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Back The Woman in the Wood Save as PDF
Chapters (62)
  1. Cover
  2. Also by M.K. Hill
  3. THE WOMAN IN THE WOOD
  4. Copyright
  5. Dedication
  6. Contents
  7. Epigraph
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. 12
  20. 13
  21. 14
  22. 15
  23. 16
  24. 17
  25. 18
  26. 19
  27. 20
  28. 21
  29. 22
  30. 23
  31. 24
  32. 25
  33. 26
  34. 27
  35. 28
  36. 29
  37. 30
  38. 31
  39. 32
  40. 33
  41. 34
  42. 35
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. 44
  52. 45
  53. 46
  54. 47
  55. 48
  56. 49
  57. 50
  58. 51
  59. 52
  60. Acknowledgements
  61. About the Author
  62. An Invitation from the Publisher

‘I’m sorry.’ Vaughn led her towards the photocopier, away from the nest of desks where they could be overheard. ‘I should never have allowed Connie to convince me to come.’

‘Oh, don’t be silly, it was lovely to see you there,’ Sasha said cheerfully, lying through her teeth, and she was careful not to stare too closely at the dark circles beneath his eyes. He looked shattered. ‘You’re welcome any time, Vaughn.’

‘After we left your place, we went for a couple more drinks. Connie knows a place with late opening hours. She seems to know all the angles.’

‘Hmmm.’

‘She’s full-on, your sister.’ When she smiled blandly, he nodded at the overnight bag beside her desk. ‘Going anywhere nice?’

‘Me and Kev are meant to be going to a hotel tonight.’ There was realistically little they could accomplish in the office on a Friday night, but she added quickly, ‘I’ll still be available, if anyone needs me.’

‘Nobody will need you,’ he told her. He meant it in a nice way, she was sure. As in, In the event of an emergency, we’ve got everything covered. But, to her mind, it still sounded unnecessarily blunt.

32

Sasha drove to the Dutch Quarter of Colchester, the small Essex town that, many centuries ago, was the capital of Roman Britain.

Trying to find the squat, Sasha drove her Spider along a street near the town centre, squinting at the door numbers of the elegant Edwardian three-storey terraced houses, with their tall windows, converted basement kitchens and wrought iron railings. But then she passed a house where the windows were hidden behind colourful throws, banners and flags, all covered with slogans and demands for the overthrow of the political system. One poster sellotaped to the inside of a downstairs window proposed violent world revolution immediately, which must have delighted the mortgage payers of the other homes in this middle-class area.

Sasha parked further along the street and climbed out. As she approached the door of the house, she heard music thumping inside, but nobody answered when she knocked, which wasn’t a great surprise. Squatters would be wary of answering the door; bailiffs could turn up on the doorstep at any moment.

Looking through the letter box, Sasha glimpsed dirty white floorboards on the stairs, and could just about make out the top of the landing. The music blasted. What was that, grime or drum and bass, or drill? She didn’t know, despite once having both her children try to explain the difference to her. Sasha went back to her car, angling the driver’s side mirror to keep an eye on the front door of the house while she made a phone call to her team, catching up on the latest developments in the investigation, all zero of them.