First One Missing Read Free

twelve-year marriage. And he’d rather have gone downstairs stark naked than wear something of hers. He’d have called it ‘emasculating’.
    Leanne lay back in the bed that used to belong to her and Pete but now belonged just to her (and Will sometimes), on top of the worn blue and white gingham duvet she and Pete had got as a wedding present, as Will clattered around the kitchen down the hall.
    She tried to focus her thoughts on the conversation she’d just had. Or, more to the point, the conversation she was going to have to have now that she’d had the conversation she’d just had.
    It was fair to say Leanne was not looking forward to calling Emma Reid.
    Desmond had assured her there had been no leaks to the media. Yet . Was ever a three-letter word so weighted with unspoken pressure? Leanne knew that dead children were gold dust to the media. When she’d first started doing the job, she’d been shocked by the lengths to which reporters would go to get a story, trotting out the same old lines: ‘People find it cathartic to talk about it.’ ‘Maybe your story will prompt someone who knows something to break their silence.’ And the odious last resort, ‘If you don’t talk to us we’ll still write the story anyway. Wouldn’t you prefer to have some control over what we say?’ That awful Chronicle journalist Sally Freeland being a case in point.
    Since getting together with Will, she’d become much more cynical. Not that Will was exactly the archetypal hard-bitten hack. As features editor on a small-circulation marketing magazine he was far more likely to be writing about the latest perfume campaign than a crime investigation, but still he knew how the business operated, and as a result Leanne liked to believe she was now less shockable. She knew it was only a matter of time before someone from the media called Emma Reid asking for her reaction to the news. It was imperative that she got in there first. Imperative . Already she was talking like Desmond.
    When Will came back into the room, carrying two mugs of steaming tea, Leanne was still exactly where he’d left her.
    ‘Yours, I believe.’ He extended the mug she always used, the one that had ‘Diva’ emblazoned across the side – a present from Pete in better times.
    As Leanne blew across the surface of the tea, Will studied her face, looking for clues as to what was going on.
    ‘All right,’ she conceded. Although he hadn’t said a word, Will’s endless, exaggerated patience was always guaranteed to push her towards indiscretion. ‘One of my old cases has, well, come to life again.’
    ‘Tilly Reid?’
    Leanne looked up sharply. Then she made a face. The kind of face that says, ‘You know I can’t possibly talk about this.’
    It was at times like this she felt like she might actually miss Pete. Not because Pete was so emotionally supportive or anything, but because he was on the force, so at least he had some idea of what she was going through.
    ‘Something’s happened that means the media are going to be raking everything up again,’ she told Will, as cryptically as she could. ‘So I’ve got to get back in touch with the family. Like, right this minute.’ Still she made no attempt to move.
    Will continued to gaze at her levelly. The towelling dressing gown, faded purple with stains that told a hundred stories, was gaping open at the front to reveal his pale, almost hairless chest and she averted her eyes as if it was indecent.
    ‘And, let me guess, you really, really don’t want to,’ he said softly, stroking her arm.
    Leanne almost allowed herself to relax, but then she stopped herself short. Even though it sometimes seemed like Will could read her mind, in this instance he couldn’t possibly know just how much she really didn’t want to make that call.
    ‘It’s the same every time,’ she blurted out. ‘I let myself believe it’s the last one. And then it happens all over again. And there I am again, ringing on that