Don't Come Looking by AJ Campbell (always you kirsty moseley .txt) 📗

the UK, and the rate for young females is now at its highest rate on record. ‘What’s the definition of middle-aged?’ I ask Mel.

‘I know this because my daughter told me on my last birthday that I am now officially middle-aged. Between forty-five and sixty-five.’

We celebrated Marc’s forty-sixth birthday earlier this year at the local Chinese restaurant. My thoughts return to my conversation with Jim this morning.

I run to my desk, an hour late. Rob appears before I’ve managed to sit down. He’s tapping his watch and smirking.

‘Don’t even go there. The Northern line came to a standstill. I had to get off and get a cab. I could’ve really done without the hold-up today.’ And the cost! I remove my cardigan and wipe my forehead. ‘I’m in court later, and I need to go through the papers.’

‘I need to go up to the City. I’ll give you a lift if you want.’

‘What’re you doing there?’

‘I’ve got a lead on our Jason.’

‘Jason Harper?’

He nods. ‘A bloke he used to work with.’

‘Tell me more.’

Before he can answer, Arthur hurries over. ‘Late again, Barnes.’

‘What can I do for you today, sir?’

‘Some work would be good. A little treat has been delivered to our door. Shane Baker! I want you to come in on the interview.’

I tut. ‘I’m due in court.’ I would love to be in that interview. We’ve been trying to nab Shane Baker for so long. And, if what Arthur said yesterday about possible links to Jason Harper is right, it could be an interesting few hours.

‘What about you?’ Arthur asks Rob.

‘I’ve got a lead on Jason Harper,’ Rob says. ‘I could rearrange.’

‘You carry on. I’ll get Peters to come in on this one.’ Arthur returns to his desk.

When we pull away from the station, I ask Rob about his lead on Jason Harper.

‘It seems the neighbours were right. He used to work for a software company up at Moorgate. He was a salesman. I gather he got the boot at the end of last year. The bloke I’m going to see hinted at drug use.’

‘Interesting. I wish I could come with you.’

‘Nosy, nosy. Always want to be involved, don’t you?’

I elbow his arm.

‘I fancy a drive-through. You got time?’ he asks.

‘What is it with you and food?’

‘I’m a growing lad?’

I pull a face at his gut. ‘Exactly.’

‘Be kind, DC Barnes, be kind.’

‘I’m just trying to give back.’

‘You’re not trying too hard.’

‘Cut the sarcasm.’

‘I love sarcasm. It’s like smacking people in the face but with words. You’ve taught me so well. I’ve nearly mastered its delivery as perfectly as you.’

He laughs. I laugh too, thankful for the humour he brings to days like today.

We stop at McDonald’s for him to pick up a Big Mac and Fries. I opt for a Veggie Wrap, and we park up on a side street to eat. Chomping and chewing like this is his last day on earth, he demolishes his food before I’m even halfway through mine. ‘I think I might dash to the loo before we go,’ I say, opening the car door.

His mobile rings as I get out of the car, and he’s still on the phone when I return. ‘Catch you later,’ he says and ends the call. ‘That was my flatmate, Phil; the one who works for the British Transport Police. Looks like the reason for your holdup this morning was a jumper at Brixton Tube.’ He pulls a pained grimace. ‘It was a right mucky one by all accounts. Bloke all over the track.’

The spicy relish from the wrap repeats on me. Regardless of how many people there are in London, and, for that matter, middle-aged men, I can’t help but dwell on the uneasy feeling that Marc could well be that person sprawled across the tracks. I throw the remainder of the wrap in with his rubbish and tell him to get a move on.

Eight

DAY 4

After dropping the kids at school, I pull on my running gear. I haven’t managed to get out since Sunday, and I’m jittery. Withdrawal symptoms from the endorphin rush I get from pounding the streets. Running is my drug. It doses my body with freedom. My running repertoire is comprised of various routes. There’s a six-miler up to and around Wandsworth Common, a shorter Tooting Common three-miler for when I only have a half-hour to spare, and street circuits of varying distances for when it’s dark. It’s another late shift today. I’m not due into work until two, so, after lacing my trainers, I quickly stretch before heading towards Wandsworth Common.

The sun is shining in a baby-blue sky, warming my skin as David Guetta pumps through my AirPods. They’re new, the AirPods. Jim bought them for me last week. Not because it’s my birthday or anything, but because that’s the kind of thing he does. ‘Not for nighttime runs, though,’ he insisted.

Usually, when I find my rhythm, my worries and anxieties start to subside, and I can zone out, but Sasha and Marc invade my thoughts today. Despite my reassuring words to her, I’ve started to sprout a seed of worry. Has Marc been having an affair? Not with Pen. I don’t think that’s possible, but who else? I plan to have a dig around at work later. I know I will get to the root of his disappearance. My determination will succeed. It may take a few days, but it always wins.

My phone rings in the bedroom as I step my sweat-purged body into the shower. I step back out to check who’s calling.

It’s Sasha. ‘How’s it going?’ I ask.

‘I need you to see something.’

‘What’s happened?’

Noisy kids emerge in the background. Her voice becomes muffled. ‘Sorry, I can’t talk right now.’

‘I’ll try my best to stop by at some point. Call you later.’

I arrive at the station an hour before my shift starts. Not that Arthur acknowledges my efforts like he does my occasional lateness. I have a ton of paperwork to catch up on, so I grab a