Beneath the Bleeding

Friday

The dirty grey city sky was starting to pale on the far side of town when Carol pulled up in the shadow of the Grayson Street stand. Before she had even turned off her engine, a uniformed officer, rendered squat by the weight of equipment on her belt, was heading in her direction. Carol got out, fully expecting what she heard. ‘I’m sorry, you can’t park here,’ the officer said, weary tolerance in her voice.

Carol produced her warrant card from the pocket of her leather jacket and said, ‘I’m not going to be long.’

The young female officer was blotchy with embarrassment. ‘Sorry, ma’am, I didn’t recognize you…’

‘No reason why you should,’ Carol said. ‘I’m out of uniform.’ She gestured to her jeans and construction boots. ‘I didn’t want to look like a cop.’

The uniform gave an uncertain smile. ‘Then maybe you shouldn’t be parked there?’ she said, clearly knowing she was chancing her arm.

Carol laughed. ‘Good point. And if my time wasn’t so tight, I’d move it.’ She walked on towards the railings where the flowers, cards and soft toys swamped the pavement, so deep in places there was barely enough room for one person to pass without stepping into the road.

There was no doubt that it provoked a complicated emotional response. Her work had conditioned Carol against knee-jerk sentiment. You couldn’t indulge in that and do her sort of job. Cops, firefighters, ambulance crews–they all had to learn early on not to be sucked into the genuine, personal grief of those they came into contact with. They had a level of inoculation against the seas of public emotion that greeted events like the death of Diana and the Soham murders. Theoretically she knew that each life snuffed out prematurely was equally valuable. But when it came to the murder of someone like Robbie Bishop–someone young, someone talented, someone who gave pleasure to millions–it was hard not to feel more anger, more sorrow, more determination to put things as right as she could.

She’d seen glimpses of sections of it behind TV reporters, but Carol had had no idea of the scale of the display outside the football ground. It moved her, but not because of its sentimental appropriation of grief. It moved her because of its pathos. The soft toys and cards were spattered with specks of dirty water sprayed by the tyres of passing cars, sodden with the overnight rain. Strewn with wilted flowers, the pavement had started to resemble a fly-tipping site.

This early in the morning, she was the only worshipper at the shrine. A few cars dawdled by, their drivers paying little attention to the road. Slowly, she walked the length of the railings. At the far end she stopped and pulled out her phone. She was about to press the ‘call’ button when she thought better of it. Given he was in an NHS hospital, Tony was probably already awake. But if he was asleep, she didn’t want to wake him. That was how she rationalized it, shoving her phone back in her pocket impatiently.

The truth was, she didn’t want to have to get into it with him again about the slender connections between Robbie Bishop and Danny Wade. Being stuck in hospital was boring him so much that he was inventing phantoms to stimulate his brain. He wanted something to occupy him, and so he’d allowed himself to be carried away with a level of coincidence he’d have laughed at in other circumstances. Instead of dismissing it, he was seeing serial killers where none existed. It was, she supposed, only to be expected. It was what he did best and probably what he missed most. Carol wondered how long it would be before he could get back to work, even if it was only part time. At least the insane of Bradfield Moor might keep his own demons at bay.

She could live in hope. And in the meantime, she could trust her own instincts. Instincts, she reminded herself, that had been honed by the experience of working as closely with Tony as she had. She didn’t always have to run her ideas past him for validation. She pulled the phone out again and dialled. ‘Kevin,’ she said. ‘Sorry to bother you at home. On your way in, I want you swing by uniform and organize some bodies to come down to Victoria Park and take photos of the stuff here. I want every card and letter and drawing photographed and anything that seems at all dodgy collected and brought back for our team to take a look at. See you later.’ She closed her phone and walked back to the car. Time to go home and change into the plain-clothes uniform. Time to prove to herself that she could still work the hard ones without Tony when she had to.

Stacey Chen was invariably first into the office. She liked to commune with her machines in peace and quiet. When she walked into the office that Friday to find Sam Evans already there, the kettle boiled and an Earl Grey teabag ready in her mug, she was instantly on her guard. It was true that it didn’t happen often on this team, but everywhere else she had been assigned, colleagues were always lining up to ask favours. Everybody needed what the electronics could do for them, but none of them could be bothered to figure out how to make the computers really work for them. They just used her as a short cut. And it pissed her off more than she ever showed.

