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Back Cross and Burn Save as PDF
Chapters (74)
  1. About the Author
  2. Also by Val McDermid
  3. COPYRIGHT
  4. CROSS AND BURN
  5. Dedication
  6. Acknowledgements
  7. Epigraph
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. 12
  20. 13
  21. 14
  22. 15
  23. 16
  24. 17
  25. 18
  26. 19
  27. 20
  28. 21
  29. 22
  30. 23
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. 45
  53. 46
  54. 47
  55. 48
  56. 49
  57. 50
  58. 51
  59. 52
  60. 53
  61. 54
  62. 55
  63. 56
  64. 57
  65. 58
  66. 59
  67. 60
  68. 61
  69. 62
  70. 63
  71. 64
  72. 65
  73. 66
  74. 67

Carol was at the top of a ladder, prising a reluctant chunk of mortar from the stonework, when the dog started barking. She looked down to see Flash hunkering before the door, front paws splayed in front of her, haunches bunched and ready to spring, head jerking back and forth in a frenzy of noise. ‘Shut up, Flash,’ Carol yelled, only now realising that she didn’t have a command for quieting the dog.

She climbed down as quickly as caution permitted and hurried to the door, clicking her fingers at the dog, who obediently stopped barking and fell in at her side. Whoever was on the other side of the door, she’d bet it wasn’t George Nicholas. But apart from the postie, he was the only person who had visited since she’d moved in. Cautiously, keeping one foot firmly behind the door, she cracked it open.

If she hadn’t recognised the looming presence on her doorstep, his size alone would likely have provoked her into setting the dog on him. Whatever command that was. But it only took seconds for her to make the connection. After all, this had been the place where she’d last seen DCI John Franklin.

The corners of his mouth lifted in a smile without warmth. ‘DCI Jordan,’ he said, dipping his head in a curt nod.

‘Not any more,’ she said.

‘No, I know. I was…’ He tailed off, and this time, the smile had a twist of sardonic humour in it. ‘I was using it as an honorific,’ he said. ‘Like when officers retire from the regular army and march around in their Barbour jackets and tweed caps calling themselves “captain”. Cops like us, we never really think of ourselves as civilians, do we?’

‘I don’t think of myself as a cop, DCI Franklin. So what brings you to my door? And how did you know it was my door?’

Franklin ostentatiously turned his collar up against the wind. ‘Are you not going to invite me in? This is Yorkshire, we believe in hospitality. Come in, sit down, have a cup of tea.’

‘I don’t remember that aspect of my relationship with West Yorkshire Police.’ What she remembered was blood and death and nobody ever listening to a word she or Tony said. What she remembered was bloody-mindedness and prickliness and men who used words like bludgeons. What she didn’t remember was cosy cups of tea and slices of parkin. The dog picked up on her mood, grumbling gently at her side.