Free The Carrier by Sophie Hannah Page A

he understands I’m on his side,’ Regan said, talking to Simon about himself in the third person. ‘You’ve got a case at the moment: Tim Breary. Wife Francine, had a stroke that left her bedridden? And he’s confessed to murdering her, and claims he doesn’t know why he did it?’
    Fuck, did this woman have a death wish? Simon’s face had turned dark and stiff with fury. And Charlie knew the name of the Don’t Know Why Killer: Tim Breary.
    ‘There’s something you should know that you don’t,’ said Regan. ‘When Breary was first interviewed, you weren’t there, were you? Sam Kombothekra and Colin Sellers interviewed him. Dad said it wasn’t complicated enough for you: no mystery, an immediate confession.’
    Interesting, Charlie thought, that Proust, like Simon and Gibbs when it suited them, shared confidential details of cases with non-colleagues: his wife and daughter, and God only knew who else. Funny that he’d neglected to mention this, on the many occasions that he’d threatened Simon with disciplinary action for telling Charlie too much.
    ‘You only started to take an interest when you found out the motive had gone missing,’ Regan went on. ‘Dad’s not happy about your newfound enthusiasm for the case. He’s got his confession and he wants it off his desk, so he told Kombothekra and Sellers to leave you and Gibbs out of the loop. He had them alter the evidence. And here I am: telling you something that could land him in prison.’ Regan exhaled slowly.
    ‘Your shrink would be proud of you,’ said Charlie. There was something wrong with the story, in spite of the convincing detail about Gibbs also being excluded. Yes, Proust would know that Gibbs would go straight to Simon with the truth. But Sam would too, Charlie was sure. Sam Kombothekra tampering with the evidence in a murder case? No way. And Proust was far too canny to give Sam and Sellers that kind of power over him – the power to end his career. Was Simon thinking all this as well?
    ‘That first interview with Tim Breary – the transcript in the file isn’t the one that was there originally,’ Regan said. ‘Less than two hours ago, I heard Dad boasting to Mum about knowing when to have the guts to bend the rules. It was pretty sickening, though no more so than all the other conversations my parents have. They’re all about her reflecting him back to himself in the most flattering way possible.’ Regan put her mug down on the worktop. ‘I’m no detective, but if Dad cares that much about you not finding out, it must be important, right?’ She turned and left the room: the woman who was so terrified of her father that she would give two people who hated him the chance to destroy him and explain that it was all his daughter’s idea. Charlie wasn’t sure she believed it.
    The front door slammed shut.
    ‘She’s lying, Simon. She wants you to go after her so that she can lie a bit more.’
    Simon picked up the cup Regan had been drinking from and hurled it at the wall. He was out of the house in seconds, leaving the front door swinging open and cold air and rain blowing in. Leaving Charlie covered in cold coffee, surrounded by pieces of broken mug. Not that she cared about that. She tried not to care also, as she heard him yelling hoarsely into the night, that he had never once chased after her while calling out her name as if his life depended on finding her again.

5
Friday 11 March 2011
    There is only one bed in this airless attic room. It’s a small double, the size of a sofabed, and partly covered with a single duvet. Only one pillow. No cupboards or drawers, just open shelves, on which I see no spare blankets, no cushions, nothing useful. I conduct an anti-inventory: no minibar, no kettle, no sachets of tea or coffee, no telephone, no bedside tables, no reading lamps, no television, no room service menu. In the far wall, there’s a door that has had one of its corners shaved off and been squashed in under the eaves. I