The Watched (CSI Reilly Steel #4) Read Free

hand, she waited for the uniform to point her in the right direction. ‘Third floor. S tairwell is the last door on the right.’ He gestured down the well-lit corridor lined with post boxes. ‘Do you need somebody to give you a hand with that?’ he asked then, indicating her heavy-looking kitbag.
    She hid a smile. ‘Thanks, but I’ll manage. The rest of my team will be here shortly and we’ll be processing that lift first so we can get it up and running again. Make sure no one goes near it in the meantime.’
    ‘Of course.’ The officer nodded as Reilly made for the timber door that led to the stairwell.
    She began to move quickly up the stairs before suddenly starting to feel out of breath, acutely aware of how her carb-filled Irish diet and declining opportunities for exercise were starting to creep up on her. She cursed herself for the ready-meal mac ’n’ cheese she’d ‘cooked’ for dinner the night before. At the time, she’d considered it a little taster of home, when in reality back in the US she’d never touched the stuff.
    Reilly felt a long way from the person she’d been upon first crossing the Atlantic to take up this job. Back then she’d enjoyed picking up in-season fruit and veg at farmers’ markets or the local organic shops close to where she lived in Ranelagh, and had relished trying out different recipes with unfamiliar ingredients. When had it all changed, she wondered now? When had she gone from embracing the gastronomic (and indeed cultural) differences to feeling alienated by them?
    By the time Reilly got to the doorway that led to the third floor she felt like she’d just run a marathon. Pathetic for someone who used to pound out fifteen miles straight and barely break a sweat. The inevitable guilt descended as she was reminded of more leisurely pursuits, but lately there hadn’t been much time for non-work activities of any kind.
    Not only was she getting old, she admitted dourly, thinking about the recen t non-existent celebrations for her thirty-third birthday, but she was getting soft with it and lately in particular could feel herself starting to lose her edge. Not good for a CSI investigator and certainly not one who was responsible for the smooth running of the forensic operational center on behalf of the Irish police force.
    As she pushed through the door with her shoulder she swore to herself that she’d head out for a proper run when she got home later, regardless of the weather.
    ‘Speak of the devil . . .’ Detective Chris Delaney said with a grin as she emerged through the heavily sprung fire door.
    ‘ Hey,’ she greeted, trying her best to conceal the effects of her exertion. ‘Should my ears be burning?’
    ‘ You just lost me twenty quid,’ Kennedy, Delaney’s middle-aged overweight partner commented.
    ‘ How so?’
    ‘ I reckoned you’d arrive up already suited and booted,’ the older detective explained.
    ‘What he actually said , again , was that you probably slept in them,’ Chris elaborated, rolling his eyes as this was a very old joke of Kennedy’s and it was by now long past wearing thin.
    ‘ Full marks for originality, detective,’ Reilly said, shaking her head. ‘And too bad neither of you will ever get to collect on that bet,’ she added archly, enjoying their familiar banter.
    In truth, Chris Delaney and Pete Kennedy were probably the closest thing she had to friends in Dublin, which spoke volumes. Not so much about the quality of any friendship, but more about the time they’d spent working on challenging, all-consuming investigations. The three had worked side by side since Reilly’s arrival at the GFU and knew each other well. They’d been through a lot over the course of their investigations together – not all of it good – but Reilly knew she could trust these two men with her life, and was secure in the knowledge that the feeling was mutual.
    And while there might once perhaps have been something stronger brewing between