From the Dead Read Free

predictable, that was always interesting, it was this one.
    Because going back means giving up.
    Anna thought back to the day she’d phoned F.A. Investigations, excited about the ad she’d seen in the local paper; keen as mustard and green as grass. Eighteen months and a lifetime ago. What the hell had she thought she was doing, walking out on a well-paid job, on friends and colleagues, for . . . this ?
    Ten pounds an hour to make tea and keep Frank’s accounts in order. To answer the phone and come on to men who couldn’t keep it in their pants.
    And yet, despite the way things had panned out, Anna knew that her instincts had been right, that there had been nothing wrong with her ambition. How many people were stuck, too afraid to make a change, however much they yearned for it?
    How many settled for jobs, partners, lives ?
    She had wanted something different, that was all. She had thought that in helping other people she would help herself. That, at the very least, it would stop her turning into one of those hard-faced City bitches who click-clacked past her all day long in their Jimmy Choos. And, yes, she had thought it might be a little more exciting than futures and sodding hedge funds.
    Kidding herself.
    Same as she had been when she picked up the leaflet about joining the army, or when she’d thought about a career in the police force for all of five minutes. A year and a half ago, several of her friends had described her radical career shift from banker to private detective as ‘brave’. ‘Braver than me,’ Angie, a triage nurse, had said. Rob, a teacher in a rough north London school, had nodded his agreement. Anna had suspected they really meant ‘stupid’, but she had relished the compliment all the same.
    A soldier, though? A copper? Certainly not brave enough for that . . .
    Anna stood as the train pulled into Victoria and caught the eye of the woman who had been sitting opposite. She tried to summon a smile but had to look away, convinced suddenly and for no good reason that the woman had got the measure of her. Could see what she was.
    She felt over-wound and light-headed as the escalator carried her up towards the street; desperate now to get back to the office and change. She wanted to get out of the stupid heels she was click-clacking around in and back into her trainers. She wanted the day to end and the dark to wrap itself around her. She wanted to drink and sleep. It wasn’t until she got to the ticket barrier and fumbled for her Oyster card that she realised she had a torn page of the Metro crushed into her fist.
    The office was wedged between a dry-cleaner’s and a betting shop; a cracked brown door with dirty glass. As Anna was reaching into her handbag for the keys, a woman who had been hovering at the kerb walked towards her. Forty-odd, and something fierce in her eyes.
    Anna backed off half a step. Got ready to say ‘no’. The typical London response.
    â€˜Are you a detective?’ the woman asked.
    Anna just stared. No, not fierce, she thought. Desperate .
    â€˜I saw your ad, and I need a bit of help with something, so . . .’
    There was no light visible through the glass, and Anna guessed that Frank’s lunchtime drink had turned into several. He would have diverted any calls for F.A. Investigations to his mobile and would almost certainly not be back for the rest of the afternoon.
    â€˜Yes,’ Anna said. ‘I am.’ She took out her keys and stepped towards the door. ‘Come on up.’

TWO
    Had they been sitting side by side or staring at each other across the table in an interview room, the crucial difference between the two men might not have been obvious. Not to the casual observer, at any rate. Had one not been standing in a dock and the other in the witness box, it would have been tough to tell cop from killer.
    Both were wearing suits and looking unhappy about the fact. Both stood reasonably still and,