She accepted the cup of tea with chilly gratitude, then set up in hiding behind her twin monitors, pausing only to hang the jacket of her severe Prada suit on a hanger. Sam seemed to be working quite happily in front of his own machine, so Stacey let her guard drop and instead focused on her deep analysis of the inner secrets of Robbie Bishop’s hard drive. There were some photographs he’d recently deleted, and she was determined to make sense of the fragments remaining. Probably nothing, but Stacey never liked admitting defeat.

So absorbed was she that she didn’t even notice Sam get up and come over to her workstation until he was right next to her, leaning over her, smelling of citrus and spice and maleness. Stacey felt her muscles tensing, as if she was steeling herself against a blow. Don’t be stupid, she told herself. It’s Sam, for God’s sake. It’s not like he’s going to ask you out or anything. Much as she would have liked that, if she could have got past the idea that he was after something in virtuality rather than reality. ‘What is it?’ she said, nothing welcoming in her tone.

‘I just wondered if you wanted a hand, sifting through all Robbie’s emails and stuff.’

Stacey’s eyebrows shot up. She couldn’t remember Sam ever offering to do any sort of electronic scut work. ‘I know what I’m doing, thanks,’ she said, stiff as a clerical collar.

Sam held his hands up in what she took to be a placatory gesture. ‘I know that,’ he said. ‘All I meant was I could help with actually reading stuff. I totally defer to you when it comes to anything complicated. But I thought maybe you could use some help with the bits that any old plod could access.’

‘I’m fine, thanks. Everything’s under control. It’s not like Robbie Bishop was a master of his machine,’ Stacey said, not hiding her contempt for those less computer-literate. Maybe if telling him directly she didn’t need or want his help didn’t work, she’d have more luck with the indirect insults.

Sam shrugged. ‘Please yourself. It’s just that I can’t get any further with what I’m working on till somebody gets back to me with more info. And let’s face it…’ He did have a good smile, she thought. Very beguiling, if you were the sort who was willing to be beguiled.

‘Face what?’ Stacey had to ask.

‘Well, you’re wasted on that sort of shit, frankly. Like I said, any old plod could do it. But the other stuff, the stuff that idiots like me are clueless about-that’s what we need you for. The bread and butter? You should be shovelling it towards the likes of me.’

‘The ones who like the credit without the work, you mean?’ Stacey smiled to soften her words.

Sam looked offended. She couldn’t believe his cheek. Everyone knew he was a glory hound. He clutched his chest, miming heart-broken. ‘I can’t believe you said that.’

‘Sam, what’s the use pretending? I wasn’t born yesterday. I remember the Creeper investigation, when you tried to make an end run round the boss. You’d have to be totally blinded by ambition to try something as mental as that.’

He looked sheepish. ‘That was then. Trust me, Stace, I learned my lesson from that little débâcle. Come on, let me help. I’m bored.’

‘You’d be a lot more bored if I handed off the collected wittering of Robbie Bishop. I know that much already.’

The door opened and they both looked up as Chris Devine walked in, looking ready for a country walk in her waxed jacket, cords and green wellies. She saw their expressions and pulled a face. ‘I know, I know. I slept in, the dog needed a run, Sinead’s in Edinburgh on business, what can you do?’ She kicked off her wellies and slipped into a pair of shoes she produced from a Tesco bag. Under the jacket she wore a perfectly respectable cashmere sweater.

‘Quite the transformation,’ Sam said.

‘Yeah, I clean up. nice for an old slapper,’ Chris said. ‘What are you two up to?’ She headed for the kettle and the cafetière she had added to their brewing equipment.

‘I’m offering to help Stacey but she won’t let me,’ Sam said. Stacey pursed her lips. He made it sound like she was the problem here.

‘I’m not surprised,’ Chris said. ‘You and computers? From what I’ve seen…’

‘He’s a lot more competent than he lets on,’ Stacey said, surprising herself with her candour. The look Sam turned on her held no warmth, only cold speculation. She saw Chris weighing up the situation. From what she had seen of Chris, the only thing on her mind would be how best to use this tension between her and Sam in a creative way. One that worked for the benefit of the unit. Stacey dreaded what was coming.

