speak to her breasts. ‘We were in love,’ he said. ‘That’s not pressure. We were going to live together. Everything was settled.’
‘For you, maybe,’ Marie told him. She refused to join him in his use of the past tense. It was as if Isabel Reeves was already dead and buried. ‘But Isabel still has to make the break with her husband. Whatever their relationship, that’s not an easy thing to do.’
Harvey shook his scrawny head. ‘She wouldn’t’ve gone away without saying something to me. If she’s missing, he’s done her in. That’s what’s happened, mark my words.
At the end of the day you’ll find he’s done for her.’ 1 ‘Who do you mean? Who’s done for her?’
‘Reeves, the husband, who do you think? He’d never let her go. He told her that.’
Marie looked back at the man. His eyes were black holes. There was a quiver to his lips, the only sign of emotion in his face. But his arms were held out like a supplicant, arms that were thin and stick-like, closed at the ends by white-knuckled fists.
You can only use your nose, Marie thought as she settled herself behind the wheel of the car. Some people can lie so convincingly that it’s impossible to tell. Lying is a talent. You either have it or you don’t. Russell Harvey was plausible; there was no denying that. But was he honest?
It was not impossible that Isabel Reeves was locked in one of the upper rooms of that house. Maybe dead, which would account for his insistence on the past tense.
She turned the key in the ignition and checked the wing mirror as she moved out into traffic.
And another thing. What would a woman like Isabel Reeves see in a man like Russell Harvey? The guy was a stick insect. He didn’t shave, didn’t bother much with soap and water, and his house was a shithole. He looked at you, watched you with those sex-hungry eyes, so intently that his stare was almost tangible.
Men did look at women, and women looked at men, too. Except there was a difference in the way they looked. A woman couldn’t look at men like Harvey had looked at her, because if she did, the man would interpret the look as a come-on. Men didn’t understand about being looked at, being watched. It took a long time to get used to it. Women, most women, they learned early to take it in their stride. But even then, there would always come along some guy who could make you squirm.
And Russell Harvey was one of them.
Marie’s nose told her that he was honest as well, at least in relation to his involvement with Isabel Reeves. But there were no certainties in the job or in life. Sometimes the nose was a good indicator and other times it was completely wrong. The only safe way was to keep an open mind until all the leg-work was over.
9
It was around midday that Dave Taylor and his new girlfriend, Amber Hill, strayed from the well-beaten track of the Cleveland Way a mile or two to the north of Cold Kirby on the edge of the North Yorkshire Moors. The sun was bright and apart from a few low clouds over to the west, the sky was clear.
They’d been warned about straying from the path, and knew they were in danger of losing their way if visibility suddenly became difficult. But Dave had been getting more and more randy throughout the morning, and had joked about his erection for more than an hour and a half before Amber admitted to herself that she wanted it just as much as him.
They climbed down a hill and crossed an ice-cold stream, picking up a sheep-run, maybe eighteen inches wide, which led into an area of thick heathers and a scattering of blueberries. Dave unzipped his sleeping bag and threw himself down on it, holding his arms out for Amber. ‘Come here,’ he said. ‘Jesus, just come here.’ Amber flashed him a smile, but some movement caught her attention further down the hill. ‘I think there’s someone over there,’ she said.
‘Christ.’ Dave got to his feet. ‘It’ll be a sheep. There’s no people up here. I thought
‘For you, maybe,’ Marie told him. She refused to join him in his use of the past tense. It was as if Isabel Reeves was already dead and buried. ‘But Isabel still has to make the break with her husband. Whatever their relationship, that’s not an easy thing to do.’
Harvey shook his scrawny head. ‘She wouldn’t’ve gone away without saying something to me. If she’s missing, he’s done her in. That’s what’s happened, mark my words.
At the end of the day you’ll find he’s done for her.’ 1 ‘Who do you mean? Who’s done for her?’
‘Reeves, the husband, who do you think? He’d never let her go. He told her that.’
Marie looked back at the man. His eyes were black holes. There was a quiver to his lips, the only sign of emotion in his face. But his arms were held out like a supplicant, arms that were thin and stick-like, closed at the ends by white-knuckled fists.
You can only use your nose, Marie thought as she settled herself behind the wheel of the car. Some people can lie so convincingly that it’s impossible to tell. Lying is a talent. You either have it or you don’t. Russell Harvey was plausible; there was no denying that. But was he honest?
It was not impossible that Isabel Reeves was locked in one of the upper rooms of that house. Maybe dead, which would account for his insistence on the past tense.
She turned the key in the ignition and checked the wing mirror as she moved out into traffic.
And another thing. What would a woman like Isabel Reeves see in a man like Russell Harvey? The guy was a stick insect. He didn’t shave, didn’t bother much with soap and water, and his house was a shithole. He looked at you, watched you with those sex-hungry eyes, so intently that his stare was almost tangible.
Men did look at women, and women looked at men, too. Except there was a difference in the way they looked. A woman couldn’t look at men like Harvey had looked at her, because if she did, the man would interpret the look as a come-on. Men didn’t understand about being looked at, being watched. It took a long time to get used to it. Women, most women, they learned early to take it in their stride. But even then, there would always come along some guy who could make you squirm.
And Russell Harvey was one of them.
Marie’s nose told her that he was honest as well, at least in relation to his involvement with Isabel Reeves. But there were no certainties in the job or in life. Sometimes the nose was a good indicator and other times it was completely wrong. The only safe way was to keep an open mind until all the leg-work was over.
9
It was around midday that Dave Taylor and his new girlfriend, Amber Hill, strayed from the well-beaten track of the Cleveland Way a mile or two to the north of Cold Kirby on the edge of the North Yorkshire Moors. The sun was bright and apart from a few low clouds over to the west, the sky was clear.
They’d been warned about straying from the path, and knew they were in danger of losing their way if visibility suddenly became difficult. But Dave had been getting more and more randy throughout the morning, and had joked about his erection for more than an hour and a half before Amber admitted to herself that she wanted it just as much as him.
They climbed down a hill and crossed an ice-cold stream, picking up a sheep-run, maybe eighteen inches wide, which led into an area of thick heathers and a scattering of blueberries. Dave unzipped his sleeping bag and threw himself down on it, holding his arms out for Amber. ‘Come here,’ he said. ‘Jesus, just come here.’ Amber flashed him a smile, but some movement caught her attention further down the hill. ‘I think there’s someone over there,’ she said.
‘Christ.’ Dave got to his feet. ‘It’ll be a sheep. There’s no people up here. I thought
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