That Summer He Died Read Free Page B

and had turned watery too.
    He’d come to recognise them as memory, not reality. And finally, as he’d come to believe the lies he’d taken to telling others – about how he’d spent his gap year between school and university staying with a relation and writing a novel that he’d never managed to find a publisher for – he’d stopped thinking at all about what had really happened.
    He’d taught himself to forget.
    Ignore something long enough and it will cease to exist. That had become his philosophy, his survival mantra. And that’s what would keep him sane now. And he wasn’t about to go changing it just because Norm thought there was a good story to be found.
    Don’t ever look back.
    Norm could find someone else to cover Daniel Thompson’s murder, someone for whom it would just be another job and a jaunt to the coast rolled into one.
    Norm could send some other investigative journalist down, who wasn’t going to find himself investigating his own past.
    James got up and pulled on his coat, collected the bag containing his research on Headley and his laptop.
    Bury yourself in your work, he told himself. Bury yourself so deep you can’t see out any more.
    *
    As James walked down the short hallway which led to the front door of his flat, he noticed the answerphone’s red eye winking at him.
    He checked his watch: plenty of time before he had to be in the office. And, after the way things had gone yesterday, he doubted if Norm was going to begrudge him a lie-in. He picked up a pen from the table, poised it over the notepad and pressed play.
    ‘Hi, gorgeous,’ Lucy’s voice crackled out of the speaker. ‘If you’re there, pick up. Hello? Hell-o? I’m waiting. . .’ There was a five-second pause, during which he could hear her breathing. ‘Guess I’ve missed you. Sorry. Didn’t think you were leaving for Heathrow till later. Must’ve been wrong. Whatever. Shit.’ Another pause. ‘Oh, well, you’ll be back when you hear this, so I’ve probably missed you more than I should by now. And I’ve probably been texting you or Skyping you insanely.’
    James smiled. They’d done all that. And more than once.
    ‘And I hope you had a good time and didn’t get too freaked out,’ Lucy’s voice continued.
    Another smile. Jeez, this girl could talk for England.
    ‘And I hope you found time to have some fun, too. And. . . and call me. Give me a call and let’s fix up a time to get together. Just give me a call. . .’
    The machine clicked on to another message. His best friend David this time: ‘Hi, James. It’s me. You’re in LA, so I thought I’d call you in London. Logical, huh? Just a cheapskate, really. I can’t be arsed to pay the call charges. And you never check your bloody email. Anyway, it’s about my birthday. And you’d better pick me up a present in duty free. . .Anyway, the birthday. The big two six. I’ve hired out Faust. Friday after you get back. Bring the delightful Miss Lucy Skinner. If that’s still on, yeah? If she’s still your girl. . . ha, ha. Seriously, though. Do what you gotta do. She’s nice, really. I’m impressed. Too good for you, of course, but who isn’t? Only kidding. But if she’s history, then bring whoever. Even better, bring no one and have fun. Just make sure you bring yourself. If you don’t show, you die, my friend. . . Oh, yeah, and enjoy LA, you lucky. . .’
    The message crackled out. Then came an automated one, telling him he’d won some contest, which was probably a scam. Then came a voice he didn’t recognise.
    ‘Hello. My name’s Adam McCullock. This is a message for Mister James Sawday. I apologise for calling you at home, but I’ve had no reply to the two letters I’ve sent to you. . .’
    James looked away from the pad to the letterbox on the inside of the front door. He’d forgotten to check it. The whites and browns of envelopes, most of them sure to be bills, were visible through the wire mesh.
    ‘. . . I’d be grateful if you