Page 2 of Better the Devil

‘I’m giving you to the count of three to make yourselves decent, then I’m coming in!’

Still nothing.

Maybe they were frozen with embarrassment. Good. Served them right.

He tried to peer in through the windows, but the tint and the lack of sunlight made it hard to see. Like a bloody idiot, he’d left his torch at home, too. He’d better not tell the rest of the team about that one, or they’d never let him live it down.

He knocked again. Still nothing.

He tried the door handle.

Unlocked.

‘Ah-ha!’ he said, to nobody in particular.

The door gave a clunk as Joe pulled it open, already formulating the lecture he intended to deliver regarding public decency, and appropriate venues for these sorts of shenanigans.

And, if he happened to cop an eyeful at the same time, then hell mend them. They’d brought that on themselves.

‘Now, then, you dirty hooligans,’ he began.

The rest of the sentence died in his throat.

There were no sexual escapades going on. Not by this man. Not in his state.

He was slouched sideways in the driver’s seat, his head lolling towards the empty passenger side like it was about to snap off and land in the footwell.

His throat had been opened from ear to ear, the curved wound gaping and dark. A devil’s smile.

Blood soaked the front of his shirt, glistening red. It dotted the dashboard, slicked the steering wheel, pooled in puddles on the leather upholstery.

And the eyes of the dead man were open. Staring. Blank.

Joe stumbled back, his hi-vis vest suddenly feeling very visible, very bright, very exposed.

He patted at himself. At his pockets.

His phone. Where was his phone?

Not at home, surely? Not that, too?

Christ, he’d never live this down.

His heel hit a rock at the edge of the lay-by. He went down, backside-first, on the damp grass. The jolt of the impact nearly made him choke on his Polo.

This was worse than shagging. Way worse.

This was an actual murder. On his patch. Right under his bloody nose.

Hands shaking, eyes wide, arse wet, Joe Robertson took out his grandfather’s whistle, and he blew, and he blew, and he blew.

CHAPTER TWO

He’d killfor a murder right about now.

DCI Jack Logan wriggled uncomfortably on the hard plastic chair, his hands gripping his knees in an attempt to stop himself throttling somebody. Himself, possibly.

This was the third meeting of six. He would swear the seats were getting smaller and more uncomfortable each time. At the rate they were going, the last one would just be a metal spike rammed right up his jacksie.