The Edge of Sanity Read Online Free PDF Page A

the kitchen floor.
    That’d please him, the fucking cokehead. She stumbled to the bedroom, hastily retrieving what clothes she could find, scattered around the room as they were. She had been drunk last night, out of her skull. Must have been to have gone anywhere near that two-faced schizo.
    Shuddering, she pulled on her leggings and top, stuffed her bra into her shoulder bag, and then groped under the bed for her shoes. Hell, where were they? She would just have to go barefoot.
    She dragged one shoe out, and then stretched for the other one. ‘Got it!’ A spark of triumph surfaced above loathing, self-loathing. She had to get home, get in the bath, scrub herself … Her hand closed over the chunky four-inch heel of her shoe.
    Except it wasn’t.
    It was smooth, and cold, and long, but …
    She squinted under the bed, cheek to carpet.
    Mary was up, out of there, shoe or no shoe. She could have guessed. A sawn-off, under the bed , for God’s sake! He might’ve shot her. Would probably, if he came back.
    She peered over the metal banister, then, having made sure the coast was clear, hoisted the bedraggled dog up under one arm and made a dash for it. I hope you overdose, bastard, she wished fervently as she barefooted down the steps, groping in her shoulder bag for her mobile as she went.
    ****
    ‘Well, did you ring her back!?’ Detective Inspector Michael Short barked into his mobile, his free hand clamped to his forehead despairingly, as he turned full circle outside the hospital ward.
    ‘No, I don’t suppose she would want to continue the conversation , once you asked her her name. ’
    Protocol. He sighed and stuffed a piece of Nicorette in his mouth. Horrible stuff. The more he chewed, the more he wanted a cigarette. What happened to the day when common sense took priority over Treating Criminals Fairly, he wondered bleakly. And a bit unfairly, he supposed, aware that staff on call duty had no choice but to follow protocol to the letter.
    ‘All right, all right. Thank you,’ he said, moderating his tone. ‘Keep me informed.’ Not that there would be anything to inform him about. DI Short ignored the rumble in his stomach, which probably thought his throat had been cut—so long had it been since he had fed it, and pocketed his mobile.
    If the girl hadn’t rung back to enlighten them as to why she considered the subject of her first call an effing maniac, then she was probably running scared. As well she might be, having had a close encounter with a scumbag the likes of Charlie Roberts. Dead-eyed Charlie, as he was fondly called at the station.
    DI Short felt the hairs rising icily on the back of his neck at the thought of what might have the girl running scared. Charlie Roberts, nasty little bastard that he was, didn’t pull any punches when it came to keeping his women in line. She mouthed off … he had said once, when they’d hauled him into the station on a complaint, his feet propped insolently on the table … so I slapped her.
    Yes. With a baseball bat, if the bruises were anything to go by. The woman had dropped the charges though. It didn’t surprise DI Short. They all did. Another young girl fell on a bottle. Fourteen stitches were her memento of a close encounter with Crack-head Charlie.
    Then there was tiny Rachel Meadows. DI Short’s jaw tensed as he walked back into the ward. He looked down at Rachel, lying swollen and broken in the hospital bed. Five-foot tall and fool enough to fall in love with the lowlife. Another one who accidentally fell—down the concrete steps outside the flat, this time. Bounced from top to bottom, bruised herself from head to foot—and eventually lost her baby.
    And still they never managed to get Roberts on more than a petty felony. Every time they hauled the little runt in, out he swaggered again, hands in pockets, a smirk across his face, and charges so small and insignificant. What DI Short would give to wipe that smirk off his face, once and for all.
    He