The footsteps of someone who didn’t want to be heard, someone who knew how and where to step gingerly.

Someone who was searching and didn’t want to startle its prey.

Someone trained.

Thea understood then why the heroines in those horror films screamed, throat-straining, long gulping screams. She understood because it was taking every ounce of self-control for her not to scream, to just let out some of the fear, give herself away and get it over with because this was a terrible hiding place and she was going to be found and she couldn’t stand the waiting any longer …

Her mother’s ridiculous safe phrase floated into her mind as a pair of boots appeared by her head and then she was suddenly being dragged out from her hiding place by her feet, arms flailing uselessly, her screams cut off when her feet were dropped and a hand clamped over her mouth.

I’m really missing the cat, Mum. I’m really missing the cat.

Chapter 24

It was a miserable morning in a forgotten seaside town.

Vivian had been right. The little red light on her answerphone had been a warning: she had not heard from Thea for over a week.

‘I don’t think anyone’s going to show, Viv. You sure Tristan said eight?’ Delia asked, dabbing at the crumbs of cake on her plate.

Vivian was sure. He had said his contact from Ing Enterprises would be there at 8 a.m. at what looked like the Apocalypse Café where the oilcloth was always sticky, the tomato sauce bottle forever empty and the glass on the chiller cabinets clouded with greasy cataracts.

‘Well, maybe they slept late.’ Delia peeled her sleeve away from the table, studying the damage to her coat, though the pattern was such that any stain would have been hard to see. She ran her hand through her hair and sighed, ruffling the underside of it, which was still a light green colour from a recent flirtation with the hair dye aisle. It was part of the deal when you were someone’s oldest friend: occasionally you had to haul your old bones out of bed at ridiculously early hours to go with them to clandestine meetings.

Well, it was the deal if Vivian was your friend.

‘Why would you eat cake at this hour?’ Vivian picked at the chip in the handle of her mug.

‘Why wouldn’t you?’ Delia retorted, relaxing back in her chair and folding her hands comfortably over her stomach.