‘What is it you want to do, Sam?’ Chris said, eyeing them both.

‘I thought it would free Stacey up for the complicated stuff if I read through the emails,’ Sam said, eyes wide.

Chris looked at Stacey. ‘And this is a problem…how?’

Because if he finds anything, he’ll make sure I look bad and he gets the credit. Because I don’t trust him. Because I think I might like him too much and I don’t want him in my space. ‘Security, Sarge. We don’t want this stuff flying round the system. In a case like this, if background info gets into the wrong hands, before we know it, it’s all over the tabloids.’

‘I see your point, but Sam’s one of us, Stacey. He understands the importance of confidentiality. I don’t understand what the issue is. If Sam’s got nothing else to work on, he might as well do your shit work.’

‘No problem, Sarge.’ Stacey looked back at her monitors, not wanting to show Chris how pissed off she was. ‘I’ll print out all the relevant files,’ she said in a last-ditch attempt to prevent him from having direct access.

‘No need for that,’ Sam said. ‘Just burn me a CD, or send them to my mailbox. I’m happy reading on screen.’

Stacey knew when she was beaten. Honestly, what was the point in having lesbians on the team when they sided with the men? ‘Fine,’ she muttered.

By the time Carol arrived an hour later, Stacey had much more to worry about than who was reading Robbie Bishop’s emails.

Carol stared at the screen with a look of incredulity. The temporary mailbox Stacey had set up for responses from the Best Days of Our Lives subscribers already contained over two hundred responses. She gave Stacey a bemused look. ‘I guess that proves your point about getting the online community on our side,’ she said dryly. ‘What exactly did you ask them for?’

Stacey looked bored. The obvious stuff. When they were at school, whether they knew Robbie, anything they can tell us first hand about Robbie at school or since. Recent photos of themselves and anyone they were at school with. What they were doing on Thursday night. Who can corroborate that. And whether they have any bright ideas about who might want Robbie dead or why.’ She cracked a smile. ‘I think you might get quite a few people suggesting those fat cats who own Chelsea and Man United.’

Carol couldn’t fault Stacey’s logic. ‘OK. Chris and Paula, I want you to split them between you. Weed out any possibles. Print out photos. And tonight, it’s back to Amatis with the photos. Let’s see if any of our revellers or bar staff pick out any faces.’

Chris leaned over to study the screen. ‘That’s a big ask. There’s four more come in just while we’ve been talking. We might need some more bodies.’

‘Point taken. See how you get on this morning. If it’s taking too long, we’ll hijack some help.’ Carol looked around the room. ‘Sam, what are you working on?’ she asked.

‘Robbie’s emails,’ he said without looking up.

‘OK. If Chris and Paula need a hand, you can put that on the back burner and weigh in with them.’ Carol checked through her mental list of things to do. Kevin was busy making sure the shrine down at the Victoria Park stadium was properly recorded and assessed; he’d be coming back at some point with more potential evidence to be collated. There was a lot of activity going on. But the question was, did it have a point? Were they moving in the right direction? And how would they know when they were?

At times like this, Carol missed being able to rely on Tony’s insights, however off the wall they sometimes seemed. She wasn’t afraid to think outside the box herself, but it was always more comfortable to go out on a limb when there was someone shouting encouragement from the safety net below.

At least she could rely on this team to dig beneath the surface. If there was anything to be found, they’d find it. The hard bit was figuring out what it meant and where it led. But for now, all she could do was wait.

Learning from the mistakes of others was always preferable to the pain of making your own, Yousef thought. Like the London bombers. They’d met up together and travelled down to London by train mob-handed. When the security services started examining CCTV footage, they stuck out. They were easy to spot, easy to trace, and from there, easy to blame. Easy to backtrack to their homes, easy to unravel their networks of support and friendship.

All of that would have been slowed right down if they’d each made their own ways to the target. Diverting the security forces altogether was the best option in the aftermath, but failing that, slowing them down was far better than making it easy for them. What made most sense was to have as little contact with each other in the time leading up to the bombing itself. Given that Brits were the most surveilled people in the world, and given that most CCTV footage wasn’t stored for more than a couple of weeks, they’d agreed they wouldn’t meet during that time unless there was some sort of emergency. Contact would be kept to a minimum and, if it became necessary, they would use text messages with agreed codes. The target would be referred to as ‘the house’, the bomb as ‘dinner’, and so on. Each knew what had to be done, and they were prepared to do it.

