Page 12 of The Guilty Girl

She pushed open the kitchen door and noticed the droplets leading up the back stairs. Leave now and call the guards, or take a look? If someone was hurt, she had to see if they needed help. But what if someone had been attacked and the attacker was still on the premises?

‘Cop on and check it out,’ she chided herself, and climbed the concrete staircase.

More red droplets.

On the large landing, with doors leading off in all directions, she followed the blood trail towards one of the guest bedrooms. Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside.

The girl was lying on the floor on the far side of the bed. Hands outstretched. Legs crossed at the ankles. Sarah couldn’t tell the original colour of her dress, because it was now blood red. Staring at the gaping cut in her neck, she knew there was no one here to save. The girl had been savagely murdered.

That was when she finally released the scream she’d been trying so hard to hold in.

She screamed and screamed until her throat was raw.

* * *

Sean lay curled up on his bed, his eyes hurting from lack of sleep. Why hadn’t he called the emergency services when he’d seen the body? Because he was a coward, that was why. Plus, he didn’t want his mother to know he’d gone back to the house in the dead of night.

But he knew why his fear was real. A few years ago, he had suffered at the hands of a madman. His sister Katie’s boyfriend had been killed by that murdering bastard, and she didn’t even know she was pregnant with Louis at the time.

Now flashes of that awful time skidded through his brain and he shivered uncontrollably. No, he couldn’t tell his mother. Not yet. He had to come to terms with what he’d seen. He hoped he hadn’t left any trace evidence behind. No doubt he had. Footprints on the carpet. Fingerprints on the body when he’d checked for signs of life. Evidence that could not be explained by being a party guest.

He was in deep shit.

He needed time to think, but his brain was filled with the image of the dead girl and of his own traumatic time in the clutches of a raving murderer.

Hugging his head with his hands, he tried to blot out the sound of his sobs.

9

Detective Sergeant Mark Boyd sat at a small round table outside a café in the sweltering Malaga heat. Partially sheltered by the café awning, he stared at the boy sitting across from him, nicely in the shade. The boy sucked loudly on a straw, draining his chocolate milkshake. A little stranger with a milky mouth.

Boyd was still getting used to the fact that he had a son. After receiving the letter from his ex-wife, Jackie, back in April, he’d intended travelling to Spain immediately to check if she was telling the truth about the child. His plans were thwarted when Superintendent Deborah Farrell refused his leave. They’d just closed a murder investigation and the paperwork was supporting the ceiling like scaffolding. In the end, he’d escaped the first week of June on a combination of annual and unpaid leave. He’d loaded up his credit card from his savings and boarded a Ryanair flight to Malaga.

He was due to fly home Monday evening after almost a month away. And still he stared at this little stranger who was his son.

The boy must have sensed Boyd’s eyes on him, because he looked up quickly. Two brown orbs flecked with hazel mirrored Boyd’s own. And if that wasn’t proof enough, the boy’s ears stood out at almost right angles, even more pronounced than his.

He’d carried out the DNA test to be sure, because he couldn’t trust his ex-wife. He wouldn’t put it past her to have had the boy undergo plastic surgery on his ears! He smiled to himself. A preposterous thought, but where his ex was concerned, anything was possible. Lottie had said the same. God, he missed her. Missed the barbs and smart comments to each other. Missed her presence, full stop.

‘What are you smiling at?’ Sergio said.

‘You, because you’re such a good boy,’ Boyd said, though what he really wanted to say was that he still found it hard to believe Sergio was his son.

The kid looked heavenwards and sucked loudly on the straw. Boyd didn’t even clench his teeth at the irritating sound, he was so enthralled. ‘I think you’re done there. We should get back to the apartment.’

‘Wait.’ Sergio lifted the glass to his lips, slurped the last of the liquid. Then he put his finger in and swirled it around the edge before licking it.

Boyd groaned. How was he ever going to get used to how his son behaved? His son. The word still sounded foreign to his ears. He was terrified of it. It carried the weight of responsibility.

‘Will Mamá be there?’

Boyd’s hands clenched into fists beneath the table. Jackie had cut loose as he’d arrived. Dumped the boy on him and left him the number of a neighbour, Señora Rodriguez, if he needed someone to babysit. Jackie was tanned and looked as high-maintenance as always. She showed him where she’d hidden Sergio’s passport, with instructions to take him to Ireland if he wanted to. He wondered when she had become so cold, but he had no time to quiz her, such was the haste of her departure. He reckoned she was running from some criminal she’d crossed. With tears in her eyes, which surprised Boyd, she’d hugged her son.

Dropping the money on the table to cover the bill, Boyd stood. ‘Let’s find out what this glorious sunny day holds for us, Sergio.’

He wondered if he should buy more sun lotion. His pale skin had tanned lightly in the last few weeks, but because he was in remission from leukaemia, he was ultra-careful about getting too much sun.

As they turned away from the café, he bumped into Albert and Mary McAllister. They’d been holidaying in an apartment they’d bought some years ago. The first day he’d met them, they’d introduced themselves, saying they’d met Jackie a few times. Since he’d been in Malaga, Boyd had discovered that a large Irish community resided on the Costa del Sol.