When you visit our website, if you give your consent, we will use cookies to allow us to collect data for aggregated statistics to improve our service and remember your choice for future visits. Cookie Policy & Privacy Policy
Dear Reader, we use the permissions associated with cookies to keep our website running smoothly and to provide you with personalized content that better meets your needs and ensure the best reading experience. At any time, you can change your permissions for the cookie settings below.
If you would like to learn more about our Cookie, you can click on Privacy Policy.
16 My head feels foggy and muzzy as I roll over and look at the alarm clock. It’s ten to nine. I never sleep in this late, even on a Saturday. I realise the pent-up stress and anxiety from Mum and Dad’s visit yesterday — not to mention the visit to Maisie — probably didn’t mix all that well with the bottle of wine I consumed in front of the TV last night. I’ve still heard nothing further from PC Day or anyone from the police. But today’s Saturday. It’s one week since I called Gavin Armitage, one week since I went to his studio and had the photos taken. Like PC Day said, maybe he only works weekends. Perhaps he’s got another job, too. He might be right. I doubt it, but he might be. Either way, I know Gavin works weekends. With my state of mind as it currently is, I know exactly what I in