And so Yousef was sitting in the rooftop café of the Bradfield City Art Gallery, third table on the left-hand wall, inconspicuous among the late-morning coffee drinkers, back to the self-service array and the till. In front of him, a Coke and a wedge of the café’s notoriously calorific lemon drizzle cake. He’d only managed a couple of forkfuls; it stuck in his throat like a lump of sweet sandstone. It wasn’t just at home that he was having trouble eating. He had that morning’s Guardian strewn across the table, minus the sports section. He was pretending to read the G2 supplement, his left hand positioned so that he could read his watch. His right leg jiggled in nervous expectancy.

As the minute hand crept towards ten past, his face grew hot and a slither of sweat spread across his neck and shoulders. Anticipation made his bowels clench.

It was over in seconds. A woman in a swaggering raincoat passed close to his table. He only saw her from behind as she made her way through the doors and out on to the roof terrace, where she sat down with her back to him, a bottle of mineral water beside her. A dark headscarf covered her head. He wished he could go and sit with her to ease the loneliness he felt.

On the table in front of Yousef was the sports section. He forced down the rest of the cake, swilling his mouth with Coke to get through it. Then, casually, trying not to show how sick he felt at the sudden accession of sugar, he gathered his newspaper together and strolled towards the exit.

He couldn’t wait till he got back to the van. He slipped into the gents’ toilet outside the café and locked himself into the cubicle. With fingers made clumsy by nerves and sweat, he rustled through the sports pages. There, ironically enough between a two-page spread about Bradfield Victoria’s premiership chances without Robbie Bishop, nestled inside a plastic folder, was the paperwork that would take him where he needed to be tomorrow. A fax, supposedly from Bradfield Victoria’s general manager, to their usual electrical contractors, complaining of an urgent problem with a junction box under the Albert Vestey stand. And a second fax from their contractors to A1 Electricals, subcontracting the emergency work.

Yousef breathed deeply, letting himself relax a fraction. It was going to work. It was going to be amazing. Tomorrow, the world would be a different place. Insha’ Allah.

Tony summoned up all his nerve and swung the leg that was whole on to the floor. That was enough to send a jagged line of pain through the other leg in spite of the brace holding its damage firm. He clenched his teeth and used his hands to help drag the braced limb through an arc. As it reached the edge of the mattress, he let go and almost fell forward, letting gravity bring him into a more or less upright position. Sweat popped out across his forehead and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. He had to master this before they would let him out of here.

He paused, his weight distributed between his buttocks on the bed and his right foot. Once his chest stopped heaving, he reached for the elbow crutches he’d learned to use earlier that day. Carefully, he gripped them, making sure his forearms were inside the plastic cuffs. Rubber ferrules on the floor. Deep breath.

Tony pushed himself upright, amazing himself by his steadiness. Crutches forward, swing with the good leg, let the bad leg follow, toes touching the floor, tiniest fraction of weight on the damaged knee. Jolt of pain. Not unbearable, though. Manageable with clenched teeth and buttocks.

Five minutes later, he’d made it as far as the toilet. Going back took eight minutes, but even in that short time, he felt his movements were smoother, more assured; he’d have something to show Carol when she came next. He’d need her help if he was going to go home. It would be hard to ask for it, but he suspected it would be even harder to wait for her to offer it.

Getting back in bed and making himself comfortable took another few minutes. He swore he would never again take for granted the simple act of getting up for a piss. He didn’t care if people laughed, he’d happily stand there going, ‘Look at me. I just got up and walked over there. Did you see that? Amazing.’

Once settled, he had no excuse to avoid thinking about Robbie Bishop and Danny Wade. Or rather, Danny Wade and Robbie Bishop. It was possible that Danny Wade was not Stalky’s first victim, but after exhaustive trawling of the internet, Tony couldn’t find an earlier example of what might be considered his handiwork.

‘You love the planning and the outcome, but you don’t much care for the act,’ he said. ‘Technically you’re not a serial yet, but I think you’re going that way. And what makes you unusual is that, mostly, serial is about sex. It might not always look that way, but that’s what’s at the heart of it, time after time. Twisted circuits that need twisted scenarios to achieve what comes relatively naturally to most people. But that’s not what you’re about, is it? You’re not interested in them as bodies, as objects of desire. At least, not sexual desire.

