Free The Lost by Claire McGowan Page B

schoolfriends are about, probably, but when I left for uni – well, it was hard to keep in touch.’ Especially when you’d promised yourself you’d never go back.
    ‘Well, cheers.’ He forced a smile. ‘I’m sure now you’re here the team will gel better.’
    ‘Cheers.’ She swallowed the heavy stout, feeling it calm her, weigh her down. ‘Sergeant Hamilton didn’t seem too keen on the idea of a drink.’
    ‘No, he doesn’t really fit the Irish stereotype.’
    ‘Now that’s a mistake. Don’t call him Irish, that’s a lot more offensive than saying I look nice. British, please.’
    ‘Oh, dear. I’m a bit clueless, aren’t I? You’ll have to be my guide.’
    ‘What, like a leprechaun or something?’
    He was about to answer, a genuine smile for once stretched on his face, but his phone started to ring. As he dug it from his jeans pocket he was laughing, his face open. From the way it closed so quickly, she could tell something very bad had happened.
    ‘Can Icome?’
    He was already marching out of the pub, phone clamped to his ear. A thin light rain was falling, catching in her hair. Into his phone he was saying, ‘No, I’ve got my car. Only a few sips of beer so far, that’s lucky. Hmm?’ Whoever was on the end had asked him something and he turned to her, thoughtful. ‘Yes. I’ll call for Paula on the way.’ So he didn’t want Hamilton – she assumed that was the caller – to know he was with her.
    He hung up and they stood on the high street, looking at each other. A chill wind was blowing in from the docks, and the smokers outside the strip of bars had turned up their collars. Music drifted on the breeze. He said, ‘Sorry, I just didn’t want to—’
    ‘It’s OK. Can I come, then? I mean, it might be helpful, if I can see it.’
    He looked at her. ‘You’ve seen this kind of thing before?’
    She thought of the first body, and then the second, back in the nineties; each time someone else dead, not the person they were looking for. ‘I have.’
    ‘All right then.’ He started walking again. ‘It won’t be pleasant, Paula, I’m warning you now.’
    She got in. ‘It never is.’

Chapter Eight
    Though Ballyterrinwas a small town, on a bad day it could take you an hour to drive through all the traffic. But on that damp Friday night, with everyone either at home or ensconced in warm pubs, they reached the canal in ten minutes. Here the old flax mill, once the foundation of the town, stood empty by the sluggish waterway. In summer it would bloom poison-green with algae, but now it flowed thick as treacle in the dark. The wind blew hard here, and Paula shivered into her coat as they picked their way from the car over muddy grass, to where blinding lights illuminated the scene of the crime.
    Bob Hamilton was directing operations, a blue anorak pulled up round his red face. ‘Evening, Inspector. Miss.’
    ‘When was she found?’
    ‘Round an hour back. These two clowns were smoking drugs on the towpath, saw something in the water, they said.’ He jerked his head to where two teenage boys in tracksuits sat in a police car, looking dazed. They’d probably get away with a caution, but what they’d found in the canal might put them off drugs for life.
    ‘Where is it – she?’
    ‘The SOCOs are in now. The wee tent.’ Hamilton hesitated. ‘It’s not what you’d want to see, Miss – Paula.’
    She raised her chin, although her stomach was already churning. ‘I need to. I need to know how.’ Because she was going to find whoever had done this. She had to.
    He led them further along the old towpath, to where Forensics had set up their white tent against the gale. ‘The boys pulled her out. I think they thought maybe she was still . . . well, they got a wee bit of a shock, anyway.’
    A disturbed crimescene caused many headaches, and she heard Guy sigh, but this soon faded at the sight of a small figure marching towards them, clipboard in hand. The person drew closer, pulling