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

‘It’s Xav’s fault.’ Eric scowled at the columnist a few desks away. ‘He wrote something about vegans that the vegans didn’t like, and she came rampaging into the office this morning, shouting and screaming. She shrieked, “Which one is Xavier Crittenden?” Xav pointed at me, and now she’s chained herself to my bloody desk. It’s not fair.’

‘Where the hell was Jose?’ Dash asked, knowing the security guard had been flirting with the trainee barista next door.

‘Fuck knows.’ Xavier was enjoying himself hugely.

‘Is she pro-vegan or pro-meat?’ Dash asked.

‘I’ – Xavier flicked through his English-Latin dictionary – ‘have no idea.’

‘It’s all right for you.’ Eric glowered at the woman, who glowered back. ‘But I’ve got to write six hundred words on potato farming and I’m on deadline. It’s very distracting.’

‘Six hundred words on potato farming?’ Xavier looked appalled. ‘Christ, what is this paper coming to?’

‘Piss off back to doing your expenses,’ Eric snapped. ‘About the only time you get creative.’

‘For fuck’s sake,’ Dash cut them off. ‘Has someone called a locksmith?’

As he turned back to the investigations room, Casey’s phone rang. She pounced on it.

‘Casey?’ Emily’s voice.

24

24

The kitchen was sleek, glossy, hardly used. Most of the room was an extension, built out into the dark, spotlit garden. The roof was a cage of white steel and glass.

The tulips – stems cut down, flowering pink now – were in a blue vase on the table, looking oddly out of place.

‘I don’t really cook,’ Emily said vaguely. She was looking for wineglasses, opening and closing cupboards. She smiled at Casey, almost conspiratorially, and Casey found herself smiling back.

Casey tried to imagine Emily painting in this house, surrounded by buff and biscuit, tan and taupe. She couldn’t.

Dominic was sitting at the kitchen island, glowering at Miranda. Miranda met his eye, her smile quite empty.

‘How?’ Dominic stared at Casey. ‘How can you possibly pass yourself off as Emily?’

‘They look similar enough,’ Miranda said briskly. ‘Same general description. Brown hair, grey eyes, quite tall. You would give us your passports, and Casey and one of our colleagues would travel out to Bangladesh together. They can carry their own passports for border control. But they would take yours too, in case whoever you meet up with wanted to check. Unless someone had met both Casey and Emily, they wouldn’t know the difference.’

‘Was that all?’ Emily sounded wondering. ‘Was that all you were looking for? Back in that waiting room?’

She was quieter than she had been in the park, almost distracted. Oddly likeable, even now, Casey thought. A naive charm, too trusting.

Dominic stared at the ceiling, his anger visible in glints, like white-topped waves in a storm. Casey wondered what it was like for him, living in this house. That hollow key sound, every evening.