‘So what are you getting out of it? Is it political? A kind of “eat the rich” message? Are you some neo-Marxist warrior intent on punishing the ones who achieve riches and don’t share them with the people who are still stuck where our heroes came from? It makes a kind of sense…’ He stared at the ceiling, turning the idea around in his head, examining it from different angles.

‘The problem is, if that’s who you are, why aren’t you shouting about it? You can’t deliver a political message if it’s written in a language nobody understands. No. You’re not doing this out of the need to make some abstract political point. This is personal, somehow.’

He scratched his head. God, how he longed for a proper shower, a long soak under a torrent of water, cleaning his hair and clearing his head. Tomorrow, maybe, the nurse had said. Wrap his brace in cling-film, tape it to his leg and see what happens.

‘So if it’s not sexual and it’s not political, what’s the point? What are you getting out of it? If it was just Robbie, I could believe in revenge for something that happened at school-he took something from you, he made you feel small, he hurt you in some way he probably didn’t even know about. But it’s inconceivable that Danny Wade could have done any of those things. Danny was geek boy-model railways, for Christ’s sake. That’s so far down the food chain, the only thing lower was the ones who escaped from Special Needs.’ He sighed. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

What did make sense, however, was that the killer must have left tracks. Given that the locals had written it up as a tragic accident, there wouldn’t have been anything more than desultory inquiries on the ground at the time, especially since it was already established that Jana gained nothing from Danny’s death. But even now, if the right questions were asked, there might be answers. Someone may have seen Danny meeting up with his killer in the pub. Someone may have seen him arrive at Danny’s on the night of the murder. If only he wasn’t stuck in this hospital bed, it wouldn’t matter that Carol was dismissing his intuitions. He could go to Dore himself and talk to the locals. Though on balance that wasn’t always the best way.

For every person he could connect with, there was usually at least one other who picked up on the weirdness in him and freaked out. All his life, Tony had felt he was passing for human. It was a masquerade that didn’t fool all of the people all of the time. And the leg brace wouldn’t help, that was for sure.

None of which mattered, of course, because he wasn’t going to be able to go to Dore and sniff around on his own account. Tony gave a frustrated sigh. Then suddenly, his eyes widened. There was someone who could charm information from a Trappist. Someone who owed him a favour.

Smiling now, Tony reached for the phone.

Carol looked out at her team. Everybody was either staring at a screen or deep in a phone conversation. She slipped a miniature of vodka out of her drawer, uncapped it below desk level, then discreetly tipped it into her coffee. She’d learned from her own traumas in the job that alcohol was a good friend and a bad master. It had come close to making her its servant, but she’d clawed her way back from that and now she could readily convince herself that she was in charge. Her truth was that in times of stress and frustration, times like this, it was her refuge and her strength. Especially when Tony wasn’t there.

Not that he would rebuke her. Nothing so blatant. No, it was more that his presence was a reproach to her, a reminder that there were other options for escape. Options they had come close to pursuing several times before. But always, whenever they drew close, something intervened. Usually something related to work. It was, she thought, the ultimate irony. That which brought them together invariably threw obstacles in their way. And neither of them could ever figure out how to overcome the obstacles until the moment of possibility had passed.

She sipped the drink, loving the way she could feel it spread through her. God, but they needed something to break on this case.

As if in answer to her fervent request, Sam Evans stuck his head round the door. Carol nodded him in. She always felt a certain ambivalence towards Sam. She knew he was ambitious, and because she had once shared that trait, she understood both how valuable and how dangerous that was for a cop. She also recognized his maverick instincts as being close to her own. He was no team player. But then, she hadn’t been much of one either when she’d been at his rank. She’d only become a team player once she’d found a team worth playing for. There was enough of her in Sam for her to understand him and thus to forgive. What she couldn’t forgive was his sneakiness. She knew he spied on his colleagues, though he did it well enough for them not to have worked it out. He’d once dropped her in the shit with Brandon to make his own achievements seem even better than they were. The bottom line was that she couldn’t trust him, which felt more of a liability the longer the unit was up and running.

