He didn't have long to wait. Harriet appeared in the doorway. She flopped against the doorjamb, her shoulders drooping as she slipped out of her shoes, revealing a pair of bright pink, cat covered socks. She sighed pleasurably as she stepped onto the plush rug in the living room.
"You look how I feel," Drew said. At least his voice didn't betray the fear he'd felt just moments before. Progress was progress, and he wasn't so big-headed to turn his nose up at it.
"You really know how to make a woman feel good." A small smile tugged at the corner's of Harriet's mouth as she let her laptop bag drop to the floor before she shrugged free of her jacket. "It's freezing in here," she said, the smile disappearing from her face.
"I didn't want to interfere," Drew said. "I'm already intruding enough as it is."
"So you thought sitting here in the freezing cold was a better idea?" She snorted and padded across the floor toward the kitchen. "Do you want a glass of wine?" Her voice drifted back in from the other room.
"I've got a beer," Drew answered, returning his attention to the brightly lit screen of the laptop propped up on his knees.
Harriet reappeared in the doorway a moment later. Drew kept his attention on the houses he'd flagged earlier as possibilities as she settled cross-legged onto the opposite end of the couch. He could feel her penetrating gaze and fought the urge to look up.
"How are you feeling?" She broke the companionable silence, giving Drew an excuse to look away from the computer. No matter how often she told him he wasn't intruding on her by staying in the spare room, he still felt utterly out of place. Of course, it didn't do anything to ease the guilt he felt over abandoning the house he'd shared with Freya. It seemed the more he got a grip on his fear after everything Nolan Matthews had put him through, the more space it created in his mind for the guilt to creep in. Harriet would probably tell him it was a good thing, a sign he was in recovery, but it certainly didn't feel like that to him.
"Pretty good," he lied, choosing to keep his gaze averted as he leaned over the edge of the couch and picked his bottle of beer up from its place on the floor. When he met Harriet's gaze, he could see that he hadn't been as convincing as he'd hoped.
"How are you finding the new dynamic of the team?" Harriet leaned into the pillow-back cushions on the couch, the picture of ease as she sipped the glass of red wine she'd poured for herself. But Drew could see the intensity that lurked beneath the surface of her blue eyes.
"We agreed on no psycho-analysis," Drew said tersely. For a moment he could see a flicker of pain as it flitted through her gaze, but it was gone so fast he instantly doubted himself.
"I wasn't trying to pry," Harriet said swiftly. "It's just..." She trailed off and turned her attention to the glass in her hand.
Huffing out a breath, Drew felt the tension in his shoulders slowly ebb away. "I'm sorry, it's not you, it's me. Every time I think I'm getting a handle on everything, I find myself spinning out all over again."
"You're still having the panic attacks?"
Drew shook his head. "Not so much. But for instance, when you came in the door, I could feel the panic rising. I controlled it, but…" He balled his hand into a fist, crushing his fingers into the flesh of his palm.
Her smile was sympathetic. "You've got to give yourself time, Drew. I know you hate to hear that, but it's the truth. You dived back into work, without giving yourself a little grace."
He rolled his eyes and drank down a deep mouthful of the bitter beer. "If I took anymore time off, I would have murdered someone myself."
"I get that," she said. "But it's still a shock to the system. And let's be honest, your job is not exactly stress free." She raised an eyebrow at him, and the speculative look on her face dragged a chuckle from him.
"Is that your not-so-subtle way of asking if there's anything going on at the minute that would benefit from your expertise?"
"Well, if there was, would that be so awful?" There was an eagerness in her voice that surprised Drew.
Closing the laptop lid, he slipped it back onto the couch. "There was something I wanted to ask you," he said.
"Go on." From the corner of his eye, he watched her take another sip of her drink.
"It's nothing more than a coincidence, but Maz brought it to my attention and before I go blundering in, I thought I'd mention it to you."
