’ her mum replied.

  ‘Nothing, it’s just still pink.’

  ‘And what’s wrong with that? Your sister likes it; you know she always wanted that room.’

  ‘I’m not Nikki, Mum.’ While her sister had played with dolls and worn frills, Kelly had climbed trees and smoked fags with the boys. When her father had painted the room, she’d covered the walls with posters of Nirvana, Rage Against the Machine and the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

  Mum didn’t understand her music. ‘Why don’t you like ABBA?’ she had asked. Nikki liked ABBA. Nikki still liked ABBA.

  Now Kelly started for the stairs.

  ‘Kelly?’

  Her mother appeared from the kitchen holding a cup of tea and frowning. There was nowhere to hide in the tiny house, and they stood at opposite ends of the hallway that ran the full length of the house, from front door to kitchen.

  ‘Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick. I got up this morning and went to take you a cup of tea and your bed hadn’t been slept in. Why didn’t you call?’ Her mother’s voice rose with each word.

  ‘Mum, I’m not used to living with someone else and explaining my every move. I’m really sorry I made you worry. I’m fine, I just stayed over with a friend; it got late and we shared a bottle of wine.’

  That look.

  ‘I called your sister.’

  ‘What? Why?’ Kelly was livid. Any moment now, Joan of Arc would waft in with her brood of snot-covered kids and rescue her mother from her wayward, irresponsible daughter. ‘You didn’t need to do that! I’ll call her.’

  She rooted for her phone. She’d forgotten she’d switched it to silent in the pub. She had twenty-five missed calls from her mother. She needed to find her own place.

  Nikki’s phone went straight to voicemail, just as the door opened. Of course, Nikki had a key.

  ‘Kelly, you’re OK! Mum was worried sick, weren’t you, Mum?’

  ‘Of course I’m OK, I’m a grown-up now.’ Kelly tried to smile.

  ‘How about acting like one then?’ Nikki fired the first shot.

  ‘How about wearing less make-up?’ Kelly responded.

  ‘You’re jealous!’

  ‘Fuck off, Nikki.’ They’d gone beyond reasonable conversation years ago and simply fired off insults whenever the opportunity arose, but it was always Kelly’s fault, according to their mother. At least that was the impression she gave.

  ‘Just stop it, you two! Why can’t you be civil to one another?’

  They both looked at their mother and hung their heads. Kelly was ashamed. Her mother didn’t look right and she didn’t know if it was tiredness, old age creeping in or something else. It was indisputable, though, that blazing rows wouldn’t help.

  ‘Go and have your fights elsewhere! Kelly, you’ve only been back five minutes.’ She was the easier target because she never answered back, unlike Nikki, who poured honey-coated untruths into their mother’s ear.

  ‘Calm down, Mum. I’ll go and make you a cup of tea,’ Nikki soothed.

  Kelly rolled her eyes. ‘Like I said, Mum, I’m sorry I made you worry.’ She went to her mother and hugged her, and all was forgiven, though no doubt Nikki would stay a while after Kelly left to highlight her errant ways in her absence. Kelly had stopped caring what her sister thought years ago.

  She went upstairs heavily, closing her bedroom door behind her, wanting to slam it. She undressed, opened her wardrobe and sighed. She disliked work clothes: they made her feel awkward. She preferred her running gear, or just jeans and a jumper. She pulled on some tights and already imagined taking them off again after another day trussed up like a turkey. She fastened her skirt and tucked in her blouse, feeling like it was her first day at school, when her dad had taught her to do a tie properly on her own for the fi
rst time. ‘It’s too tight!’ she’d complained. Her top button never stayed fastened for long.

  She checked her make-up in the mirror. It was true, Nikki did wear too much. She looked trashy, like the friends she hung out with, all getting together and moaning about everything and nothing. Kelly reckoned that if Nikki ran out of things to whinge about, she’d write a letter to the council, and eventually the Queen. It baffled her that they were sisters. Nikki’s wet dream would be to meet Robbie Williams; Kelly’s was to do the Four Peaks Challenge in under twenty-four hours. Nikki wore five-inch heels even when she was giving birth; Kelly still wore the same trainers she’d had in uni. Nikki read Danielle Steele; Kelly read John Grisham. Nikki drove a Fiat; Kelly drove a BMW convertible.

  It irritated Kelly that her mother had become primary carer for Nikki’s kids. It irked her too that Nikki was advising Mum what to do with the money from Dad’s life insurance, and that included taking her and her kids to Ibiza for two weeks. Even something as apparently insignificant as Nikki strutting around in a designer tracksuit at the age of thirty-nine got under Kelly’s skin, and already the pleasure of the morning was ebbing away.

  At least when Dad was around, things were more even. Two against two. Mum wasn’t used to making decisions and taking responsibility, and it made her open to suggestion. Kelly had persuaded her to put what was left of the money into a bank account, and arranged an appointment with an adviser to discuss how to invest it and make it pay, rather than just spending it all. That had caused another row, or more accurately, a series of insults hurled across the room until Kelly left to go for a run. It didn’t really matter what she did or said: she was the outsider now, and therefore easy to blame.

  She needed to move out to avoid Nikki, but if she did, she would leave Mum exposed and lonely. Her mother had lost the sparkle in her eyes, and she rarely went out other than to shop or take her grandchildren to the park. Since her return, Kelly had forced her to go out. They’d been for coffee and browsed the shops together in Ambleside looking for new walking gear for Kelly; they’d been to the cinema; they’d cooked together, something Mum had forgotten she enjoyed. In three short weeks, they’d created an existence. That all changed when Nikki was around, but there was very little Kelly could do about it. Nikki had been here for Mum when Kelly hadn’t, and her mother wasn’t a child; she had to make her own decisions. There was only so much protection and distraction a daughter could provide. It wasn’t Kelly’s home anymore; she was a lodger with no privacy. Nikki could waltz in at any moment and it made her gasp for air.