Chapter 6
Chapter Six
When I ran, my thoughts became feathers in the wind, some floating off, not to return, while others stuck to my skin and stayed with me while my heart rate came down and my limbs started to ache.
I’d been running since I could walk, learning to run and hide where no one would find me for an hour or so, while my mother entertained a ‘friend’ or came down from a high I’d never understand.
When I was older, I joined every sports club, excelled in gymnastics and mid-distance running, the competition never against my peers, but myself and doing better than I had before while I struggled to prove that I was worth it.
I still ran, maybe once or twice during the week, and, when work allowed, a Saturday morning parkrun, five kilometres with other people who thought being out for a nine o’clock start was a good life choice.
My home parkrun wasn’t in Didsbury; it was a thirty-minute drive into the Derbyshire countryside, more of a trail run with rock inclines and rough underfoot, but other than the old stone buildings erected centuries ago, there wasn’t a brick in sight, and I was momentarily in the middle of nowhere with just the sky and my thoughts.
Jane Doe was the subject of them, because I wasn’t allowing Cavan to be part of my morning.
I wondered where she’d been just before she’d died, why she’d been in the area because we were rapidly coming to the conclusion that she wasn’t from the area.
No one matching her description had been reported missing in the last seventy-two hours.
There was the possibility that she’d been held captive; her weight and the lack of stomach contents fitted with this.
Neither of those two possibilities offered much in the way of leads.
I’d briefly been back to where her body was discovered on Friday morning, the rain still tumbling but not as hard. The scene was a mud bath, the canal still full even with the breach to its banks, reeds and general rubbish scarring the water.
There was nothing to find. Either our killer had gotten lucky or this was well-timed, because finding any evidence was going to be nothing short of a miracle.
I sped up as I approached the final hundred metres to the finish line, where well-intended volunteers were ready with their timers and scanners, a few earlier finishers clapping for encouragement.
Forgetting about Jane Doe, I clicked up another gear, overtaking the runner I’d been pacing myself against. He’d gotten just under twenty-two minutes the week before and I’d overheard he was going for a PB this week, so he’d seemed like a good goal.
He was struggling for breath, probably not much left in his legs and I doubted he liked being passed at this point, even though it wasn’t a race.
It was though. Not against any other person but to do better, even if I wouldn’t share my times with anyone else.
“Well done, Mia, nearly there!” Someone who knew my name called out. I didn’t bother to look at who it was, widening my strides, pushing myself to go faster, faster, as if someone was hunting me down.
“Whoa, well done. You can slow down now.” It was the run director, following me.
No threat.
“Breathe and then walk it off. That was some finish.”
I nodded, bending over while I chased oxygen, my legs wobbling. I’d never claimed to be a sprinter.
“What was the time?” I managed to get the words out.
“Just over twenty minutes thirty. You were the first female today.” He patted me on the shoulder, risky when I was covered in a thin layer of sweat. “Don’t let yourself get too cold.”
I walked towards the start line where I’d left a hoodie, throwing it on before the cold sweat chills started, nodding at a few faces I recognised.
Some Saturdays I lingered around, got a coffee and a bacon butty from the café; today I was heading off straight away, a make-up lunch planned by Cavan for not getting there last night.
Someone I didn’t recognise walked past me, causing me to stumble when I altered my pace. He was tall and tanned, looking anything but English with dark hair and stubble that I figured meant he’d never be clean-shaven. He was dressed in jeans and a hoodie, trainers that weren’t for running.
“Sorry,” he apologised.
“It’s okay.” I watched him walk away, maybe waiting for his partner or friend to finish the run. I was sure I hadn’t seen him before, not here anyway, but for some reason I wondered if I knew him from somewhere else. A stranger I’d walked by on a busy street maybe.
This time Cavan was waiting for me. I was purposely ten minutes late, killing time in the local independent bookshop and picking up something to read, if I ever got time.
He stood up when he saw me, looking delightfully handsome in pressed chinos and a polo shirt that made his eyes look extra blue.
There were two glasses of something sparkly on the table, which was next to the window, another of Manchester’s personalities shining through with the sunshine now the rain had cleared.