Harriet cocked her eyebrow at him speculatively, letting him know instantly that she knew he was stalling. Drew sighed. "The last case we worked, Maz and Olivia—during their door-to-door inquiries—spoke to a witness, a Jessica Tamblyn. She's known to our lot, and the information she shared, well it led to us tying some threads together that we might not have otherwise." He sighed, running a hand down over his face. "This is ridiculous. I'm allowing Maz to get inside my head. Get me worked up over nothing but a coincidence."
"Drew, if it really is nothing, then why are you making such a big deal out of it? If it's nothing, then spit it out and let me make up my own mind."
"Fine, you're right." He let his hands drop uselessly back into his lap. "Jessica Tamblyn is dead. Maz found out today. I've requested the full case file, but I'm not expecting much to come of it."
"Why is that?" Despite the nonchalance in her voice, Drew knew Harriet well enough to know when she was intrigued. There was something in the way her body tightened, like a coiled spring that at any moment would erupt into action. And that was how she appeared to him now, every muscle in her body taut. The grip she had on the wine glass a little too tight, her eyes a little too wide, breathing a little faster than was usual.
"Our friend DS Perry is running the investigation." He let the words sink in, watching her for the moment when realisation struck. He wasn't disappointed. Harriet screwed up her nose in distaste as she lifted the wineglass to her lips and took a mouthful. "Yeah, him. The minute he knows I'm sticking my neb in where it definitely doesn't belong, he'll be only too happy to cut it off."
"I take it there's a good reason why both you and DS Arya believe there's more to Ms Tamblyn's death than meets the eye?" Harriet cocked an eyebrow in his direction as she leaned back into the pillows.
Rather than try to explain to her the gut feeling he had, Drew pulled out a copy of the file he'd obtained from Maz and slid it over to her. "You tell me."
He watched as she set the glass aside and took the file from him. He said nothing as she flipped it open, her attention riveted to the front page. When she turned the page, Harriet sucked in a sharp breath as she faltered. Her eyes widened momentarily as she took in the scene they'd found Jessica at the heart of, and Drew felt a modicum of guilt for not warning her of the grimness of the contents of the file.
"It says here DS Perry is treating this as retribution for your case, but he doesn't list any evidence, or witness statements to back the idea up."
Drew nodded. "Like I said, I've requested the full case-file but I've got a feeling that what we've got is pretty much the sum of it all. The investigation is a new one, but even so he should have something more substantial."
"And if he doesn't?" Harriet dragged her attention away from the scene and met Drew's gaze head on.
"Then Jessica's case will become another unsolved statistic."
Harriet nodded and returned her attention to the file. "On a cursory glance, I might be inclined to agree with your gut feeling, but I'd need a little more information. Initially, the scene presents as somewhat disorganised, but it says here there's no forensic evidence found at the scene which doesn't fit with a disorganised killer. Instead, that speaks to someone who came with a plan, pre-meditated enough to use forensic counter-measures."
Drew nodded. "I can't say how reliable that file is in regards to the forensic evidence. There's bound to be some trace DNA." Leaning forward he caught a whiff of the subtle perfume of her shampoo as a lock of her curls fell over her shoulder and into her face. A lump formed in the back of his throat. "It looks as though whoever killed her was out of control. Angry..." Drew swallowed hard, and
shifted backwards on the couch, anything to put a little distance between him and the soft perfumed scent of her hair and skin. No sooner did the realisation hit him than he felt the familiar guilt over Freya rise unbidden in his mind. He'd run away from the home they'd built together, and now he was here with Harriet doing what exactly? It was a confusing concoction of guilt and discomfort, and by the time he dragged himself out of his own thoughts he realised Harriet had been speaking to him the entire time.
"If it’s possible, I'd like to see the results of the post-mortem. Murders like this are always going to appear frenzied, but that doesn't necessarily mean it's true." She glanced over at Drew and the ghost of a smile hovered on her lips. "But you don't need me to tell you that." She closed the file, her hand pressing down on the cover as though that alone would be enough to keep the horror contained. "What do you need from me on this?"
