Page 129 of Dissection of a Murder
“No problem, Jack, and don’t worry about anything—I’ll ensure everyone knows you didn’t mention any names, and were utterly loyal to whoever it was you were protecting. I assume that’s why you instructed me in the first place,” she says, winking. “You’ve conducted yourself impeccably.”
“Thanks.” He grins.
“So, what now?” I ask him. I really hope he’s going to do something positive—that he’ll never end back here again.
“I don’t know. I might go traveling. I’ve been locked up here long enough.”
“All I’d say is, be careful who you associate with,” I warn him cautiously. “They’ll be watching you to find out who this woman is.”
“I know.”
“Might be good to lay low for a while.” I smile. “It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Millman.”
He stands up and offers his hand for me to shake, but it feels tooimpersonal, too flippant after what we’ve been through. Instead, I wrap my arms around his shoulders. He tightly grips my waist in a way that suggests it’s the most important hug he’s ever had.
“Well, if we’re doing hugs!” Davina interrupts, before breaking us up and going in for one herself. We all laugh, not quite believing that, after everything, we really won.
As I drag my exhausted body up the stairs to the robing room, I wish, more than anything, I could go home and quietly congratulate myself on this win. For me, for Jack. For what we’ve managed to pull off. But I can’t.
It’s a peculiar concept to grasp: achieving the biggest win of your professional life, yet feeling flat afterward. The reason is that I know this isn’t the end. I have not yet won all my battles.
Sure enough, it comes about half an hour later. A new message from@JustAnotherDumbBlonde.
The girl who always thinks of everything seems to have misplaced a vital piece of evidence from her trial. Slippy fingers! Don’t worry. I can hand it in at the local cop shop or you can come get it from me yourself.
This is the problem when you leave toxic people behind in life—they never really go away. If you dig shallow graves, you can’t be surprised when the bodies emerge. I need to put an end to this, once and for all.
Tonight.
I compose a reply.
I’ll meet you 6 p.m. Not in public. Nightingale Dene, on the bridge overlooking the river.
64
Elise Vernon
Friday, July 26, 2024
10:04 p.m.
They all lookso young nowadays. I know that’s what all people my age say, but they do. I used to sneak out of the house when I was fifteen, wearing a long coat so my father wouldn’t be able to see the obscenely short dress underneath, much like the ones the girls wear now. Back then, in the noughties, our hair was poker straight, ironed with wide-plate BaByliss straighteners. That’s all changed now; the girls these days look like hair models, with long, bouncy waves shimmying around their waists.
Durham city center was my stomping ground in my mid-to-late teenage years. I barely recognize it now. Bar names have changed, some have shut down. Music I’ve never heard before blasts from buildings; it’s barely even music. But nothing makes you feel older than being sober, rocking up on a Friday night to collect your eighteen-year-old godson from a bar.
It’s a favor to one of my friends, Tally. Kit has this little job in town he’s doing alongside his A-levels. Collecting glasses, that sort of thing.
It’s at one of those pretentious bars, the kind that plays dreadful music, where drinks cost a fortune. Even from the outside, it looksutterly dire; lilac uplighters attempt to suggest a classy ambience but fall drastically short. What kind of name is “Innocence” for a bar, anyway? I wouldn’t be surprised to see my twat of a father inside, to be honest. It looks like the kind of place he’d frequent, given that the clientele appears to be gaggles of impressionable women in their twenties. Although, I hear he keeps one at home now. Younger than me, apparently. Some kind of Instagram influencer named Demi, who is no doubt fleecing him for all she can get. He never learns.
Incredibly, I’ve managed to park just opposite the entrance. It’s busy. Kit finishes at 10 p.m., and I’m hoping he gets off on time.
After a few minutes, Kit scurries out, dressed in a tight black T-shirt and trousers. A few months ago, Kit was a tall, weedy little thing (takes after his mother), but since he’s got this job, he’s been working out. As a result, he’s developed biceps and abs and likes to show them off at every opportunity. As usual, he has his head buried in his phone, looking up only briefly to locate the car.
“Well, lovely to see you, too!” I laugh as he opens the door and shuffles in without so much as a hello.
“Hiya,” he grunts back resentfully, in that way teenagers do.
Putting the car into reverse, I start pulling away. And that’s when I see her.
