Letting out the Worms: Guilty or not? If not then the alternative is terrifying (Kitty Thomas Book 1

excuse for getting out, and Cerys had bought it from M & S with the sandwich. When the girl was out of sight, Cerys put on her shoes and traipsed back to the bus stop.
9 CERYS
Their engagement was not the happy, celebratory time Cerys had hoped for. Since they announced their news, Paul had spent most of the time grumpy as anything. Every five minutes, he would check his text messages in the hope of one from Kitty. Attention seeking - that’s what it was with Kitty. If Cerys was honest, she wanted Paul’s attention. She was his fiancée - his pregnant fiancée, but he took more interest in the whereabouts of his perfectly capable, rather prickly and ungrateful daughter. If something had happened to Kitty, it would throw out Cerys’s entire schedule.
She and Paul were in the Black Horse. Cerys decided a change of scenery might take Paul’s mind off his errant daughter. Under the table a large, cast iron pedestal dug into her separated knees, and four tatty cardboard beer mats soaked up puddles of brown liquid on the top. She wiped the sticky surface with a tissue and piled up the mats, wondering how four people ever fitted round this tiny table. She knew she was being as ill-tempered as her fiancée, but it was beyond her control.
Fifteen weeks into her pregnancy, she had passed the end of the first trimester although you would never guess it from her flat abdomen. At her twelve-week scan, she and Paul stared at an indecipherable blur on the screen which hospital staff assured her looked perfectly normal. They paid for an image of the baby, and Cerys had it in a pocket of her handbag. Now and then she would pull it out, hoping that, like the foetus inside her, it had grown distinguishable features, but it still resembled a newt.
A drink would be nice, she thought. Her morning sickness had eased off, but everything still tasted metallic. A nice bitter gin with her tonic would lessen the effect. But, as Paul kept reminding her, alcohol was bad for the baby.
Her abstinence delighted Paul. It meant that until she no longer fitted behind the steering wheel, he had a chauffeur to deliver him to and from the pub.
Cerys fidgeted in her chair, resisting an urge to pee. She had reassured Paul that Kitty would be at their engagement party, but if they had no word from the girl soon, he would insist on cancelling. In the search for his daughter, Paul had rung every contact he could find, including the newspaper where Kitty published most of her freelance work. The guy there told him rather irritably that they rarely saw Kitty at the best of times. ‘We’re an on-line publication,’ he snapped in a broad Glaswegian accent. ‘We get copy by email. The office is tiny.’ Kitty had filed nothing of late. No, that was not unusual as she worked on in-depth feature pieces.
At the bar, Paul’s childish ring tone blasted out, cutting through the murmur of conversation. He thought it funny to record his voice, shouting, ‘Ring-ring, ring-ring.’ All around Cerys, heads turned, mainly in amusement, and she watched Paul slip the instrument from his breast pocket. The ringing grew louder, and she closed her eyes, willing him to take the call. When he did not, she opened them to see him holding the screen at arm's length with narrowed eyes. She tutted. Did he ever remember to bring his reading glasses with him? No.
At last, the shouting ceased, and Paul put the phone to his ear. ‘Kitty!’
10 KITTY
It was a perfect autumn day. The buildings cast shadows across a corner of the plaza that fronted the prison, and dancing leaves shone orange and gold on the Maple trees. The bloody man didn’t deserve such weather.
To get here this morning Kitty had spurned her unreliable classic bike in favour of a modern, red Suzuki, and now she sat astride it at the curb wearing matching scarlet leathers, her eyes on an imposing wooden arch that formed the entrance - and exit - of the prison. A crack appeared in the portal and one half swung inwards. Max stepped into the sunlight and the door banged shut behind him. He scanned the area until his gaze settled on Kitty and he stood, transfixed.
A bolt of hatred shot through Kitty’s chest and she straightened her back.
Max approached, swinging a leather Gladstone briefcase at his side. He stopped a few yards from her, and they surveyed one another in silence.
‘You are so like your mother,’ he said in a shaky voice.
Kitty sniffed. ‘You look past it.’ She studied his clothes and bag, ‘And old-fashioned.’
‘Noughties style.’ He gave a tentative smile. ‘Thanks for coming.’
‘I may not stay long.’
The old helmet fitted Max. Soon the pair were motoring along leafy streets with Max, in unnerving proximity, calling directions over Kitty’s shoulder. His movements threw the bike off balance making it hard to control.
Their first stop was the police station. Carrying his bag, Max hopped off the bike and pushed open the door.
After a quarter of an hour, Kitty tapped impatient fingers on the handlebars as he ran out, full of apology. ‘I had to wait for my paperwork from the court. I requested it several weeks ago because I wanted you to have all the information possible.’ He mounted the pillion seat, and Kitty started the engine, yelling,
‘Don’t wriggle so much this time. And don’t raise your hopes. I’m not planning to help you.’
They coasted between the gateposts of the Victorian manor where Max had his flat. Kitty parked the bike on the bald lawn, taking in the building’s aged facade.
‘It looks about the same,’ was Max’s only comment.
As they crossed the vestibule and climbed the stairs, Max explained that he had kept ownership of his flat by