Page 11 of The Unforgiven

His lips curved up into a smile because he couldn’t help himself. “You know that’s not true.”

I did, in fact, know this, having once walked in on Vinny stripping off soaking wet clothes in the staff kitchen when he thought no one was left in the office.

“I can’t remember it. I needed to block it from my memory. Can we leave this conversation here? I think I’ve done with talking about your sex life for the next decade or so.” Two of our colleagues were attempting some weird dance and making a complete balls up of it. Verity, the only other woman in my immediate team, was filming it, which meant this moment would unfortunately live forever.

Vinny gave a slow nod. “Yep. But please say something to her when you next see her. Hopefully that’ll be a while.”

“You think this murder’s a one off? The papers are already labelling it the Knife Pusher.”

“Which makes no sense. She wasn’t pushed in the canal. She was dumped there. Totally different from the conspiracy theory about the Manchester Pusher.” He eyed a darts board. “Fancy a game?”

It was one way to stop him from going on about conspiracy theories. “You know I’ll kick your arse.”

“Want to bet?”

“Absolutely.”

And that was how I ended up with a free night out.

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, andI 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.