‘I think I might have something, guv,’ he said, almost preening as he sat. He tugged the knees of his trousers to preserve the crease and squared his shoulders inside the well-ironed shirt.

She hardly dared hope. ‘What sort of something?’

He tossed the original email on to the desk and gave her a moment to read it. ‘I spoke to Bindie. This stalker, Rhys Butler, he jumped Robbie outside the team hotel in Birmingham. The cops lifted him, let him off with a caution. I spoke to the arresting officer. They went easy on Butler because Robbie and Bindie didn’t want the publicity. Anyway, this DC Singh kept an eye on Butler. Dropped round his place, made sure he took down his wank wall and stayed well away from them both. Butler swore he was over it. He’d lost his job and that had tipped him over the edge, he claimed. He played the good boy for a few months then he got a new job and moved to Newcastle. But here’s the kicker, guv.’ He gave it the dramatic pause. ‘He’s a lab rat in a pharmacology company.’

Experience had taught Carol that there were more false dawns in murder investigations than decent meals in a police canteen. But in the absence of anything stronger to chase, she was more than willing to pursue this lead. ‘Great work, Sam. I want you to get on to Northumbria and see if they can help us with an address.’

Sam’s smile reminded her of Nelson faced with a bowl of chicken livers. He laid a second piece of paper in front of her. ‘Work and home,’ he said.

Now she let herself return his smile. The only question was whether to let Northumbria bring him in. It didn’t take long to make the decision. Carol told herself she wanted to see Rhys Butler’s home for herself. She didn’t want to delegate it to some uniform who didn’t know what he was supposed to be looking for. She pushed her chair back and stood up. ‘So, what are we waiting for?’

Yousef opened the fridge. The glass beaker sat on the shelf, clear liquid filling most of it. But the bottom layer was the crystalline powder he needed. Carefully, he took the beaker out and placed it on the worktop. He’d already set up a glass funnel lined with filter paper. He closed his eyes and muttered his way through a prayer asking the prophet to intercede and help his plan to fruition. Then he lifted the beaker and poured the liquid through the filter.

It took less time than he’d expected. He peered through the window in his face protector at the heap of white crystals. It didn’t look enough to cause the mayhem he’d been told it would. But what did he know? Fabric and the rag trade, that was what he knew about. He had to rely on what he had been told. Nothing made sense otherwise. Not the sleepless nights, not the transformation of his spirit, not the pain he was going to cause his family. He couldn’t be the only one of them feeling this way. He just had to get past his weaknesses and focus on the goal.

Gently, he lifted the filter paper out of the funnel and tipped the contents into a bowl of iced water. He swilled the crystals around, washing them clean of the liquid they’d been precipitated from. Then he distributed the explosive among a couple of dozen paper plates so it could dry with the least chance of an accidental explosion.

He pushed up his face protector and shook his head in amazement. He’d done it. He’d made enough TATP to blow a hole in the main stand of Victoria Park. All that remained was for him to assemble the rest of the components in the morning.

Then he could transport it to the place where it would demonstrate that the war on terror was definitely not being won. Yousef allowed himself a crooked smile. He’d show them what shock and awe really was.

‘You’re crazy,’ Paula said firmly. She’d thought it often enough, but there had never really been an appropriate or opportune moment to say it.

‘Which part is the crazy bit?’ Tony asked sweetly.

‘Which part isn’t?’ She looked around. ‘Have you got a wheelchair? Can we get out of here?’

‘No and no. You don’t need a cigarette to have a conversation.’

‘I do when it’s this crazy,’ she said.

‘You keep saying that. But just because Carol Jordan doesn’t want to pursue it doesn’t make it a crazy idea. She’s not infallible.’ Which you know better than anyone hung in the air between them.

Paula pointed at his leg. ‘And neither are you.’

‘I never said I was. The point is, Paula, this needs to be checked out. If I could do it myself, I would. But I can’t. Look at it this way. If I’m wrong, no harm done. But if I’m right, the investigation into Robbie’s death changes completely.’

Paula could feel herself wavering. She had to defend herself against his logic and against the debt she owed him for helping her back to dry land when she was drowning in her own misery and self-pity. ‘It’s easy for you to say, “no harm done”. It’s not your career on the line. I can’t go storming all over some other force’s ground and hope it won’t get back to the chief.’

