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Back The Dead Line Save as PDF
Chapters (87)
  1. Cover
  2. By the Same Author
  3. Dedication Page
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. 53
  57. 54
  58. 55
  59. 56
  60. 57
  61. 58
  62. 59
  63. 60
  64. 61
  65. 62
  66. 63
  67. 64
  68. 65
  69. 66
  70. 67
  71. 68
  72. 69
  73. 70
  74. 71
  75. 72
  76. 73
  77. 74
  78. 75
  79. 76
  80. 77
  81. 78
  82. 79
  83. 80
  84. 81
  85. Acknowledgements
  86. Also Available by Holly Watt
  87. The Hunt and the Kill

The story would dominate the paper tomorrow, with all the power of a gathering wave, the big, bold, angry headlines demanding a strange sort of justice.

Casey imagined people peering at their screens like doctors in a laboratory, the heads shaking, the eyes narrowing. She imagined the politicians later on television. Lips compressed, eyes concerned, so carefully outraged. She thought about the ire on daytime television, the shudder down Harley Street and the flickers of terror in homes across the country.

Not a secret, any more. A big, awkward mirror to the world.

‘Fucking great stuff,’ emailed Jessie Miller within seconds.

‘Bastard,’ wrote another rival, and she didn’t know if he meant her or Greystone.

At her desk, Casey stared at the photographs of the house in Hampstead, the tall building in Harley Street and the long-range snap of the doctor leaving his rooms. That photographer would have sat in his car, halfway down the street, and Greystone would never even have known he was there. They could photograph people in near-darkness now. She traced Greystone’s face on her proof, staring down at him.

And for a second, she felt almost content.

59

59

Dash ordered them to spend the night in the hotel next door. Casey failed to sleep, listening to the growl of traffic outside. Ed had waited for her at the airport. He had come to see her.

‘Be careful,’ he had messaged her earlier. ‘Please take care of yourself.’

‘I will.’

‘You won’t.’

‘I’ll try.’

She smiled at the memory. Then she thought of Poppy, just a couple of floors away, and the grin faded.

‘Poppy’s fine,’ Miranda had insisted. ‘The only problem is that the nanny thinks I am a terrible mother. We have to track down the Burton-Smiths.’

Casey had called Emily and Dominic again and again, the phone ringing out impotently. Tillie had reappeared in the office late in the evening: the neighbour hadn’t seen the Burton-Smiths for days. The dog was nice, though. I got special dog chocs.

The Post’s security guards paced the corridor outside Casey’s room all night, and she was back in the office before dawn, hurrying down the street, glancing over her shoulder. Dash was already there, skimming through the pile of rival newspapers delivered as soon as they were printed.

‘You all right?’ He didn’t look up. ‘Good follow-up from the other papers.’

‘Fine.’ Casey fiddled awkwardly with a stack of books, sent in for review.

‘Keep going on it then,’ he said. ‘I know what you’re thinking. We’ve got a second tranche of stories to publish today, anyway. I read your piece about that girl, Romida. It’s very good, Casey.’