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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

‘Oh God.’ The words burst out of Emily.

The little girl in the red coat had run out of bread. Gently, her mother tugged at the tiny hand. A swan lumbered past, awkward on the paving stones.

Emily’s shoulders slumped.

‘I have to do it, don’t I?’ It was as if she was talking to herself.

Casey stared across the park, to where the children came to play.

‘I’ll talk to Dominic. I promise. I will talk to him.’

23

23

Casey bit her nails to the quick, waiting for the Burton-Smiths. Wait, and wait, and wait. Over the years, she had learned patience, quite against her nature.

Dash stopped beside her desk. ‘I’m just back from lunch. Everything OK?’ He waited for her answer.

‘I’m fine.’

‘You sure?’ Ask the same question all the different ways, he told her once, and really listen to the answers.

‘Yes.’

A pause. ‘Anything new on this story?’

‘I went to see Greystone’s house this morning,’ Casey leapt on the change of subject. ‘It’s up in Hampstead. Amazing place.’

The avenue was even more opulent than the sprawl of Surrey. The Greystones’ house was a mansion: pillars and dark brick, peering suspiciously down a driveway.

Next door to the Greystones, a house sagged. Windows barred by thick steel plates, the roof beginning to go. The grounds were a riot of brambles and green, a secret garden forgotten.

On this Hampstead street, the houses were so valuable that they were allowed to rot. Mere bricks were almost worthless. This was a land of gold taps and thirty pieces of silver, maybe, where foreign princes bought sanctuary for ever, as an expensive refuge, far from the mob. A safe room from the world. There, always, just in case.

As Casey walked again past the Greystone house, a black Porsche Cayenne powered down the street towards her, the gates purring open at its approach. The Porsche jerked to a careless halt in front of the house, and for a moment, Casey caught a glimpse of a woman stepping up to the front door. Greystone’s wife, Casey thought: Clio Greystone. Understated elegance. A black jersey and grey capri pants, blonde hair caught back by her sunglasses. The woman walked quickly to the house, a bounce in her step, the sun glinting off her hair.

‘Greystone seems to have a lot of money then,’ said Dash.

Follow the money, still the battle cry of any reporter.

‘Yes,’ said Casey, ‘there’s certainly a lot of it there.’

‘Good. What else is—?’

‘Look over there.’ Casey dodged more questions.

Dash stared across the office at Eric’s desk. An angry woman in a furry cat disguise was sitting on the floor beside his desk.

‘What,’ Dash raised an eyebrow, ‘is that woman doing there?’