Free The Secret Dead (London Bones Book 1) by SW Fairbrother

the surf.
    It struck me that with Malcolm gone it would be up to someone else to give him the biannual hygiene talk and gently remind him about the need to shower frequently, using both soap and shampoo. Maybe I could get Donna and Habi to agree to draw straws.
    Anyone else I would have given a hug, but Obe didn’t like being touched. Instead I nodded towards the glass door. ‘NRTs?’
    ‘No, they’ve gone. It’s Adam.’
    ‘Adam?’
    ‘Malcolm’s nephew. Neil’s son.’
    ‘Give me a few minutes to wash up and I’ll be with you.’
    ‘Okay.’ He offered me a cup of tea, but I refused. My stomach was still a bit queasy.
    I pushed the door open to my office. The NRTs had been in there. The filing cabinet had been moved a few inches away from the wall, and the cushion on my chair had been shoved to the floor, presumably when one of the black-suited men had checked under my desk.
    I grabbed the toiletry bag and change of clothes I kept in the bottom drawer. The clothes that had been clean when I’d put them on only hours earlier now felt soft and greasy, and I didn’t need a cat’s nose to tell me my skin and hair still carried the scent of decomposition and sick.
    I stripped down in the disabled toilet that also functioned as First Aid Room and storage space. I washed my hair using soap from the dispenser, then rinsed it under the tap, using the hand dryer to dry it. My hair felt rough and frizzy under my fingers, and I made a mental note to bring some proper shampoo and conditioner into the office. I grimaced. I could still smell the faint odour of puke, but at least the scent of cheap soap was stronger. I brushed my teeth then grabbed the first aid box and dug out antiseptic ointment and some sticking plasters.
    I wiped my face with a damp flannel, careful around the harpy scratch. Foundation came off my skin in tan streaks. Malcolm’s voice popped into my head. ‘You should wear makeup more often, Vivvie. It makes you more feminine. You know, less intimidating.’
    The memory took me by surprise, and I barked out a laugh. For the first time in five years of washing makeup off a post-death face, I had the sudden urge to reapply it. Malcolm was dead . He’d never irritate me again. I’d never have to hassle him for another overdue press release. He’d never tell me another off-colour joke. I flipped the seat down on the toilet and sat heavily, face in hands, teeth clenched. I began to sob.
    But then the memory of Malcolm’s dead face was replaced with the image of small cling-film-wrapped parcels. How old had the girl on the bicycle been? Fifteen?
    I wiped at my eyes with the heel of my hand. My chest tightened with anger, and it washed away the sense of loss. Teeth clenched, I cleaned and disinfected the harpy scratch, feeling only rising rage at the idiot I’d been forced to share a workspace with for five years.

 
     
     
     
     
    12
     
    The tall man sitting opposite Obe was in his early thirties, broad faced and solidly built with meaty arms and the kind of fair skin that always looks a little flushed. He wore his white hair shaved close to his scalp in a way that indicated it was done more to hide encroaching baldness than any sense of style. He wore a grey hoodie and a leather cuff with multi-coloured charms on his left wrist.
    ‘You must be Malcolm’s nephew. I’m so, so sorry.’ I said. Adam held out his hand. His palm felt warm and soft.
    ‘Thanks.’ His pale blue eyes scrutinised mine, which were still red-rimmed and puffy. His were clear, but the moment his hand left mine, it returned to his jacket where both hands bunched into fists.
    Obe was burrowed as far back in his chair as he could be, the back of it wedged against the wall.
    I dragged a chair in from reception and cleared a space on the floor. The NRTs had knocked a potted plant off the top of Obe’s filing cabinet and tracked the soil into the carpet. There were two mugs of tea on Obe’s desk. Obe picked up the one in a