Turn a Blind Eye: A gripping and tense crime thriller with a brand new detective for 2018. Vicky Newham

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      ‘Hey. Sleeping Beauty.’

      The overhead light flicked on.

      ‘Wake up.’

      Steve’s eyes were dazzled. The abrupt waking jolted him from his boozy sleep.

      It was Jane in strident mode, standing over the bed with hands on hips. ‘It smells like a pub in here. How much have you had?’

      ‘Oh fuck,’ he groaned and pulled the pillow over his face. Dread surged through him along with ripples of nausea. Jane on a rant was bad enough when he was on top form.

      ‘From what I’ve heard, you already did that. D’you want to explain why I’ve had a call from Lucy first thing this morning, and then one from some DI Rahman woman about your school?’

      ‘Not really, no.’ He might have guessed Lucy would be on the phone to Jane. They’d been close for several years. ‘Look, do one, will you? My head hurts. I’m not up to one of your inquisitions.’ He replaced the pillow over his eyes.

      She yanked the duvet off the bed and onto the floor, leaving Steve naked, except for his boxers and the pillow over his head.

      ‘Piss off. Don’t do that.’ He lobbed the pillow to one side, reached over to grab hold of the pastel pink duvet cover and pulled it back over him. This was something his sister used to do when they were growing up and it had always infuriated him. As she clearly remembered.

      ‘Well?’

      Steve didn’t answer. He rolled over and tucked the pink duvet under his chin in case she tried to pull it off again, feeling like he was about six.

      ‘You heard me. What’s going on?’

      ‘I’m not talking to you when you’re in this mood. The last forty-eight hours have been a pile of crap. Now can you please leave me alone?’

      ‘The detective wanted me to confirm you’re staying here.’

      ‘I am, aren’t I?’

      ‘She said you’ve been involved in a serious incident. What’s happened?’

      ‘We aren’t allowed to talk about it.’

      ‘Bit late for that. It’s already on the national news. The head teacher of your new school’s been found dead.’

      ‘If you know what’s happened, why are you asking?’

      ‘Oh my God, was it you who found her?’

      ‘Yeah. Now please leave me alone.’

      ‘So, you aren’t interested in Lucy’s message then?’

      ‘What message?’ Curiosity replaced the world-weary, about-to-die tone in his voice. He was facing her now.

      ‘If you’re showered and dressed and in the kitchen in ten minutes, I’ll tell you.’

Brick Lane, 1990 – Maya

      ‘In here, you two,’ Mum calls from the kitchen.

      Plunged into darkness, Jasmina and I grope our way out of the lounge to join Mum. Illuminated by the blue light of the gas ring, she’s at the stove. Sweet, spicy smells waft round the kitchen, and there’s a pot bubbling on the hob.

      Outside, even the street lamps have gone off and the whole terrace is in darkness.

      ‘I wonder how long this one will last,’ I ask.

      Mum has placed a candle on the table. She strikes a match and it fizzes. Smells. The wick catches, casting a ball of light momentarily before shrinking.

      ‘Sit here.’ She’s pointing to the table. ‘And for goodness sake mind your hair on the flame this time, Maya.’

      Jaz and I cram round the tiny Formica table where the five of us sit every evening for tea, knees banging, feet jostling for space against Dad’s work boots and Sabbir’s huge school shoes.

      Jasmina and I sit now, side by side on the wooden bench, and the soft light of the candle flickers, casting a spell over the room. Shadows sway around the dingy, smoke-yellowed walls. As the wick waves in the draught, the flame billows and casts looming shapes. Homework forgotten in the excitement, Jaz tickles me and I poke her; we giggle and wriggle in the tiny kitchen.

      ‘Stop it.’ Anxiety rattles in Mum’s voice. She always gets tense when the electric goes off. And when Dad’s late home. ‘When your father gets in, he can get some more candles. Jasmina, call upstairs to your brother, will you?’

      In the chilly air of the flat, steam trails upwards from the saucepan as Mum stirs it. The walls round the cooker shine with condensation.

      A few minutes later Sabbir arrives, with bed-head hair and sleep furrows in his bruised cheek. ‘What’s for tea?’ He glances round the kitchen.

      We all know the answer, but each day we hope it might be different. We love Mum’s cooking, but after eight years of school dinners, and tea sometimes at friends’ houses, we’ve got used to eating different food. Perhaps Dad will come home with a treat for us all? A bagel each from the shop in Brick Lane, or some red jam to have on sliced bread?

      ‘Rice and curry,’ Mum says. She always talks to us in Sylheti, and at home my sister and I speak our mother tongue too. Unless, of course, it’s something we don’t want Mum to hear.

      ‘It’s the second power cut this week, isn’t it?’ Sabbir is the eldest of the three of us.

      Mum serves out the stodgy rice and curry, and passes bowls over one by one. ‘Careful. They’re hot.’ All seated round the table now, Dad’s chair sits empty, no bowl on his place mat, just cutlery and an empty water glass. ‘We may as well eat. Your father’s obviously got held up again.’ The words ride a sigh.

      My socked feet are cold. I like it when I can rest them on Dad’s work boots. Get them off the cold concrete and warm them up.

      Just as we’re finishing our tea, we hear the front door bang shut downstairs, and a few moments later the grinding sound of a key in the flat door. Dad comes in, bringing a whoosh of bitter winter air and cigarette smoke, and another smell I’ve noticed before. The draught pulls the candle wick first one way then the other, and Mum jumps up to shield Sabbir from the billowing flame, bashing the table and knocking over her water glass. She uses a tea towel to mop first the water then the gash of wax that’s run onto the shiny tablecloth.

      ‘While we’ve been here with no power, you’ve been in that pub again. I can smell it.’ The reproach is unmistakeable. ‘This is the last candle. We need more. The children can’t sit in the dark.’

      Dad looks at Mum, and then shines his gaze like a torchlight round the table. Pauses.

      I’m watching him. Wondering what he’s thinking and what’s going to happen. I grab Jasmina’s hand under the table. He looks over at the hob, then back to the table. The room shimmers with tension and it makes my skin СКАЧАТЬ