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By Steve Mosby

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GPS. The works. ' Currie looked over at Swann, and his partner tilted his head: your call. Currie looked back at Frank Carroll and forced out another smile he didn't feel. 'We'll do that, Mr Carroll,' he said. ' Chapter Seven Monday 22nd August Two weeks after visiting Tori in hospital I drove across town, on my way somewhere I hadn't been in nearly a year. The last fortnight had been a pack of hot, sweaty days, and today was the first real reminder that summer wasn't going to last for ever. The sun had spent the morning hidden behind a sky full of grey mist.

I called out and knocked twice on the open door as I went in. She was expecting me - I heard a click, and then the whirr of the vacuum cleaner winding down. Linda was in her early forties and pleasantly rounded: a lovely, amiable woman who turned up in old jeans and jumpers and seemed to get a kick out of cleaning. Which is a pretty enviable gene to have. She was standing just outside the kitchen now, wiping her forehead with the back of her arm. As I walked up, she smiled at me and blew hair out of her eyes.

Not afraid, exactly, but not far off either. The speed with which the TV had gone quiet reminded him of a spider going still as a fly snagged on its web. He could almost imagine the man inside, equally motionless. Listening. After a minute, the door opened. They were faced by a tall, thin man. He was wearing a white shirt too large for him, and old, rubbery tracksuit bottoms. Currie didn't even recognise him at first. The photograph in the file had shown a man in his late thirties with a good-looking, symmetrical face.

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Cry For Help by Steve Mosby


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