Drew shrugged. "Honestly, I have no idea... Maybe I'm just grasping at straws, desperate for a distraction." There was a raw edge to his voice. He needed to move, to get away. To put as much distance between himself and the situation just so he could think clearly again.
"Only you can answer that."
He nodded and glanced down at his watch. "You're right. Look, if I find anything then I'll pass it along." He managed to sound half-strangled. Get a grip, Drew. The voice in the back of his head warned.
"Drew, I'm not dismissing you," Harriet said, and she sounded genuinely dismayed. She reached out toward him, but he shifted away.
Avoiding her penetrating gaze, Drew climbed to his feet and downed the last of his beer. "I know," he said. "I've got an early start, I should probably turn in."
"Is there something else you're not telling me?" From the corner of his eye, he caught her blue eyes searching his face for an answer.
"I'm just tired," he said. "And I've got a headache." He grabbed onto the first thought that popped into his head. It wasn't entirely a lie, ever since his run in with Templeton's shot-gun on the beach he'd suffered from a low-grade headache. He'd never realised just how painful a ruptured eardrum could be until he'd experienced one for himself.
"I'm sorry, I should have thought--"
"No, no, it's fine," Drew said, politely.
Harriet smiled awkwardly and bid him goodnight. He escaped out into the hall and took the stairs two at a time until he was back within the safety of her spare room. Every night ended the same, with them both politely side-stepping around one another. Inwardly cursing, Drew pressed his head against the door. If there was one thing he had learned, it was that physical injuries healed much faster than emotional ones; his eardrum would heal—was healed, just as the wounds Matthews had inflicted on him had done, but he'd allowed his emotional wounds to fester and they would not just go away. He'd heard time was the greatest healer, but for Drew patience had never been his friend.
Chapter Seven
Oliver stood beneath the overhang of trees that Darren had chosen as their point of entry to the forest and waited for his friend. Glancing down at his watch, he pressed the little button on the side of the screen so that a small luminous yellow green light lit up the face. Six-forty-two; Darren was late. It wasn't anything unusual, Darren was always late, but today more than ever Oliver wished his friend could be on time.
Not that he was scared. Although if he allowed himself a moment to think about what he was doing out here in the darkness waiting for Darren, he knew it would be all the permission the terror needed to creep into his thoughts. Pulling his arms around his torso, he drew in a shaky breath, and tried to calm his frayed nerves. Just five more minutes. Five more minutes for Darren to get here, or he was out of here.
Oliver glanced down longingly at his bicycle in the long damp grass. If he went home now, he would get there in time to play a couple of games of Fortnite before his mum made him go to bed. When he closed his eyes, he could imagine the huge cup of cocoa she would make for him, with extra marshmallows, and—
Crack!
The sound jerked him from his thoughts, and he glanced down the road, but it remained eerily empty. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled his battered iPhone out, half expecting to see a direct message from Darren telling him he'd bottled it. But the screen was blank.
Oliver shivered, the December air chilling him to the bone, and he suddenly wished he'd added a couple of extra layers to his clothes before he'd left home. The tree branches overhead shifted and creaked as they swayed in the wind that had kicked up. There were no more leaves, but that didn't stop the bare branches from clicking and clacking together like the fingers of some giant beast that had crawled straight out of the Witcher video game.
Scrolling through the phone, he reached Darren's number and prepared to call his friend. Lifting the phone to his ear, there was another large crack from the tree line directly behind him. The noise could mean only one thing, and Oliver spun around, his eyes huge and saucer like scanning the darkness. The Owl Man had come for him. He backed up and stumbled over his discarded bicycle. A half strangled scream tore from his throat as he hit the ground with a jolt, and his phone fell into the grass. Turning away, he scrambled towards the road. Oliver's blood turned to ice, as a hand clamped down on his shoulder, and he lashed out with his fist, a last-ditch attempt at protecting himself from the creature who at that moment was hellbent on tearing him apart. His fist connected with something infinitely softer than he'd imagined, but Oliver didn't wait for the beast to regroup and raced up onto the empty road.
