Death in Dark Waters by Patricia Hall Page A

go.”
    Donna glanced out of the window again to where a straggle of school-children could be seen making their way round the corner of the neighbouring block of flats.
    â€œJust let me get my coat on, it’s coming down like stair-rods out there,” she said. “I’ll walk down with you. I don’t like her coming up them stairs on her own. You never know who’s about.” Donna went back into the bedroom and within minutes had slipped into a jacket and carefully repaired her make-up and hair.
    â€œWill I do?” she asked with an attempt at coquettishness as she came back into the living room.
    â€œYou’ll do fine,” Mower said, kissing her gently on the lips and opening the front door of the flat for her. They made their way along the rain-swept walkway to the concrete stairs which led to ground level.
    â€œYou wait there,” Mower said. “I’ll watch her safely up.”
    â€œI’ll be back over t’road at seven,” Donna said, her face determined again. “I’ve got a babysitter sorted. And Kevin …”
    Mower glanced back.
    â€œI didn’t mean owt,” Donna said. “Just good friends, right?”
    â€œRight,” Mower said, with what he hoped was the right degree of enthusiasm. He set off down the stairs without looking back and by the time he had reached the ground floor a small fair child in school uniform had made her way
into the hallway where the single lift boasted an out-of-order sign.
    â€œYour mum’s at the top, Emma,” he said quietly, but the child gave him a frightened look and hurried up the stairs, her school bag banging against her bare legs painfully as she ran. Mower stood at the bottom for a moment looking up until he heard Donna greet her daughter loudly enough for him to hear. It was not until the echo of their footsteps along the walkway above had died away that he groaned and thumped his fist hard against the concrete wall in a vain attempt to assuage the pain which still consumed him. A drink, he thought, would be good. Two would be better. Six better still. The sleet which was now battering against the doors would not deter him but he guessed that the kids who were waiting for him at the Project just might.
    Â 
    Laura Ackroyd stood on the top step of the Carib Club trying to keep out of the rain and watched the group of Asian boys on the other side of the road with some anxiety. They were a perfect example of what the police used to call loitering with intent, she thought, as one of the teenagers kicked a soft drink can across the road in her direction and fell back against the opposite wall laughing hysterically. She knocked for the third time on the club door and was just about to turn away when she heard the sound of movement inside. Eventually with much shooting of bolts and turning of keys in locks, the door inched open a crack and a voice demanded to know who she was and what she wanted.
    â€œI had an appointment to see Darryl Redmond,” Laura said, pushing her Press card into the gap in the door and straggles of damp red hair out of her eyes.
    â€œSafe,” the voice said and eased the door back sufficiently for her to enter before slamming it shut again.
    The interior of the club was gloomy, lit only by the emergency lights over the exits and a faint glow which filtered out from an open door on the opposite side of the cavernous room.
Laura had never visited the place before. The Carib was an addition to the Bradfield scene since her own student days at the university when she had gone clubbing with the best. These days an exhausted evening with Michael Thackeray slumped in front of the television and an occasional meal out made up the sum total of her social life. Middle age, she thought, must be creeping up, and she did not much like the prospect.
    The young black man holding a broom in one hand who had let her in led her across the dance floor, past the enormous sound