Page 27

TWENTY-SIX

Emily Mead turned the TV off and trudged through to the bedroom.

She removed her trainers and the grey trackies that needed a wash and sat on the edge of the bed in T-shirt and knickers, crying for Catherine Holloway’s mother.

And for Adam Callaghan’s. She knew that was a somewhat strange thing to do, all things considered, but the agony Sylvia Holloway had clearly been going through while she’d sat there in front of those cameras, was probably no greater than the pain Callaghan’s mother would be feeling.

Pain which was no less valid because of what her son had done.

What he’d been. Emily chose to believe his mother could not have known that, but wondered if her grief would have been any less crippling if she had.

You stood by your kids, no matter what, didn’t you?

There had been a time when Emily believed she’d find out for herself one day.

Kids of her own had definitely been part of a future she’d once imagined, even if she hadn’t met anyone she’d considered having them with, but now all that happy-ever-after stuff seemed like a stupid dream she’d been shaken from.

Like winning the lottery or becoming a film star.

That future – any future worth thinking about – had been stolen from her the day PC Adam Callaghan had come knocking on her door a second time.

Sorry . . . yeah, hi. Just took me a moment to . . .

That’s OK .

I’m still a bit jumpy and, you know, because you’re not in uniform .

Well, I’m not actually on duty .

Right. So, what . . . ?

I just wanted to see how you were doing, that’s all .

Oh, that’s so nice of you . . .

Emily got up to fetch some toilet paper from the bathroom, then walked back to the bed and sat wiping her eyes.

She knew that the tears weren’t just for those grieving mothers, because Emily had done plenty of crying before that.

Lying awake when all she wanted to do was sleep; arguing with the voices in her head when all she wanted was peace and quiet; screaming as the black knot in her stomach tightened still further when all she wanted was for the pain to stop.

Then crying a whole lot more, angry and ashamed because of the stupid shit she’d smoked or snorted or popped to try and make it stop.

Slowly devoured by guilt for all the things she could have prevented.

Guilt about Adam Callaghan’s death, the sordid and brutal manner of it, because however many times at her lowest ebb she might have wished for him to suffer, that was not what she’d wanted to happen.

Guilt about the other women – maybe a couple or maybe dozens – who he might well have gone on to hurt after her. Women who could have been spared the agonies she’d endured if only she’d gone to the police and told them what he’d done.

Guilt because she hadn’t been brave enough.

She stood up and leaned against the wall and told herself that was all in the past, because now she was actually doing something.

Whether or not you could call it brave was debatable, what with her being holed up in this perfectly nice little box, with coppers stationed outside twenty-four hours a day.

Invisible to snipers thank heavens , and rather more significantly, safely hidden from a man who she didn’t think would stop what he was doing any time soon.

So no, not brave exactly, but she had finally stepped up, at least.

Brave was what Catherine Holloway’s mother had been, staring out at those journalists and making her appeal, and even though Emily didn’t recognise the detective who’d been up there with her it was obvious that he’d been trying to make it easier for her.

Thinking about it, she’d met dozens of coppers in the days since she’d walked into that station in Clapham, but the only ones she’d spent any real time with had been Tanner and Thorne, and she counted herself lucky, because they were both OK.

She trusted them, as far as she had it in her to trust any copper.

It wasn’t as though she’d ever been a massive fan of the police, but she hadn’t been anti them either.

Before the attack, she’d never really thought about it one way or the other.

Nobody loved seeing coppers, did they, because the police weren’t normally showing up if something good had happened, so a degree of . . . nervousness was only natural.

Do policemen normally drop in on people when they’re not on duty?

Well, I think they should, if they can. I always try to, if I’m passing or whatever, especially if there might be a cup of tea or something in it. That was a hint, by the way .

OK, I think I can run to tea . . .

But she’d never actually been scared of them.

At least the e-fit they’d shown on TV was a pretty good likeness and that had to be down to the description Emily had given.

It was something she could feel good about.

Having said that, the man who’d murdered Adam Callaghan wasn’t particularly distinctive looking.

He definitely wasn’t the kind of bloke you’d look twice at, so they just had to hope that somebody who knew him saw the picture and came forward.

When the only relationship you’d had with someone was online, they never turned out to be like you’d imagined when you finally got to meet them IRL.

LoveMyBro certainly hadn’t, though to be fair Emily wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting.

Maybe not someone who looked so . . . ordinary, even if he’d turned out to be anything but that.

She’d always suspected that most people online – herself included – were just weird, phantom versions of themselves. Spirit identities haunting their own little corners of cyberspace while their physical selves mooched around in the real world, unsatisfied.

Emily smiled when the idea came to her.

She walked through to the living room, having decided that if this plan of Thorne and Tanner’s was ever going to stand a chance of working, she needed to take the initiative.

To provoke some reaction, at least. She picked up the secure mobile that Greg Hobbs had given her, which was charging on a table near the door, and sent him a text.

Another message from ButterflyGrrrl to LoveMyBro.

So, now you’re the one that’s ghosting ME!? Fair enough, I suppose, but I didn’t think you were that childish. Or maybe, YOU’RE the one that’s scared now. #AreWeDone?

It took Hobbs less than a minute to reply. It’s been posted. That should shake him up!

Fingers crossed .

Everything crossed. Well, except my legs, obviously. Someone has to do that for me .

Emily wandered across to the kitchen and flicked the kettle on. I thought you might be asleep .

Don’t do much of that .

Me neither. She opened the jar of instant coffee and took milk from the fridge.

I’m just sitting around staring at a computer screen, if you want to talk for a bit .

About what?

Anything you like .

Why are you in a wheelchair?

*SHOCKED FACE EMOJI*

You said anything .

Because my legs don’t work .

Smartarse .

I’d always presumed it was fairly obvious .

Obviously I mean, HOW?

You don’t waste any time, do you, Emily?

She carried her coffee back into the living room and sat down. Wasted far too much already .