"You wanker!" Darren's voice drifted up from the grassy bank. "You broke my nose."
Oliver took a tentative step forward. He'd heard in school about the Owl Man's ability to mimic the voices of friends in order to lure you into the woods. Darren's head appeared over the long grass, his expression twisted into a grimace.
"What's wrong with you?" Darren demanded, pushing up onto his feet. Something dark and wet glittered on his face. Oliver watched as his friend swiped at the black blood beneath his nose with the back of his hand.
"What's wrong with me? What's wrong with you?" Oliver exploded. The nervousness he'd felt building in his chest needed somewhere to go, and lashing out at his best friend for trying to scare the shit out of him seemed like a sensible approach. "We said half six, and you don't show." His breath came in small wheezing gasps.
"Well, I'm here now," Darren said sulkily. "There was no need to kill me."
"I thought you were him!" Oliver's voice was husky with fear. "You're just lucky I didn't really try to knock your block off." Oliver pulled his inhaler from his pocket and pressed it to his lips. It would take a few moments for the medication to loosen the tight ball that sat in the centre of his chest. Tears sat at the corners of his eyes, and he did his best to remember his mother’s calming words whenever she helped him through an attack. It seemed to work, and his breathing calmed.
Darren glanced up at his friend, scepticism alight in his dark eyes. "You can't even beat me on Fortnite, there's no chance you'd beat me in real life."
Oliver puffed his chest out, adrenaline bringing a surge of bravado that he hadn't been feeling just moments before. "I so could."
Darren scoffed and glanced down at the small pile of items Oliver had tied onto the back of his bike. "Is this all you brought with you?"
Heat rushed into Oliver's face, and he nodded. "I didn't want to raise suspicions with my mum."
Darren glanced nervously over at the pitiful pile he'd left near the tree line. "Neither did I..." He blew out a breath before he shrugged. "We'll be fine. It's warmer in the woods anyhow."
"We could just go back to my place," Oliver blurted. "We don't need to do this, we could just tell people we spent the night here."
Darren shook his head, but Oliver could tell his friend was wavering. "Nah, mate, they'll know we chickened out. And anyway, you're not really afraid of that urban legend, are you?"
Oliver swallowed hard. The fading adrenaline in his veins told him to brush off his fears. But the voice in the bac
k of his mind tried to convince him to leave. "Those kids really went missing," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "They were camping, and they just vanished."
"It's all bullshit," Darren said, sounding infinitely more confident than he had earlier in the week. His friend's sudden courage made Oliver suspicious.
"What do you know?"
Darren's grin was secretive as he pulled a torch from the pocket of his jacket. "Follow me, and I'll tell you."
It would be so easy to say no, to grab his bike and return home. But Oliver never walked away from something that intrigued him, and Darren had known just what buttons to press to get him interested.
"Fine. But if you're just screwing around, I'm out of here," he said, resignation tinged his voice as he hopped back down into the long grass, and scooped up his bicycle.
Darren's grin widened. "Trust me, you won't regret this."
Oliver nodded, and followed Darren into the trees, but the knot in his stomach told him he was already regretting his decision.
Oliver kept his gaze trained on each step he took, careful to avoid the half hidden tree roots and fallen logs that littered the path they'd chosen. It definitely wasn't one of the official paths in Dalby Forest. Before he'd heard of the legend of the Owl Man, Oliver had come to the woods with his parents and older sister. He'd been much younger then and The Go Ape section was particularly fun; not that he'd admit that now he was older. There was a part of him that wished he could back in time; life was simpler then. The rules regarding what he could, and could not do had changed, and now it just wasn't cool to admit to enjoying running and racing around in a forest like a little child.
They walked for what felt like forever, before Darren finally glanced up at the starry sky that peeked through the canopy. "I think we're nearly there," he said, studying their surroundings, before he glanced back down at a crudely hand drawn map in his hands. Darren turned and set off south through the undergrowth.
Hunting the Silence: The Yorkshire Murders (DI Haskell & Quinn Crime Thriller Series Book 4) Page 4