Free Binary Witness (The Amy Lane Mysteries) by Rosie Claverton

and Jason struggled to hide the smile on his lips, at odds with the grim news. “Elite taskforce teaboy” would look good on his CV. At the end of the BBC Wales report, they showed the picture from the club—a blown-up, slightly blurred image of Melody in her black coat. Testament to the hours of work Amy put in and Jason’s ability to keep her in tea.
    Jason rang the doorbell—but the door didn’t open. He held down the button, waiting for a message to appear. But there was no response. After waiting another minute, he turned towards his car and the lockpicks concealed in the dashboard. But he was stopped dead by an unmarked police car pulling up outside the flat. There was something about police vehicles that made them so bloody obvious, even when they weren’t dressed up. It probably had something to do with the grim men behind the wheel.
    Bryn came up the steps and stared at the door, Owain rummaging in the boot as his silly floppy hair was caught by the wind. “She not answering? Shit, I hoped we’d have more days than this.” The statement made no sense, but Bryn just leaned past him and held down the buzzer. “Amy, Amy, quite contrary, how does your fungus grow?”
    The box beeped and a message flashed up: Voice imprint recognised. The door opened of its own accord and Bryn stepped past him and into the opening lift, which was crammed full of shopping bags, sitting in ever-increasing puddles. The three men carefully picked their way across the grocery minefield before the doors closed, and they stood stock-still in the half dark, as if caught in the middle of a game of musical statues.
    The lift doors finally opened and Bryn waded out, Jason following hard on his heels. Bryn scanned the living room with a sigh. “She’ll have crashed out. That’s that then.”
    Jason wasn’t entirely sure what was going on but “crashed out” sounded ominous. “I’ll look for her,” he said and walked down the corridor, exploring the rooms at the back where he’d yet to go.
    “Good luck with that,” Bryn called after him, but the cop didn’t show any signs of leaving, so Jason continued on his mission.
    The first door on the left was the bathroom and it was just as horrible as he’d imagined, infested with mould and towels that stank of damp. Jason pushed open the window, allowing some air into the fetid room, before closing the door firmly behind him and trying the other room.
    Heavy blackout curtains hung across the one wall of floor-length windows, shrouding the room in darkness. The room smelled of stale sweat and the musk of a woman, a scent he vaguely identified with Amy. In the centre of the king-sized bed, a small shape huddled beneath the blankets, shivering.
    “Amy?”
    The trembling ceased, but the lump in the covers made no move to reply.
    Jason closed the door behind him and sat on the edge on the bed. “Come on, Amy—Bryn and Owain are here. We’ve got work to do, remember?”
    “Fuck off.”
    Jason swallowed down the wholly inappropriate urge to laugh. “Amy, you have to get up. World-famous detective, remember?”
    “M’not. Get lost.” Still, the huddle stretched out and a tangled mess of mousy brown hair appeared above the covers, accompanied by a pair of glaring eyes.
    “Good morning,” Jason said cheerfully. “Jump in the shower and I’ll find some breakfast, yeah?”
    Amy reached up and ran a hand through her hair. “Shopping came, but I didn’t answer. Might be in the lift.”
    “Yeah, I noticed.” Jason didn’t hold out much hope that anything fresh or frozen had survived overnight in the stuffy lift. “See you in twenty minutes, okay?” He waited for a grunt of agreement before exiting the room. He strode back down the corridor to see Bryn and Owain talking together on the sofa. “She’s in the shower. Can I get you something to drink?”
    “In the shower?” Bryn said incredulously. “Have you seen that thing?”
    Jason heard two doors slam down the corridor, and