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Back Cut to the Bone Save as PDF
Chapters (71)
  1. Cover
  2. Praise for Cut to the Bone
  3. About the Author
  4. Also by Roz Watkins
  5. Note to Readers
  6. Dedication
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. 3
  10. 4
  11. 5
  12. 6
  13. 7
  14. 8
  15. 9
  16. 10
  17. 11
  18. 12
  19. 13
  20. 14
  21. 15
  22. 16
  23. 17
  24. 18
  25. 19
  26. 20
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. 36
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. Extract
  67. Prologue
  68. Chapter 1
  69. Author’s note
  70. Acknowledgements
  71. About the Publisher

‘Not if he added anticoagulant. I’m going to see if it’s possible to test for that.’ I sighed. This sounded nuts even to me and I had a high bar. Was I just grasping at straws trying to keep Violet alive?

‘But why would he do that?’ Jai said.

‘So he could keep her?’

‘Christ. We need to find Daniel.’

‘He’s already being hunted by half the Derbyshire police force, Justice for Violet, assorted do-gooders, and the usual nutcases. So how about we do what his mother suggested, and talk to the people who were there that night in 1999. I don’t know how, but this somehow relates to that night. Let’s talk to Anna and Kirsty.’

43

Anna lived in a Victorian terrace in a small row of similar houses set strangely on their own, on the road between Gritton village and the abattoir. I pulled up outside and Jai and I walked up a flagged pathway. Anna opened the front door and stared at us for a moment as if she had no idea who we were, but then gestured us in.

‘We’re very sorry for your loss,’ I said.

‘Is that the standard-issue wording?’ she said. ‘Or does it depend how close the relative is? Are brothers different from husbands or partners?’

I didn’t reply, but followed her down a wood-panelled hallway to a room at the back of the house. It overlooked a hedged garden, the lawn scorched to yellow, and the room was bathed in sunlight. Two of the walls were lined with books, and the third featured abstract pictures similar to the ones we’d seen at the abattoir.

‘Sorry,’ Anna said. ‘I’m not meaning to be difficult. I’m just upset. Sit down, I’ll get tea.’

I wanted to grab Anna and shake her until she told us what she knew, what happened that night in 1999. But that wasn’t the way with people like Anna. You had to play the long game or you got nowhere. A few extra minutes at this stage could save hours. I took a deep breath and told myself to chill the hell out.

It helped that the room had a calm feel, making it seem implausible that there had been so much death in the village. White walls, an oak-planked floor, minimal furniture, and plenty of books. The kind of room that my mirror-me would have – the me who existed in a parallel world in my head and who lived in a serene, organised, cobweb-free house, ate vegetables, and read great works of literature instead of slumping in a near-coma with a glass of wine in front of Bake Off.