Free PRETTY GIRLS MAKE GRAVES: a gripping crime thriller (Camden Noir Crime Thrillers Trilogy Book 1) by JOHN YORVIK Page B

that?”
    “Petrified.”
    “But you came anyway.”
    She nodded. I went into the kitchen to get a beer and left her to look at the photos. The creaking of the fridge door alerted the cat, which came padding out of its hiding place and rubbed its moustachioed snout against my leg, meowing for food.
    “Oh Jesus,” I heard Dani exclaim from the living room. “It’s her.”
    “Commit those photos to memory, Dani. ‘Cos tomorrow I’m going to post them.”
    “Who to?”
    “To someone who will never ever see them,” I said, taking a deep drag on a cigarette.
    “How did you get hold of these?” said Dani.
    “They were pushed under my door on Bank Holiday Monday and you brought them to me after you came here on Tuesday. Someone, I’m not sure who, also made sure I got this key.” I held up the key so that Dani could see. “And this mask. Still want to help me?”
    She nodded as if she were unable to form words. I went into the kitchen and poured out two brandies. I handed one to Dani and told her to drink up.
    “Here’s what we’ll do...” I said, and explained my plan.

Chapter Eight
    I stood smoking in the shadows, thinking about that old detective story cliché: the murderer always returns to the scene of the crime. There was no doubt, if I was caught, I’d have Natasha Rok’s murder hung round my neck before you could say Patsy Cline.
    I checked my watch. It was nine pm. If everything was going according to plan, then Dani would be turning up at the tower block armed with her camera and press card. Her job was to distract the street raptors with promise of broadsheet glorification, giving me enough time to enter the tower block unseen.
    At five past nine I set off, there was no-one at the entrance. I could see the pale yellow light shining out from the lobby. I entered the building and walked straight through to the fire stairs. Then I walked up fourteen flights to the top floor. Reaching the top, I felt older than my 30 years – the ravages of fighting, drinking and smoking. My ribs and back ached and I had developed a slight wheeze. There was a sheen of unhealthy sweat on my brow.
    I entered the landing. The first thing I saw was Natasha’s door, covered in crime-scene tape. I took out my Stanley knife and sliced through it. Then I took out the key that was delivered with the gorilla mask and tried it in the lock. It fit perfectly, I turned the key and pushed open the door.
    Dani had been against me coming to the flat. She said it was a trap.
    “Expect the police to swoop as soon as you get in there,” she’d said.
    “I can’t just sit around doing nothing. I want to take an active part in my own downfall,” I told her, after the benefit of a few beers. So here I was.
    Crouched down in the hallway, I opened my backpack and took out a torch and a small digital camera. As the curtains were already drawn, I switched the torch on and looked around the living room. There was no mess, no broken glass or upset furniture. As far as I could tell, everything had been put back to normal. Was it police policy to allow a clean up so quickly after a murder? And where were the evidence tags? I walked over to the sideboard where I’d picked up Natasha’s contact card a week earlier and saw that it was clean. I lay on the floor and checked under the sideboard. I crawled around the floor looking under the rest of the furniture. Nothing. I heard the thud of the lift shaft engine up on the roof. It meant someone was on their way up. My heart thumped against my rib cage. I checked my mobile for a warning text message from Dani. Nothing. Was she even watching? Maybe she was still at the skate park photographing the raptors. But we’d made it clear: no text meant no trouble.
    After two minutes of lying still, I resumed the search. There was a large bookshelf hung on the wall above the sofa. I started to take out the books one by one and flick through them to see if there was anything hidden between their pages. Most