Read David Raker 01 - Chasing the Dead for Free Online Page B

me again. ‘I’ll leave you alone. I’m sure you’d rather be earning commission than listening to me, right?’
    I didn’t say anything.
    ‘Nice meeting you, anyway,’ he said, standing. ‘Maybe we’ll see you again.’

    ‘I think so,’ he said, cryptically.
    Then I watched him leave, walking past the locals and out through a door on the far side of the pub, where the evening swallowed him up.

That night, I had difficulty sleeping. It had been a long time since I’d slept in a bed. A longer time since I’d been away from the house overnight.
    I left the curtains slightly ajar and the window open. Just after one, I finally fell asleep, curled up in a ball at the bottom of the bed. In the dead of night, maybe an hour later, I stirred long enough to feel a faint breeze against my skin. And then a noise outside. Rotting autumn leaves caught beneath someone’s feet. I lay there, too tired to move, and started to drift away again. Then the noise came a second time.
    I flipped the duvet back, got up and walked to the window. The night was pitch black. In the distance, along the coastal road, were tiny blocks of light from the next village. Otherwise, it was difficult to make anything out, particularly close to the house.
    The wind came again. I could hear leaves being blown across the ground, and waves crashing against the rocky coast – but not the noise that had woken me. I waited for a moment, then headed back to bed.
    I got up early and sat at a table with beautiful views across the Atlantic. Tin mines rose up in front of me like brick arms reaching for the clouds. Over breakfast,
    I turned it over.
    Written on the back was:
You were never a mistake
.
    I decided to call Kathy.
    She answered after a couple of rings.
    ‘Kathy, it’s David Raker.’
    ‘Oh, hi.’
    ‘Sorry it’s so early.’
    ‘No problem,’ she said. ‘I was getting ready for work.’
    ‘I’ve got the box here.’ I turned the Polaroid over and looked at Alex again. ‘Do you remember what photos you put inside?’
    ‘Um… I don’t know – I think there’s a couple of us at a barbecue…’
    ‘Do you remember the one of Alex on his own?’
    ‘Uh…’ A pause. ‘I’m trying to think…’
    You were never a mistake
.
    ‘Tell you what, I’m going to take a picture of it and send it to you, okay?’
    ‘Okay.’
    ‘I’ll send two photos – one of the front and one of the back. Take a look at them when they come through and call me right back.’

    While I waited, I looked around. The owner was filling a giant cereal bowl with cornflakes. Outside, in the distance, a fishing trawler chugged into view, waves gliding out from its bow as it followed the coastline.
    A couple of minutes later, my phone went.
    Silence.
    ‘Kathy?’
    Gradually, fading in, the sound of sobbing.
    ‘Kathy?’
    A long pause. And then I could hear her crying again.
    ‘Kathy – that’s Alex’s handwriting, isn’t it?’
    She sniffed. ‘Yes.’
    ‘Did you take that photograph?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Any idea who did?’
    More crying. Longer, deeper gasps of air.
    ‘No.’
    I looked at the Polaroid again. Turned it over. Traced the handwriting with a finger. Then I picked up the letter Kathy had written Alex.
    But, somewhere, there would be a doubt that wasn’t there before, a nagging feeling that, if I got too close to you, if I showed you too much affection, you’d get up one morning and walk away.
    I don’t want to feel like a mistake again.

    ‘No.’ She started to sob again, a long, drawn-out sound that sent static crackling down the line. ‘No,’ she said again – and then hung up.
    I placed my phone down.
    So, Alex had used the box after all.

Alex died on a country road between Bristol’s northern edge and the motorway. I felt I should go there, but first I wanted to see his friend John. Jeff had given me a work address for him the previous day. When I called enquiries to get a telephone number, it turned out to be a police station