Read Online Good Girls Don't Die by Isabelle Grey - Free Book Online Page A

specific request, I still wouldn’t hold your breath.’
    Feeling a little foolish, Grace was at the door before he called her back. ‘Tell Lance to keep himself busy for an hour. Since you’re already on such good terms with the media, you can sit in on the press conference. Hilary likes to present a bit of diversity.’
    He gave her a kindly look; Grace, expecting suspicion and condemnation, felt light-headed and she realised she wasn’t sure how to respond, that she had all but forgotten what it was like to be made welcome.

EIGHT
    Ivo Sweatman picked up the story from his news feed. A strangled young woman wasn’t much in itself, but she’d been identified as Rachel Moston, a twenty-one-year-old law student, due to graduate this summer from the University of Essex: the perfect kind of senseless tragedy to arouse the wrath and sorrow of the hard-working, family-minded readers of the
Courier
. Then he noticed that she’d been murdered in Colchester, which was where he’d toyed with the idea of doing a piece the day before about a missing student. He had no plans for the weekend, it was a sunny day, and maybe a trip out to Essex on expenses would liven things up. Didn’t matter whether the two incidents were related; they were now. If something bigger came along, he could easily dash back to London before the Young Ferret had a chance to sharpen his elbows.
    The media conference was the usual affair. He didn’t recognise Hilary Burnett, and had the impression that she was relatively new, not only to Essex but to police culture. That could go either way, but he’d make sure to be extrafriendly in case her inexperience left her unguarded. He scanned the room. Not many people here: a local BBC news crew, a couple of stringers; didn’t look like any of his esteemed London colleagues were on to it yet. He’d left a message for Roxanne Carson at the Colchester
Mercury
, but she’d not got back to him. In any case, he guessed she might be the elfin-looking girl with a mass of dark curly hair in the second row. He’d noticed that women seldom sat right at the front: too afraid of being thought ball-breakers. He waited for her to catch his eye, then smiled and shifted along so he could sit behind her. He leaned over the gilt and red plush chairs – why were these places always furnished like second-rate bingo halls? – and held out his hand.
    ‘Ivo Sweatman, chief crime correspondent on the
Courier
. I think we spoke the other day?’
    She looked thrilled, bless her. ‘Hi, yes. Roxanne.’
    Her hand was dainty, but he recognised a kind of gluttony in her eyes that he approved of. He was satisfied now that he’d been right to abandon his desk, even if it did mean leaving the Young Ferret to dream he was king of the castle in the interim.
    ‘So what’s the latest?’ he asked.
    ‘They’ve not added to the previous statement.’
    ‘Are they linking it to Polly Sinclair?’
    ‘Keeping an open mind. Still hoping Polly will turn up.’
    ‘What do Polly’s parents say?’
    Her face fell, and he guessed she was ticking herself off for not having thought to make the call.
    ‘If they’re going to talk to anyone, it’ll be you, won’t it?’ he cooed. ‘After that lovely interview you did.’
    She blushed; she actually blushed! This was almost too easy: like shooting fish in a barrel.
    ‘I’ll call them as soon as this finishes.’
    He was about to say ‘Do it now’, but a hush fell as Keith led the way to the long table set up facing the sparse audience. Behind him was a huge image of the red, white and blue Essex Police crest, topped by
Taking a lead in making Essex safer
– a brand motto the force might live to regret. Ivo had worked a lot of cases with Keith when he’d been a DCI in the Met, and his old pal now gave him a businesslike nod. Hilary Burnett spotted it, and Ivo rather suspected she would be none too keen on them getting together to rehash old times. Next to Keith was a slender, rather