Read Missing (The Cass Lehman Series Book 3) Online
Authors: Melanie Casey
Missing (The Cass Lehman Series Book 3)
MISSING
MISSING
MELANIE
CASEY
First published in 2016 by Pantera Press Pty Limited
www.PanteraPress.com
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Text copyright © Melanie Casey, 2016
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For Grandma
Sorry, this one’s not a romance either…
Books by Melanie Casey
Hindsight
Craven
Missing
On any given night
one person in every 200 is homeless
.
www.homelessnessaustralia.org.au
Contents
Part I Give us this day our daily bread
Part II Lead us not into temptation
PART I
Give us this day our daily bread
PROLOGUE
‘Will you walk into my parlour? said the Spider to the Fly
,
’Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;
The way into my parlour is up a winding stair
,
And I’ve a many curious things to shew when you are there
.
Oh no, no, said the little Fly, to ask me is in vain
,
For who goes up your winding stair
can ne’er come down again
.
Mary Howitt, 1829
Icy fingers clawed through Len’s shirt to the tender flesh below, as his coat flapped wildly in the wind. He shivered, and tugged the
thin material around him. He’d been lulled by the transient warmth of the midday sun, but the autumn nights were getting colder.
He stepped into a doorway, trying to find shelter. Movement from the shadows startled him. Someone was already huddled in the small space. He moved back out into the laneway and walked on, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped around himself in an effort to preserve body heat. A slow drizzle began, dropping the temperature another few degrees. Where did people go on nights like this? An image of the Morphett Street Bridge popped into his head. He’d be able to huddle underneath it and stay dry. He picked up his pace, keen to find shelter.
Ten minutes later he was following the narrow steps down the bank of the Torrens River. He peered into the space under the bridge. Again, he wasn’t alone — figures pressed around an old drum. Flames licked at their outstretched hands, making wild shadows dance against the graffitied walls. Len’s first impulse was to turn and leave, but the rain was falling harder and he didn’t want to step back out into the cold night. He approached slowly, aware of the eyes trained in his direction. Their owners all wore a kind of uniform: layers of oversized clothing, the original colours caked in dirt or leached out with age. Len’s clothes were too new, too bright, they fit too well. The figures shuffled, eyes raking him up and down.
‘Can I join you?’ he asked.
There were five of them. Four turned to the fifth, seeking his approval. He was wearing a heavy coat with the hood pulled up, shrouding his eyes so his only distinguishable feature was a tatty brown beard that hung onto his chest.
‘Suit yourself.’
The other four shifted around, making a small gap for him. He stepped into it, not sure if the people beside him were men or women, and not keen to look too closely. He realised as he moved closer that there was a grate over the drum with something cooking on top. The smell of roasting meat assaulted his nostrils and saliva flooded his mouth.
‘That smells good. What is it?’
No one answered. Bushy-beard reached out and turned the meat with a stick.
‘If you’re going to make it out here, you need to learn not to ask questions. It’s meat, that’s all that matters.’
One of the others began to laugh, a nervous, high-pitched giggle.
‘Shut up!’ Bushy-beard snarled. ‘You want to eat, you have to trade for it. Got anything valuable?’
Len had some change in his pocket but was reluctant to part with it. There was also his watch. He tugged down the sleeve of his jumper. The watch had been a gift from his wife. He looked around the circle, their eyes fixed on him again, scanning his clothes, his shoes. They were hungry eyes. He lifted his gaze to the night sky. The rain had stopped.
‘Thanks for the warmth but I don’t have anything to trade. I’ll be on my way.’ He turned on his heel and walked away. The high-pitched giggle followed him. He was almost at the stairs when a hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. Shocked, he tried to pull away. The fingers gripped him tighter, bruising his skin.
‘Nice watch you’ve got there. I’d be happy to trade it for some of our food.’
His face was masked by shadow, but it had to be Bushy-beard. Len could smell him. His malodorous breath was blended with stale body odour and damp, mouldering fabric.
Len half turned, trying to twist out of the man’s grasp. ‘It was a gift. I don’t want to trade it.’
‘I wasn’t asking.’ Bushy-beard held up his hand, the other still gripping Len’s shoulder. A long, wicked-looking carving knife gleamed faintly in the dim light. The man smiled cruelly and laughed, but his laugh quickly descended into a hacking cough and his grip loosened.
Len seized the moment. He yanked the hand off his shoulder, raking his nails across flesh as he did so. Bushy-beard yelped and swore, lashing out with the knife, but Len was too quick. He leapt backwards then spun and bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He ran until his chest was heaving and his lungs were burning. Halfway up Montefiore Hill, he looked over his shoulder. No one was following him. He stopped, waiting for his heart to stop pounding like a sledgehammer. After a minute or two he began to walk, heading slowly up the hill.
