Free The Killer Inside by Lindsay Ashford

hands on the burial records. Not that she had her hands on them, strictly speaking. She had to wear white gloves to examine the big leather-bound book that had been removed from St Mary’s when the building was deconsecrated. Eventhough the last entries were only fifteen years old the book smelt musty. The dates on the first few pages were from the nineteen-fifties, which gave an indicaton of how few burials had taken place there over the last decades of the twentieth century. Balsall Gate had once been a thriving community but slum clearance programmes and tower blocks had put paid to that. For as long as Megan could remember, Balsall Gate had been the kind of district you would only live in if you were desperate.
    She found what she was looking for, her gloved finger moving down a page headed ‘March 1991’. There he was: Moses Smith. Interred on March 28 th . Plot owned by Sonia Smith of Flat 29, Coniston House, Hartley Street, Balsall Gate.
    With a sigh, Megan shut the book. She remembered Coniston House. It was one of three tower blocks that had been blown up five years ago after the council finally admitted that the flats were uninhabitable. They were riddled with damp and structurally unsafe. She had watched, fascinated, from her office window as they crumbled to dust.
    As she walked out of the library she felt a sudden urge to go and talk it all over with Dominic Wilde. There wasn’t any need, she told herself. Why should he be able to cast any more light on what had happened? As far as she was aware, he had told her everything he knew. She blinked as the realisation came. That she wanted to see him, full stop.
    She told herself that she mustn’t. That it would be madness to stoke this spark of…what? Lust? It didn’t feel like lust. More like a yearning for a kindred spirit. Jonathan’s coming to see you this weekend , she reprimanded herself. But he might not come , a voice in her head hissed back.
    Dom Wilde’s face hovered before her eyes as she crossed the street. And instead of turning right to go back to her office, she took a left. She knew she was abusing the powerthe Ministry of Justice had granted her: the right to visit the prison for her research without any prior warning. But she put this to the back of her mind, overpowered by the need to see him, to hear his voice. Ten minutes later she was walking through the churchyard, past the grave of Moses Smith with its border of police tape fluttering in the breeze. And five minutes after that she heard the huge wooden door of Balsall Gate jail bang shut behind her.

Chapter 8
    Dom Wilde didn’t smile when he was escorted into the room. When they were left alone he sat staring at the floor, avoiding eye contact.
    ‘Hi Dom,’ Megan ventured. ‘How are you?’
    ‘Okay.’ Still he didn’t look up. They sat in silence for a few seconds before the penny dropped. He must have seen the report on the television. He had put two and two together: guessed that she was the source of the story. A wave of panic swept through her.
    ‘Dom,’ she began, ‘what you saw on the news…’
    ‘ Heard , actually,’ he interrupted her, eyes still fixed on the floor. ‘Radio in my cell.’ It sounded like an accusation, as if he had expected to hear it from her first. All the warmth in him had gone. Clearly he felt she had betrayed his trust. This she couldn’t bear.
    ‘You think I was wrong to go to the grave, then?’ She tried to keep her voice steady.
    ‘I didn’t say that.’
    ‘But you don’t like the fact that everyone knows what Carl did?’
    She heard him draw in his breath. ‘I don’t know. I suppose it doesn’t matter now he’s dead.’ There was a pause. Finally he looked at her. ‘You could have told me. Warned me.’
    She was mesmerised by his eyes. Liquid grey, like the deepest wells; full of emotions she couldn’t fathom. And looking into them her guilt and fear were shot through with elation, excitement. ‘I’m sorry, Dom: really I