Child's Play Read Online Free PDF Page B

minuscule make-up bag until her fingers found the Touche Éclat. The DI usually eschewed war paint, left it to the likes of her old – for want of a better word – friend, the journalist Caroline King, but this morning a little slap was definitely called for.
    Her lip curved as she blended in the cream: Dave had been lucky not to get a little slap last night with his tongue-in-cheek suggestion about playing mummies and daddies. They’d not just dropped by the Jewel in the Crown – over the space of a couple of hours they’d shared a table and a lot of laughs. She couldn’t recall in what context he’d come out with the quip but she knew she’d brushed it off. Knew too that the spicy food and two Cobras would mean a disturbed night. Had it been worth it? Yes. No. Probably. She rolled her eyes. Make your mind up, woman.
    Either way, twice she’d had to get up to use the loo, taken the opportunity to check her phone at the same time. That there’d not been a peep out of Nicola Reynolds, she read as a good sign.
    She examined her face again.
Result.
Forget the lighting; the concealer had worked its magic. Reaching for the mascara wand, she decided she might as well go down the King route for once. After a quick coat of lip gloss, she took less than a minute to expertly twist her long blonde hair into a well-behaved bun. Talk about fine art. Smiling, she saluted her reflection: DI Quinn reporting for duty. She looked down. Actually, clothes wouldn’t be a bad idea. Still smiling, she retrieved her phone, padded back to the bedroom. The ivory satin duvet was barely crumpled; only one pillow bore a dent. Sarah pursed her lips. Mummies and daddies? There were far worse games to play.
    â€˜What on earth were you playing at, Nic?’ Neil Lomas dangled the mobile at arm’s length as if it held the lurgy. Nicola thought he might be going down with something already: a pink flush darkened the dusting of freckles across his nose and a line of sweat glistened over his top lip. He’d inadvertently raked his sandy hair into unflattering tufts. ‘You so should have given it to the police.’
    The remark stung, as did Nicola’s eyes. Blowing out smoke, she appraised Neil through the haze, hoped she wasn’t seeing him properly for the first time. Over the last ten hours, she’d beaten herself up so much, the last thing she needed was the man who supposedly loved her weighing in too. She’d thought he’d understand her actions, or lack of them. Brushing a layer of ash from her skirt she murmured, ‘Thanks for your support, Neil.’
    His mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. Contempt? Anger? Disgust? Nicola couldn’t read the signs, currently didn’t care. She took a final drag on her umpteenth cigarette and ground the butt in a saucer. It had taken courage to confide in Neil, confide in anyone. He’d probably have come to the house earlier if she’d phoned, but she’d convinced herself the psycho holding Caitlin was spying, monitoring her calls. When she eventually rang, she’d been cagey, asked him casually to drop by before college. And when she’d showed him the images, she’d studied his face as he scanned the emails and notes. She’d hoped for a few words of comfort, not a bloody lecture. Slumped in her chair now, she watched him rest an elbow on the table, close his eyes, pinch the bridge of his nose. The Thinker pose was marred by shaving nicks on his neck oozing tiny pearls of blood.
    The silence unnerved her. She reached for the radio, tuned to a local news station, just in case. Stupid, really. The police would have told her if …
    â€˜I’m sorry, Nic.’ She flinched when he laid his hand on hers. ‘Seeing her like that … I can’t bear to think of it.’
    â€˜
You
can’t? What do you think it’s doing to me?’ Fractured sleep. Mental torture. The very thought of food