In one sense, it was no contest. But Paula had been drilled by Carol Jordan that her duty was to speak for the dead. And as well as speaking for the dead, she also had a responsibility to the living. A killer was walking free and it was her job to find him before he killed someone else. What could be more important than that?

13

Bev felt as if she was swimming upwards through something thick and heavy. Not heavy like mud. More like milkshake or emulsion paint. Her limbs felt weighted down, the world impenetrably black. It slowly dawned on her that her eyes were closed. But when she opened them, nothing changed. Her head throbbed when she moved it, but she forced herself to turn it back and forth, yet still there was absolutely nothing to be seen. The thought drifted through her muzzy brain that this must be what a black hole was like. Black, black and more black beyond that.

Slowly the wooziness lifted, enough for her to understand that this darkness was something to fear, not simply wonder at. As the fog of unconsciousness dispersed Bev tried to make sense of where she was and what had happened to her. Her head hurt and there was a sickly sweet taste at the back of her throat. The last thing she remembered was opening the boot of her hatchback to stow a couple of bags of groceries she’d picked up on the way home. After that, nothing. A blank. A terrifying blank.

She had no way of knowing how long she’d been unconscious. Minutes? No, surely more than minutes. Wherever she was, it wasn’t the car park at Freshco. Hours, then? How many hours? What was Torin thinking? Was he afraid? Was he angry with her? Did he think she’d abandoned him and gone off to have fun without letting him know? What would he do without her? Would he raise the alarm or would he be too scared of what might happen to him without her? The thoughts scampered in her head like a hamster on a wheel. Christ, she had to get a grip.

‘OK. Don’t think about Torin. Put it behind you and move on.’ She said the words aloud then wished she hadn’t. Wherever she was, the acoustic was dead, her voice flat and muffled. Still determined to keep her fear at arm’s length, Bev decided it would make sense to discover the limits of her location. She was sitting down, on a smooth surface. That realisation led to another. She wasn’t wearing her trousers, socks or shoes any more. Her hand crept down her body. She was wearing her own bra, but the lower underwear definitely wasn’t hers. Skimpy lacy panties were not her style. Lace made her itch, and she liked loose-fitting cotton against her skin. She refused to think about what that meant.