The Burning Read Free Page A

to warm enough when I forced myself to step into the slate-lined shower area, wincing as the spray hit my goose-pimpled skin. The showerhead was the size of a dinner plate and pumped out rain-forest levels of water; it was just a shame that it never got hot enough for me. Style over substance, as usual. But it wasn’t my flat so I couldn’t really complain. I was sharing it, officially, but I felt more like a guest. And not necessarily a welcome one, at times.
    I had balled my hands together under my chin, hugging body heat to myself, and it was an effort to unknot my fingers and reach for the shampoo once the water started to approach tepidity. Haste made me fumble the shampoo cap and I swore as I heard it skitter around the sloping tiles that led to the drain. I left it there, hearing my mother’s voice in my head, sure, it can’t fall any further … Two minutes later, I stepped on it and had to muffle a yelp in the crook of my elbow as a sharp edge dug into the arch of my foot. Swearing was a help. I swore. A lot.
    I scrubbed at my scalp until the muscles in my forearms complained and rinsed my hair for as long as I could allow myself to, eyes closed against the lather that slid down my face. Bliss to be clean again, joy to know that the case was coming to an end. I wanted to stay in there for ever with my eyes closed; I wanted to sleep – how I wanted to sleep. But I couldn’t. I had to get going. And by the time I got out of the shower, I was what passed for awake these days.
    Back in the bedroom, I tried to be quiet, but I couldn’t help rattling the hangers in the wardrobe when I was taking out a suit. I heard stirring behind me in the bed and bit my lip.
    ‘What’s up?’
    I wouldn’t have spoken to Ian if he hadn’t spoken to me; that was the rule I observed about getting up and leaving in the middle of the night. Not that I was sure he’d ever noticed there was a rule.
    ‘Going to meet a murderer.’
    That earned me an opened eye. ‘You got him. Well done.’
    ‘It wasn’t exactly all my own work, but thanks.’
    He rolled over onto his back and threw an arm over his face, shielding his eyes from the light. He was in his natural position now, hogging the middle of the bed. I suppressed the impulse to push him back onto his own side and hauled the sheet up instead, tucking him in. Look, I care about you . See how thoughtful I am .
    ‘Mmm,’ was the response. He was on his way back to sleep. I slipped the dry-cleaner’s bag off my suit and balled it up, squashing it into the bin. I should have taken it off sooner. The suit smelled of chemicals and I wrinkled my nose, reluctant to put it on. The forecast was for a cold day, and rain. I thought longingly of jeans tucked into boots, of chunky jumpers and long knitted scarves. God, dressing like a grown-up was a pain.
    I sat on the edge of the bed to deal with my tights, coaxing them over damp skin, wary of ripping them. My hair dripped onto my shoulders, cold water running down my back. I hadn’t got time for this. I hadn’t got time for immaculate. Slowly, infinitely slowly, I worked the material up over my thighs and stood to haul the tights the rest of the way. It was not the most elegant moment of getting dressed, and I wasn’t pleased to turn and find Ian staring at me, an unreadable expression on his face.
    ‘So is this it?’
    ‘What do you mean?’ I slipped on a shirt, then stepped into my skirt, zipping it up quickly and smoothing it over my hips. That was better. More dignified. The waistband was loose, I noticed, the skirt hanging from my hips rather than my waist. It took the hem from on the knee to over it, from flattering to frump. I needed to eat more. I needed to rest.
    ‘I mean is this the end of it? Are you going to be around more?’
    ‘Probably. Not for a little while – we’ve got to sort out the paperwork and get the case ready for the CPS. But after that, yeah.’
    If there isn’t another serial killer waiting to take