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By Eve Isherwood

Helen Powers was a scenes of crimes officer for the West Midlands Police. It-s 4 years because the case, concerning the dying of a tender teenage woman, shattered her occupation. In an try and rebuild her lifestyles, she now works as a portrait photographer. however the earlier isn't really so simply left in the back of- After a sequence of inexplicable and harsh assaults on her, Helen fears that somebody is out to take revenge. For Helen, in spite of the fact that, it is just the beginning of anything extra own and sinister. desirous to confront her demons and redeem herself within the face of an impressive adversary, Helen quickly unearths that neither time nor the weather are on her side...

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They’d done this one countless times before. They’d even developed this peculiarly veiled way of talking about her mother’s drinking so that neither of them had to mention the dreaded word booze. She guessed it was a form of denial, the result 37 of years of putting on a perfect and united front. Her dad, if pressed on the subject, put it down to biology. Her mum’s father had been a heavy drinker, driven to it, some said, by his wife. Whatever the truth of it, Helen’s dad didn’t want to talk about it tonight.

Jen said, holding out a soup ladle. Pink-faced, she was wearing denims and an old sweater that failed to conceal her voluptuous build. Her long blonde hair was unceremoniously pinned up on top of her head. Helen sniffed it. ” “Oh ye of little faith. ” Helen tasted it. “Funnily enough, it’s quite nice. ” “Industrial-sized quantities of Beef in Beer, George’s favourite,” Jen regarded him affectionately as he trotted into the kitchen and slumped down near her feet. “What is it with dogs? ” She gave him a gentle nudge with her foot.

Heart in her throat, Helen followed him down a dark corridor into a small, windowless room. A pile of clothes lay in a corner. She knew the body was underneath. “Go on,” he said encouragingly. ” She nodded, as if in a dream, crossed the room, drew back the clothing, saw the face. Her face. “Christ Almighty,” Helen sat up and switched on the light. She was bathed in sweat and her limbs were trembling. The spectre of Adam Roscoe seemed to inhabit every corner of the room, even though he’d never even set foot in the place.

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