Free Eye Contact by Fergus McNeill Page B

darkness.
    ‘I managed to hold on, I suppose. Until the worst of it passed.’
    ‘And now?’
    ‘Now?’ He stared out of the window for a moment before meeting her gaze again. ‘Now I’m extremely tired.’
    She looked at him thoughtfully for a time.
    ‘I think it’s encouraging that you were able to deal with the situation, and emerge from it in control. I think this shows real progress, that you’re growing stronger.’
    ‘Thanks,’ Harland shrugged.
    But he didn’t feel strong – just the opposite. He wondered how much strength he had left.

9
Monday, 4 June
    Harland stared at the rain as it hit the windscreen, slowly melting his view of the car park into a shifting mosaic of indistinct shapes. With a relentless
tip tap
on the glass, one drop ran into another and began snaking down in long erratic trickles, new drops quickly falling to replace those that were lost. He leaned forward and switched off the engine, the sound of the rain swelling to fill the silence, then took his coffee from the drink-holder and warmed his palms on the cardboard cup.
    It was strange for him to arrive at this time – he was usually early in, late out, stretching the hours away at both ends of the shift – but he wasn’t looking forward to work today. And unless Forensics came up with something significant, he had nothing good for his pointless daily report.
    The hot coffee was burning his hands.
    It had started so well – a challenging case to distract and occupy his mind, the opportunity to work with Mendel again – but now Blake’s interest meant it was becoming political. He had seen the signs already, but today . . . Today, things would be worse.
    The pain in his hands was agonising, but he forced himself to wait.
    Outside, the downpour continued. It wasn’t going to ease.
    Slowly, he peeled his scalded palms away from the cup, supporting it between the tips of his fingers, breathing through the discomfort, mastering it. He could endure it. He could endure the coming hours.
    Rain blew in as he opened the door and climbed out.
    PC Gregg looked up as Harland stalked in.
    ‘Morning, sir,’ he smiled.
    ‘Morning, Stuart.’ Harland frowned, shaking his arms irritably, water dripping from his sleeves onto the floor. ‘Did you finish going over that CCTV footage from Avonmouth?’
    ‘Should finish it this morning. Nothing useful so far, though. Sorry,’ he said apologetically.
    Harland shook his head.
Another dead end for the report.
    ‘Worth a try,’ he shrugged. ‘Anyway, with a bit of luck Forensics will get something off the body.’
    He prowled down the corridor to his office and shut the door behind him. It was a small room, dominated by a large desk and two huge filing cabinets that made the limited space seem even more cramped. The walls were off-white, bare except for a pair of laminated fire-safety notices by the door and a print of an Alpine lake in a simple wooden frame. A coat stand in the corner displayed a spare pair of trousers, as well as a new shirt, still in its cellophane bag.
    Water was already seeping through his jacket as he slipped it off and draped it over the radiator to dry. Slumping down into the chair, he switched on his screen and took a careful sip of coffee. There were a few new emails but nothing urgent and, more importantly, nothing from the lab. He slid a printed sheet of paper from under the phone and ran his finger down the list of names until he found what he was looking for and dialled the number.
    He sat back in his chair, rubbing tired eyes as he waited for an answer.
    ‘Good morning, this is DI Harland from Portishead. Has Doctor Brennan come in yet?’
    He leaned forward, pulling a notepad and pen towards him.
    ‘No, I can hold on . . .’
    His eye fell on the tiny, gold-framed photo of Alice beside his screen. Blonde hair, demure expression and mischievous eyes . . . For a long time after he returned to work he’d kept that picture in the drawer, unable to look at it. This