BooksBarbecue
Back The Dead Line
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

‘Emily offered to come to London,’ said Casey. ‘It didn’t sound like she was trying to manoeuvre us to the hotel. She’s warned us before, and I didn’t get a signal this time. And there will be other people in the hotel. It’s not in the middle of nowhere, like the house. We can ask at reception if they’re alone. We can—’

‘Not the baby.’ Miranda was firm. ‘We just can’t.’

‘Fine,’ Casey threw up her hands. ‘But we need to go now.’

‘OK,’ Miranda conceded. ‘We’ll go.’

69

69

Miranda drove through the night. ‘Try and sleep, Casey. You’re exhausted.’

‘So are you.’

Casey couldn’t sleep. She stayed awake, all the way down the motorway towards Hampshire, blinded by the necklace of lights blurring back into the capital. She leaned back on her headrest, and thought of nothing much. She half-listened to the radio, some woman talking about rivers, poisoned from the source, and the Rio Tinto in Spain, which runs blood-red, so acidic that almost nothing can survive, trickling through the mountains like a leaking venom.

Wriggling in her seat, Casey tugged fretfully at her top. One of her favourites, soft grey. Made in Bangladesh, she had noticed as she put it on this morning. Sorrow here, joy there. The usual pattern. The morning seemed days away.

Now Casey watched the moon, floating far above the motorway. Not long, Emily. I promise. And her mind twisted and turned as she thought about what she would find at the Easton Hotel.

The gravel crunched as they turned into the hotel drive. It was a rambling Victorian building, with an ugly newbuild wing tacked on to the left. The concrete and the rows of identical windows clashed awkwardly with the bay casements and random turrets of the old building. The place looked shabby, unloved, a long way from the expensive gloss of Dominic and Emily’s home.

Miranda strolled into the 24-hour reception, manned by a sleepy teenager.

‘Hello.’ Miranda gave a glowing smile. ‘We’ve got a room booked. Twin beds. Thank you so much.’

Miranda stood on the faded lino, adding almost as an afterthought, ‘Can I just check if our friends have arrived? The Burton-Smiths. Room 209.’

The receptionist broke off from her tapping for a second, squinted at her screen.

‘They’ve checked in,’ she said perfunctorily.

‘Did they arrive with anyone else?’ Miranda pushed. ‘They said they might be bringing some friends.’

The teenager glanced up. ‘Don’t think so,’ she mumbled. ‘I saw Mrs Burton-Smith arriving. Nice lady. Didn’t see anyone with her.’

Casey felt her body relax, very slightly.

The receptionist handed them a key, nodded towards a lift. She was fiddling with her phone before the lift creaked closed.