“Hey.” He leaned towards me to kiss my cheek, his hands touching my arms lightly. “I’m sorry about last night.”
I softened, remembering the times when I’d been late or had to call it off last minute because of work. “It’s fine. You missed good food though.”
“You still ate there?” He looked surprised.
“I was hungry. Did everything get sorted at school?” We sat down, the menu already there.
“Yeah, just dealing with some behavioural issues that were a bit messy.” He started on his drink. Clearly he’d waited for me to begin.
“I thought you were waiting for a social worker?” I hadn’t had another drink after my expensive cocktail, wanting a clear head for today so I was pretty sure I’d remembered right.
Cavan looked confused before flashing his smile. “Yeah, one of the kids has a social worker so we had to loop them in.”
Which still didn’t tie in with what he’d text me. I didn’t carry it on; something wasn’t right there and it’d unnerved me, but here and now wasn’t the right time to start digging.
“But it’s sorted?”
“Pretty much. Just one more meeting after the holidays. I hope the weather stays like this.” He nodded outside. “I can’t believe how the weather’s changed – it was like the end of days yesterday.”
“It washed away any evidence we can hope to find.” I glanced through the menu. We were at a posh café that specialised in brunch which made the choice easier.
“You’re working on the woman found in the canal, aren’t you?” He closed his menu, his forearms pretty pleasant to look at. “Do you think the Pusher’s back?”
“Depends on whether you believe in the pusher or not, doesn’t it?” I gave him a smile, appeased by his arms which was probably a problem for future me.
Cavan leaned closer. “My mum nearly wouldn’t let me move to Manchester for university because of the Pusher. She thought I’d end up being one of his victims.”
“It was never a real theory, you know. Just coincidences.”
“Really? All those men ending up in the canal – all men in their late teens and early twenties. You’re not telling me you believe in that much of a coincidence.” He sat back in his chair and looked like he was laughing at me.
He wasn’t, he was just at odds with himself over who was right.
“Maybe. But men that age are likely to be drunk at some point, and if you’re walking home from town, taking a short cut by the canal might not be a good choice, but you do it anyway. But equally, it could’ve been a serial killer.” I shrugged. “We’ll probably never know.”
“And now he’s back. This time targeting women?” Cavan looked victorious.
“Doubtful – if it was a serial killer in the first place – switching from male targets to female is unlikely. But our Jane Doe is a single murder. It’s probably a domestic gone wrong.” Which would suit me fine, as long as we could identify her and find who did it.
“Less exciting.” He grinned at the waitress who was on her way over. “Let’s order and you can tell me more.”
We ate, had another drink, and headed back to his because it’d been nearly two weeks since we’d last seen each other properly, and I needed to lose my head in something other than murders and forensic pathologists who needed safe words, and Cavan was good with his hands and his forearms were model worthy.
I forgot about last night, and the slip up about why he didn’t show up, because spending a Saturday afternoon in bed wasn’t a luxury I had often.
He didn’t stay over, heading to a mate’s so they could travel together for a Sunday morning football game over in Diggle, which suited me.
I had my apartment to myself for a change because Lucy was at a friend’s wedding, which meant I had nothing to do except have a long bath with music on loud, and cooking something semi-healthy from what we had left in the fridge.
I woke up too early, the sound of an argument filtering through the walls from next door.
Four o’clock shouldn’t be seen unless my phone had gone off, and it hadn’t.
I sat up, suddenly awake and alert, the apartment feeling too still.
I picked up my phone, a couple of messages from Verity who’d been on the Saturday shift telling me she’d managed to finally speak with the bar staff and there were more details in an email, and another from Cavan, suggesting a weekend away when this case was over.
There was also a photo from Vinny, of a specimen jar that was huge, informing me that it would be the size needed.
I deleted that one.
I opened my email while my tea brewed, flicking through the usual system maintenance notifications and a couple of marketing emails about running shoes where I’d mistakenly entered my works email, plus my official time from yesterday’s five k.
An unknown sender caught my attention.
Atlas7384.
No name came up, but the subject line made me certain it wasn’t spam.
Your foster dad was a head teacher, Mia Bryce.