Letting out the Worms: Guilty or not? If not then the alternative is terrifying (Kitty Thomas Book 1 by Sue Nicholls (top e book reader TXT) 📗

car. While three jogged down the alley between the restaurant and the antique shop next door, three more barrelled in, almost knocking Lucas over.

‘Mr Michael Adu?’

‘No. That’s my dad. He’s not here. What’s this ab…?’

The officer spoke urgently. ‘Where can we find him, Sir?’

Lucas squeezed his eyelids shut and opened them again. ‘Sorry. What’s this about?’

‘Just answer the question please, Sir.’

‘I can’t tell you where he is.’ Lucas’s tone rose half an octave. ‘He was here an hour ago then he received a phone call from a friend and left.’

‘And the name of this friend?’

‘Maurice. It was Maurice Roman.’

‘Thank you, Sir. Would you mind if we had a quick look round?’

‘No, of course not.’

Two officers took the stairs and the other poked behind the bar then went into the kitchen. He opened cupboards without closing them and touched sterile surfaces but came out with nothing. After fifteen minutes, the three men thanked Sam and left him standing, bewildered in his empty restaurant. He stared after their cars, their lights no longer flashing, then he sent another text to Megan: Delayed. Sorry. Explain later.

68 SAM

The faint percussion of the police station: the tapping of keyboards, jangling of voices and banging of doors, provided a backing to Sam’s thoughts. Those prophetic words from the police officer: ‘Not yet,’ could only mean that Maurice was due at the station.

A voice at his shoulder startled him and he looked up at a black-skinned woman, in plain clothes, who was aiming a professional smile at him. ‘Mr Roman? I’m DS Mann, Sir. Thank you for waiting. Would you follow me?’ She led him through a security door into the back office, where he stepped round briefcases and wove between uniformed and plain clothed staff at paper strewn desks.

On reaching a cramped room with a high barred window that gave a view of blue sky and unremitting sun. DS Mann said, ‘Do sit down Mr Roman; we won’t keep you a moment.’

Sam slid into a metal chair, one of four tucked under a rectangular melamine table, and wiped his face with an arm. When the woman offered him a drink, he asked for water and settled down to wait, staring at a blank wall and wishing there was a fan.

A beaming DI Poulton strode in and banged down a plain white mug of water and a matching plate of digestive biscuits. Indicating the latter, he said, ‘Sorry they’re not more exciting. You’re lucky to have them actually, we don’t give them to suspects.’

Sam thanked him, wishing that the mug was a glass, clinking with ice.

The DI sat down and sniffed. He leaned back to wrestle a tissue from his trouser pocket and blew his nose with a loud toot. ‘Hay Fever,’ he explained and put the tissue away. He sniffed again. ‘Mr Roman, I expect you’re wondering why you’re here.’

Sam agreed that he was puzzled.

Poulton’s face dropped into an expression of insincere sympathy. ‘I’m about to say something you might find upsetting.’

Sam put down his mug.

‘I’m sorry to inform you…’

‘Is my dad dead?’ The edge of the table dug into Sam’s palms.

‘No, no Sir. Actually, we don’t know where he is. We are seeking him in connection with the murders of Fiona Rutherford, Millicent Adu and, he hesitated, Sabrina Roman - your mother.’

What? ‘That is the most ridiculous idea ever.’ But even as he spoke, Sam knew it was not. It explained a lot: his father calling him away from the trolley in the woods, the green stuff, and his father’s evasive answers about the calendar. But Mick was involved, too? Sam slid his palms down his cheeks and realised that DI Poulton was still talking. ‘Mr Roman!’ he said emphatically, ‘Do you have any idea where your father or Mr Adu might be?’

Sam fixed his eyes on the clasped fingers of DS Mann resting on the scratched table, and struggled to organise his thoughts. ‘I can’t imagine,’ he said in a faint voice. ‘I thought they’d gone to the pub.’

Poulton gathered his face for a sneeze and fumbled for his tissues again. The sneeze exploded in the small space, and Sam leant back to avoid its blast. After blowing his nose, the Inspector apologised again. ‘I’ve run out of tablets. No time in this job to nip to the pharmacy.’

What was he supposed to say? Offer his sympathies? Sam willed the man to get back to the point.

Noting his expression, Poulton blinked his pink, watery eyes and obliged. ‘You said pub. Which pub might that be?’

Work brain, for God’s sake, Sam begged. ‘Er… there’s a pub in Chelterton High Street… The Plough. They sometimes go there on a Monday when it’s quiet in the restaurant.’

‘Anywhere else?’

He scoured his mind for some place the men might meet. ‘There are so many places: Callum Hill car park, the sticky pub, that’s the one in Kingsthorpe with the soft play area, but actually, I’d imagine they would meet at one or the other’s house, or maybe Paul’s.’

‘He’s not at Mr Adu’s or Mr Thomas’s,’ Poulton said, and Sam’s frustration at Maurice grew.

Then a location popped into his mind. Yes, that would be a good place. ‘There is somewhere,’ he said.

69 MAURICE

Mick glared at Maurice. ‘What the fuck were you thinking of?’ On the floor of the Kent beach hut, his bulging sports bag had made scuff marks in the dust. Maurice had flung his suitcase onto the daybed, where it balanced on top of a haphazard scattering of faded canvas cushions. Outside, although the men hardly noticed it, the sea sucked and crashed against the shale.

‘I couldn’t risk Sam and Kitty uncovering everything. They were getting too close. Sam was asking questions about my calendar.’

‘Your calendar?’

‘I marked the date when Twitch disappeared.’

‘Why the fuck did