Trust Me - T.M. Logan Page 0,54

front door to Kathryn’s flat opens and a man steps out, moves back to talk for a moment, hands over a card to someone in the doorway. He is wearing a dark suit and tie. He turns to go and I feel a cold wash of unease as I recognise him: slim build, sharp haircut, strong jaw.

Detective Sergeant Holt.

That can’t be good news. I look past him, expecting to see DI Gilbourne emerge from the flat behind his partner and follow him down the steps. But he doesn’t. Holt is alone. The door shuts behind him and he hurries down the wooden staircase. He takes out his mobile and puts it to his ear, pulling open the door of a black Ford Focus parked in the courtyard. The arrogance of our last meeting is gone – today he looks shifty, almost surreptitious in the speed of his walk and the hunch of his shoulders. He gets into the car, still talking on the phone. Did he hear the exchange at the front door just now? Did the barmaid mention my name when she handed over the bag, or was Holt the one she actually talked to? It could mean more trouble for me, if he was. I slide down a little lower in the driver’s seat, hoping the young detective hasn’t seen me. Holt guns the Ford’s engine and turns out of the courtyard in a spray of gravel, disappearing down the road.

I wait five minutes, to be sure that Holt and the barmaid are both clear and gone. While I wait, I take out my phone and google ‘Kathryn Clifton’. There’s only one bar of reception here and there’s a lag while the results page loads. She has accounts on Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest. Some links to posts for a university magazine from a couple of years ago. A few other hits, but nothing particularly controversial. I google ‘Kathryn Clifton sister’. No news stories, no obvious controversy, nothing out of the ordinary.

I frown and put my phone away. If journalists have been causing trouble for her and her family, surely there would be evidence of it on the internet somewhere? Isn’t Google the place none of us can escape, where everything lives forever? The landlord’s words come back to me. Probably best if you don’t go knocking on doors, not after what happened to her sister. Maybe I’d be breaking some sort of rule about not contacting witnesses. The duty solicitor mentioned something about that on Tuesday night but I was so exhausted by that point that I can’t remember the details.

And I’m here now. In for a penny, in for a pound.

I get out of my car and walk across the road into the courtyard opposite, past the sign for Silverdale Barn. I climb the staircase quickly and knock twice on the smart wood-panelled front door, a large silver three at its centre. I hear the thudding of heavy footsteps from inside, quick and urgent, and the door is opened by a muscular young guy in tracksuit bottoms and a black vest. He’s somewhere in his mid-twenties, dark hair shaved close to his scalp and a full sleeve of tattoos up his left arm, patterns and skulls and Celtic swirls accentuating the swell of muscles. There is a scattering of stubble across his jaw, dark circles under his eyes.

‘Can I help you?’

‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Is Kathryn home?’

He frowns at me, leans out to look down the outside staircase. Checking if I’m alone.

‘If you’re looking for that other policeman, he just left.’ When I shake my head, he says abruptly, ‘What do you want then? Are you a journalist?’

His voice is deep, confident, public school vowels smoothing off all the rough edges.

‘No.’ That question again, twice in the last twenty minutes. ‘I’m a friend of hers.’

‘Have you seen her?’ His red-rimmed eyes narrow, as if he’s trying to work out if he recognises me. ‘Do you know where she is?’

‘I was kind of hoping she’d be here.’ I gesture at him. ‘You’re her . . . flatmate?’

‘Boyfriend.’

‘Right.’ My memory flashes on an image of the dark bruises on Kathryn’s arm. ‘I’m Ellen, by the way. You must be . . . ?’

‘Max,’ he says reluctantly.

‘Nice to meet you, Max.’ I hold out my hand to shake, but he doesn’t reciprocate. ‘I’m a friend of hers, I was wondering if you’d seen her since Tuesday afternoon? That was when I was with her.’

There’s a deep red blush rising up his throat.

‘I