‘Why should it get back to her? In the first instance, all I’m asking you to do is to talk to people. The local pub, the local dog walkers, Jana Jankowicz. I’m not saying, “Go down the nick in Sheffield and tell them they fucked up, can you see the paperwork on the murder they didn’t recognize.”’

‘Just as well,’ Paula grumbled. ‘Now that would be career suicide.’

‘See? I’m not asking you to do that. Just a few questions, Paula. You have to admit, it’s worth a look.’

And that was where he had her on the hook. She revered Carol Jordan. She knew she was maybe a little bit in love with her boss, But as he had implied, she knew better than anyone that the DCI sometimes got it wrong. Unconsciously, Paula rubbed her wrist. The wounds had long since healed, but there was still a network of fine scars barely visible across the base of her palm and her wrist. ‘It’s pretty thin,’ she said, trying to find a form of words to show she thought he might have something but which didn’t say flat out that Carol Jordan was wrong.

‘From what Carol tells me, thin is better than what you’ve got.’

Paula moved restlessly round the room. ‘Maybe not. Her and Sam, they’re off to Newcastle on a hot lead. Some stalker of Bindie Blyth’s who took a pop at Robbie outside the team hotel.’

Tony tutted. ‘Waste of time. I told her that when she called to say she wouldn’t be round tonight. When stalkers lose it, they want the world to know what they’re prepared to do for love. It’s John Hinckley trying to assassinate Reagan to make Jodie Foster love him. These are not secret squirrels, they’re shout it from the rooftop guys. Whoever killed Robbie, he wasn’t doing it to impress Bindie.’

‘And when exactly am I supposed to go and do these interviews?’ Paula said, realizing as soon as she’d spoken that she had capitulated.

Tony spread his hands, the picture of bewildered innocence. ‘Tonight? Now you’re off duty.’

‘ am not off duty,’ Paula said, teeth clenched and lips bared. ‘I am not even supposed to be here. I am supposed to be helping Chris deal with the avalanche of emails from the Best Days website so we can go back out tonight to Amatis with a pile of photos to see if we can ID any of them.’

Tony didn’t even flinch. ‘Well, maybe tomorrow, then?’

Paula kicked the end of his bed, hoping it hurt. ‘Stop playing the fool, Tony. You know the way we work. When there’s something big on, we work every hour God sends. There’s no such thing as overtime on the MIT. We sleep when it’s over.’

Tony shook his head. ‘Great speech, Paula. It might even work on somebody who doesn’t know how this MIT works. You talk a lot about teamwork. You fetishize the concept of a team. But I’ve seen you lot operate at close quarters. You’re like Real Madrid. A bunch of galacticos who ride your own hobby horses into the sunset. Sometimes you’re all riding in the same direction and it looks like you’re a team. But that’s more by accident than design.’

Paula stopped in her tracks, shocked to hear Tony speak that way about Carol Jordan’s pride and joy. She didn’t think he had it in him to be so blunt about them. ‘You’re wrong,’ she said. It wasn’t even defiance, just an automatic denial.

‘I’m not wrong. Every one of you, you’re desperately trying to prove something. You live the job. And you all want to be the best, so you all go off on your own little missions.’ He sounded angry now. ‘When it works, it’s great. And when it doesn’t…’

‘Don Merrick.’ Paula fought to keep her voice cold and emotionless.

Tony smacked his fist into the mattress. ‘Damn it, Paula, let it go. It wasn’t your fault.’

‘He wanted to show us all that he deserved his promotion. That he deserved to be one of our elite little band.’ Paula looked away. There were some things she still didn’t like Tony to see. ‘You’re right. We are a law unto ourselves.’

‘So help me here.’

He was, she thought, utterly implacable. It made him a great clinician, that refusal to take no for an answer. But it made him a right pain in the arse sometimes too. She wondered how Carol dealt with it. ‘If I can,’ she said. ‘No promises.’

‘No demands,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was important, Paula.’

She nodded, conscript and unwillingly complicit. ‘And if it all comes on top, I am blaming you.’

Tony laughed. ‘Of course you are. After all, if she tries to sack me, I can always evict her.’

