Scream: A DCI Mark Lapslie Investigation - Plot & Excerpts
Seventies and eighties dance hits – the one thing musically that she and Dom McGinley could agree that they both hated. She’d eaten at the hotel, after leaving Sergeant Murrell at the police station. The restaurant had been decorated in faux-baronial style, with shields and crossed swords hung on walls painted a deep-red which, reflected in the windows looking out into the darkness, made it appear that the sunset outside had been forever frozen in time. A bit like Canvey Island itself, she thought. The menu, like the music that she would spend the next few hours lying awake and listening to, was also frozen in more ways than one: trapped in the 1970s: prawns in Marie Rose sauce, pâté on toast triangles, beef tournedos, mushroom stroganoff … She ordered a pint of gassy keg beer from the bar: she had a feeling that if she’d looked at the wine list it would have been filled with Blue Nuns and Black Towers and rosé wines in bulbous bottles nestled within wicker baskets. Naff. The whole place was naff, as if civilisation lapped out in slow waves from London, and Canvey Island was the point where the tide washed up the old, faded flotsam and jetsam of history.
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