Free Approaching Zero by R.T Broughton Page A

smiled before picking up the receiver and automatically saying, “Yes, I know, Mum, I’ll be safe.”
    “That’s a first,” a deep, gravelly voice replied. “I’ve been called many things in my time but never Mum.”
    “DCI Spinoza.”
    “You’re psychic.”
    “What? No. What are you talking about? There’s no such thing as psychic. What do you mean? I’m–”
    “I just meant because you knew it was me, Miss Smith. We’ve only met once and I’m surprised you recognised my voice.”
    “Oh, yeah, I know. I’m just really good with voices.”
    “And psychic.” Spinoza repeated, now sounding as if he was teasing Kathy but she was too tense to notice the lightness in his voice.
    “Is there something I can help you with, DCI Spinoza?”
    “Funny you should ask. How are you recovering after your accident?”
    “I’m fine now, thank you.” Kathy propped the receiver between her cheek and shoulder and reached over to the phrenology head on the shelf behind her that had followed her all the way through her life so far. She set it down beside her and traced the painted lines on the head as she spoke.
    “Good. In that case, you most definitely can help me.”
    “Oh?”
    “Yes, I need a psychological consult for a suspect and I think your unique skills would be invaluable.”
    “What unique skills?”
    “Well, you are a psychologist, aren’t you?”
    “Oh, yes. But I think I explained that I’m on sabbatical at the moment, DCI.” Her finger swept over morality and memory and then onto sections of the well-polished head representing courage and devotion. “I’m really not doing this kind of work at the moment.”
    “Okay, Miss Smith. Not to worry. I thought I’d ask because this particular suspect is connected to the missing children and–”
    “You have a suspect?”
    “Yes, we have a suspect but you’re clearly busy.”
    “When’s the interview?” Kathy’s fingers were now tightly wrapped around bulbous head and squeezing.
    “It’s tomorrow afternoon. Two p.m.”
    “I’ll be there on one condition,” Kathy tried, sensing that she maybe had the leverage to get her list back, but Spinoza replied, “No, Miss Smith. You’ll just be there.”
    “Right… okay. And my list?”
    “We’ll see how useful you are tomorrow, Kathy.”
    “Right… two o’clock tomorrow then.”
    “Two o’clock,” Spinoza repeated in agreement and the call ended.
    With the oppressive silence filling the room once again, Kathy caught herself playing with the phrenology head and puffed out her cheeks again, as if catching herself in an unpleasing act, and unceremoniously stuffed it into the drawer headfirst then slammed it shut and leaned herself against it. Now she would finally sleep.
     

Chapter 7
    For the first time in years, Kathy woke up after midday. This was not like her at all; there was always so much to do. But she had clearly needed it and had been so tired that she didn’t even stir as the blazing sun gate-crashed her room through the curtains she had forgotten to draw the day before. Her room was decorated in cool charcoals, with teak furniture, a black duvet and curtains and black-and-white, framed art on the walls. It was the only room that was free of her nan’s influence, but it was just as cluttered as the rest of the house, with boxes that went as far back as her childhood still littering the floor.
    The lie-in meant that she didn’t have to spend the morning fretting about the interview in the afternoon, desperately trying to find things to occupy herself until 2 p.m. The downside was that she had left herself precious little time to get ready. Thankfully, her work clothes, unused for some time, were all hanging in a neat row in the wardrobe and she was able to throw on a pastel-blue shirt and navy skirt, which combined to create a non-confrontational outfit—if such a thing existed—providing calm, serenity, and just enough cleavage to distract a difficult client. She didn’t have