COLD KILL. Neil White

have opened that second bottle of wine, and he could still taste it as he smacked his lips.

      He put his hand out, expecting to feel the rise and fall of Laura’s body, or the spread of her dark hair across the pillow, but she wasn’t there. He squinted at the alarm. Eight o’clock. He flopped back onto the pillow. Everything felt heavy, and quick movements sent flashes of pain through his head. He lay back and listened for the sounds of Laura downstairs, chatter with Bobby or the noise of the hairdryer, but there was only silence.

      He tried to think through what had happened the night before. He couldn’t remember Laura coming home, but he remembered her weight against him in bed, her naked skin, warm and close. Yesterday’s clothes were discarded on the floor and he could smell the flowery haze of her perfume spray.

      He clambered out of bed and shuffled to Bobby’s room, just to check that he was awake. He wasn’t. His dark hair peered out above his England football duvet, a remnant of his World Cup mania from the year before. Jack rubbed his eyes. He would have to rush now, and he didn’t feel much in the mood for speed.

      Jack nudged Bobby gently until he stirred and then pointed at his school clothes, set out by Laura.

      ‘Time to get moving,’ he said, although his voice still had a slur.

      It was going to be a slow morning.

      Laura threaded her way through the Incident Room, her coffee in her hand, the smell of stale booze hitting her, the remnants of the trip to the pub the night before, everyone more bleary-eyed than the previous day. Mornings were always the toughest part of a murder investigation, because they were no nearer the killer and hours of uncertainty lay ahead.

      As she got to Joe, he looked up and smiled. ‘Did you get in trouble for being back so late?’

      ‘Jack was all tucked up when I got back,’ she said, and returned the smile. ‘I enjoyed myself. Thank you for making me go.’ She took a sip of coffee and then nodded towards some sheets of paper in front of Joe. ‘Is there anything new?’

      Joe looked down and then shook his head. ‘Not much to get excited about,’ he said. ‘Just last night’s calls, and unless Don Roberts had a change of heart overnight, all we’ll have today is tips from friends.’

      ‘So when was Jane last seen?’

      ‘Last Saturday,’ Joe said. ‘A routine night out, she was supposed to go to a friend’s house. There was a group of girls waiting for her, but she never showed up. They called her house but Don said that he didn’t know where she was and told them not to worry. They went out and forgot about it. Some of her friends texted her, but didn’t think much of it when they didn’t get a reply.’

      ‘They don’t seem like close friends,’ Laura said.

      ‘They were used to the disappearing act,’ Joe explained, as he reached for a photograph. ‘It seems like the ex-boyfriend wasn’t that ex.’ He passed her the picture of a young man, good teeth and skin, dark hair teased over his forehead. ‘Adam Carter. They were making like single people, but they weren’t, because they were still an item. They just had to keep it quiet from Don.’

      Laura picked up the photograph. ‘Why is that?’

      ‘We’ll find out later,’ he said. ‘But that’s why Jane’s friends weren’t worried, because they thought she was with Adam.’

      ‘So is Adam a witness or suspect?’

      ‘Everyone’s a suspect,’ Joe said. ‘All we know about Adam is that he’s just finished university and is trying to find a job. Jane’s friends seem to like him, but I suppose that doesn’t mean too much.’

      ‘But if he’s anything to do with Jane’s death,’ Laura said, ‘he’s done it as a copycat, to make us think that Jane was killed by Deborah’s killer. How would a young student find out so much about Deborah’s murder to pull that off?’