Page 9 of A Very Happy Easter

How could I tell him that dealing with other people’s problems instead of my own was the only thing that held me together? But he was right. That shit did weigh you down, and I knew that tonight, I’d lie awake, googling “+Jazzi +murder” just in case there was a hit. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d done that, and on several occasions, the news I’d dreaded had popped up at the top of the search results.

“I’ll be okay. Drive safely.”

Heath slid his wallet out of his jacket pocket and handed me a business card. Heath Carlisle, Investigator, Blackwood Security. He was based in King’s Cross.

“If I can do anything to help, these are my contact details. There’s always someone on duty at Blackwood.” He didn’t lean in to kiss me on the cheek or even try to shake my hand. No, he merely smiled. “See you at Halloween.”

He’d barely walked twenty yards when I blurted, “Stop!”

I hurried to catch up. “Can you ping Jazzi’s phone? I know I shouldn’t overstep, but I’m so worried about her, and…and…”

“Give me the number, and I’ll call the office. It’ll take five or ten minutes.”

Berkshire. Jazzi was in Berkshire. Heath also ran a search of the electoral roll and found out her name was Jasmine Allen. Registered at the same property was one Christopher Allen, and when we checked on Google Maps, the property sat in a newish-looking housing estate that seemed as if it had been designed by an architect throwing spaghetti at a plate.

“You want me to take a look at her place on my way home?” Heath offered.

“You’d do that?”

“I don’t like the thought of a woman suffering. Can’t promise to do much, but if the guy’s digging a hole in his garden, I’ll call it in.”

My hands flew to my mouth. “Oh no. You think…?”

“Sorry, there’s a lot of black humour floating around at work. If the house is quiet, there’s a good chance Jazzi’s getting some sleep, which means you might be able to do the same. Give me your number, and I’ll call you later.”

He handed me his phone, and I added myself to his contacts, but the idea of being second to know anything…

“Can I come with you?” I asked, trying to keep the pleading note out of my voice.

I wouldn’t be able to sleep anyhow, and if Jazzi was in trouble, maybe I could help in some way? Usually, being stuck in a car for hours with a man I barely knew would be my worst nightmare, but people I trusted said Heath wasn’t a psycho. I was reasonably confident he wouldn’t murder me and leave my body in a ditch.

“You need a ride back to London?”

“I’d be happy to pay you for the trouble.”

“I don’t want your money, Edie.”

Well, that made a refreshing change. “Is Kensington on your way home?”

“Not really, but another half hour won’t make much difference at this point.”

“I could take a cab home from wherever you’re going.”

“I’m not putting you in a fucking cab.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Forget I said that.”

“That you’re not putting me in a cab?”

“The F-word.”

Aw, it was sweet that he thought I didn’t swear. “I don’t mind. Where’s your car?”

“You need to let someone know where you’re going and who you’re with.”

“I’ll tell Salma.”

“That’s your assistant?”

“Yes.”