Discarded by M. Hunter (fantasy books to read .txt) 📗

Freddie has battled with narcotics and alcohol for most of his life and as far as I’m aware he’s remained clean throughout his incarceration, but my gut is telling me not to leave him alone right now.

‘I insist you come to the restaurant with me, even if you just drink tap water,’ I say lightheartedly. ‘There’s nothing as unbecoming as a writer eating alone in a restaurant on her birthday.’

‘It isn’t your birthday though.’

‘It is my pretend birthday, Freddie. If the Queen can have two, so can I!’ I pull him closer to me. ‘On a serious note, I’m famished and if I don’t eat a proper meal, I’ll end up scoffing my weight in crisps and chocolate on the train back to Weymouth and we both know I can’t afford to turn into any more of a heifer.’

He laughs for the first time and I finally see a glimpse of the old Freddie returning.

‘That’s true, I suppose,’ he teases, and I playfully slap his arm. ‘Come on then, let’s get something to eat. And put the world to rights.’

A steak dinner for Freddie and a garlic chicken risotto for me later, and the conversation remains as stilted as it was outside the prison; maybe I’m not as good at pretending as I thought. It’s proving problematic trying to keep the conversation light and engaging whilst avoiding any mention of what happened last year.

‘Have you finally made a move on that detective boyfriend of yours?’ Freddie asks now, as the waiter collects our plates.

Freddie knows that mention of my feelings for DS Jack Serrovitz will be enough to get a rise out of me, but I’m not going to take the bait.

‘Actually, I haven’t spoken to Jack in a few weeks.’

Freddie frowns, all humour dissipating from his face instantly. ‘But what about the files and paperwork I dragged out of that hell’s kitchen?’

Right before Freddie set the Pendark Film Studios ablaze, he extracted half a dozen filing cabinets filled with receipts and invoices tying hundreds of individuals to the place; and whilst some of those filmmakers weren’t producing filth, it was Freddie’s contention that some of them would have been.

‘Jack is still investigating, as far as I’m aware.’

In truth, I have no idea what Jack is currently up to. Shortly after Freddie’s arrest, he was seconded to join a specialist team in the National Crime Agency with the specific purpose of uncovering a network of paedophiles and traffickers operating along the south coast of the UK. The filing cabinets and their contents went with him and although he promised to keep me updated, I guess he hasn’t been allowed to do so.

‘But I got those files out for you, Emma. You were supposed to use them to track down what happened to Anna.’

Another reason I’m disappointed that Jack hasn’t been in touch recently. My sister Anna has now been missing for twenty-one years, and the only evidence that she wasn’t killed the day she was abducted is her face on a pornographic video when she must have been about thirteen years old. What happened to her after that is anyone’s guess, and the bane of my existence. Deep down, I want to believe that she is still alive and kicking out there somewhere, but as the days wear on, that reality grows dimmer.

I recall a conversation I had with Elizabeth Hilliard when her daughter Cassie was missing. Elizabeth was adamant that she could feel deep down that Cassie was still alive, and she was proved right, but I don’t have any similar sense with Anna. Not anymore. I’ve tried – God knows I’ve fought against the cynicism – but how can she have been alive all this time and not made contact?

‘Jack knows that, Freddie, and I’m sure the only reason he hasn’t called is he’s been snowed under with work.’

Not even I’m convinced by the line.

Freddie looks forlorn and I don’t need to ask what’s going through his mind right now: that the last eight months of his life have been wasted.

I settle the bill, and then the two of us slowly make our way towards Winchester station, ready to board the next train back to Weymouth, but a dark cloud hovers above our heads. Maybe we’re both just bad at pretending everything is normal.

My mood lightens briefly when I see that Jack is calling my phone, and I turn the screen to show Freddie; it feels as though our prayers have been answered, but then I hear Jack’s morose tone and it puts me on the back foot.

‘I’m at Pendark Film Studios, Emma. I need you to come over here straightaway. We’ve found something buried beneath the ashes.’

Chapter Three Then

Newbury, Berkshire

Catching the reflection of myself biting my nails tells me everything I need to know about the anxiety throbbing through me. Jack’s tone wasn’t warm and welcoming, but cold and pragmatic; he refused to elaborate on the phone what had been found beneath the ashes of what remained of the site, but it clearly isn’t good. My mind has been racing with possibilities and the only conclusion I can draw is that they’ve discovered a body, and that Freddie is now likely to be facing further criminal charges.

I could barely look at him as we parted at Winchester station, certain he’d see the alarm in my eyes. He looked relieved to be travelling back to Weymouth alone, and I just hope he stays true to his sobriety without me watching over him.

There can’t have been any remains in the rubble though, as a thorough search was performed of the grounds following the fire in order to rule out the prospect that the arson had taken a life. Freddie was adamant he’d checked the site before striking the match, and given the studios hadn’t been in operation for several years, there is no reason to doubt his word. Yet still, what else could have put Jack so on