Mikey shakes his head again. ‘I was home for the first part of the evening, so Gram and Martha can vouch for me up until around eleven, but after that I was alone.’ He tugs at his hair again. ‘It looks bad, doesn’t it? I know it looks bad. But I didn’t hurt her. I’d never do anything like that, and I wouldn’t . . . I just couldn’t . . . You believe me, don’t you?’
Philip watches the lad break down in tears. He almost feels sorry for him, but he remains silent. He has to be neutral – unemotional and detached. It’s the only way to stay objective.
‘You need a minute?’ asks Rick, his tone softer than earlier, less businesslike.
Mikey wipes his eyes on the back of his hand. Nodding, he gulps the air. ‘I need a smoke.’
‘In the yard then,’ says Miss Betty, firmly. Her lips are pursed into a thin line.
Philip watches the lad run from the room and thinks Miss Betty’s right: the boy doesn’t have it in him to murder someone. He glances back at Miss Betty. She looks almost disappointed.
31
MOIRA
It happens fast.
The door jerks open and there’s a figure, a man dressed in black with a balaclava over his face and his hoodie pulled up, standing in front of her. Before she has time to react, he shoves her in the chest.
Staggering backwards, Moira grabs for something to help her stay upright – the wall, anything – but her fingers clutch at air. He shoves her again, and she’s falling. She bangs her hip on a metal cabinet as she drops. Her bad ankle twists. The pain vibrates through her body.
Seizing his chance, the masked figure pushes past her, heading towards the exit. Moira lashes out, trying to stop him, but he dodges round her. The grey messenger bag slung across his body looks full to bursting. It bounces as he runs.
Scrambling to her feet, Moira sets off in pursuit. ‘Stop, you can’t . . .’
The man turns, and his eyes widen. He grabs the folders from the nearest filing cabinet and flings them into her path. Moira jumps over the bulk of them. Loses her balance as she slips on some papers scattered across the floor, but stays upright. She keeps her eyes focused on the man, taking him in. He’s broad and athletic. Too broad to be the slim guy with the Beetle, but a close match for the man she saw on the trail last night. Ignoring the pain in her hip and her bad ankle, Moira pursues him.
She can’t let him get away.
But she’s losing ground. He’s out of the building and away, slamming the door behind him. Reaching the exit Moira yanks the door open and rushes outside. She spots him. He’s at the wall. He’s going to escape.
‘No!’ she yells, sprinting after him. Her limp getting more pronounced with every stride.
He grips the creeper growing over part of the wall. Uses it to pull himself up, scaling the vertical brick as nimbly as a cat. He’s at the top when she reaches him, climbing over with a leg either side.
Moira clutches at his leg, twisting his foot, trying to pull him from the wall. He kicks at her but she clings on, leaning down so that all her weight is on his foot, tugging him down. She feels him move, slipping from the wall. Pulls harder.
She doesn’t see it coming.
Something hard slams into the side of her head. Pain ricochets through her skull. Her grip on his foot releases.
Looking up, she sees the messenger bag flapping open. The man’s arm is raised and what looks like an old-fashioned hard drive, with blood across one side, is swinging towards her. Moira lets go of his foot and raises her arms to try and protect herself but she’s too slow. The pain comes again, more intense this time.
Then the darkness takes her.
32
RICK