Friday teatime on the Al was an experience guaranteed to fray the nerves of the most patient driver. It had been a long time since anyone had accused Sam Evans of patience and Carol Jordan was no better. Like most passengers, she was convinced she could get them there faster than the person behind the wheel. As they approached the Washington services, the traffic slowed to a halt. Lorries, vans and cars formed a frustrated clot of traffic, made worse by the opportunists who kept trying to peel off into another lane that seemed to be moving more quickly. Silver, white and black in the gathering gloom of the late afternoon, they formed a monochrome blot on the landscape. ‘This makes the decision for us,’ Carol said, waving at the wall of vehicles around them.

‘Sorry?’ Sam sounded as if she’d dragged him back reluctantly from a faraway place.

‘Whether to hit him at work or at home. It’s taken so long to get here, there’s no point in considering anything other than home.’ She flipped through the map sheets she’d printed out before they left. ‘We should have brought my car, it’s got GPS,’ she muttered as she tried to make sense of where they were in relation to where they wanted to be.

It took them the best part of an hour to find Rhys Butler’s address, a red-brick two-up, two-down in the middle of a terrace in one of a dozen identical streets leading down to the Town Moor. The house had an air of depressed dilapidation, as if it were only held up by the sheer willpower of its neighbours on either side. There were no lights visible and no car parked outside. Carol checked her watch. ‘He’s probably on his way home now. Let’s give it half an hour.’

They found a pub a few streets away. Busy and friendly, the atmosphere made up for the length of time since it had last had a makeover. It was packed with three distinct groups–young young men drinking pints of lager and wearing short-sleeved shirts with the tails hanging over their jeans and chinos; older men in sweatshirts and jeans, beanie hats crammed in their back pockets, hands rough from manual labour, drinking pints of bitter and Newcastle Brown Ale; and young women in outfits that would have looked optimistically skimpy in midsummer, their make-up inexpertly applied, necking Bacardi Breezers and vodka shots like they hoped to hell there would be no tomorrow. Everyone who noticed Carol and Sam stared, but not in a hostile way. It felt more like the look a naturalist would give a previously uncatalogued oryx–a bit exotic, but nothing to get too excited about, we’ve seen the likes of this before.

Carol pointed Sam at a table in the far corner and returned with a large vodka and tonic for herself and a mineral water for Sam. He looked at it in disgust. ‘You’re driving,’ she said.

‘So? I could still have had a lager shandy,’ Sam complained.

‘You don’t deserve it.’ Carol took a drink and gave him the hard stare. ‘I had time to think while we were driving up here. You’ve been up to your old tricks, haven’t you?’

His look of injured innocence was so on the money she nearly gave him the benefit of the doubt. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You didn’t dig this up this morning. You got too much too fast. You sneaked a peek when you were searching Robbie’s flat, didn’t you?’ She was guessing, but the shift of his eyes to the side told her she was right.

‘Does it matter?’ he said, stroppy as he could be with his boss. Which wasn’t really very belligerent at all. ‘I didn’t try and keep it to myself. I brought it to you once there was something to go at.’

‘Fair enough. But why wait? Why keep it to yourself at all? The only reason I can see is that you wanted more than just the credit for finding the lead. You wanted to show Stacey up at the same time. Because this was her part of the inquiry. So, her miss. Is that what it was about?’ Carol spoke so softly he had to lean forward to hear her. She thought she saw a blush colour his coffee skin but it could have been the warmth of the pub.

Sam looked away, apparently fascinated by the navel piercing of a woman at the next table. ‘I knew she was over-stretched. I wanted to make sure we didn’t miss anything.’

‘That’s bollocks, Sam. We’ve had inquiries with IT elements five times the size of this, and Stacey’s coped. Stacey would have caught this. Maybe a day or two later than you, but she would have caught it. You wanted to be the hero and at Stacey’s expense. We’ve been over this ground before.’ Carol shook her head. ‘I don’t want to lose you, Sam. You’re bright and you’re a grafter. But what I need more is to be able to trust everyone in the team to work together. I once saw a cheesy greetings card that said true love wasn’t about gazing into each other’s eyes. It was about standing shoulder to shoulder, facing in the same direction. Well, that’s what being in MIT is supposed to be like too. This is truly your final warning. If I catch you at this kind of thing again, you’ll be reassigned.’ She downed the rest of her drink in one without taking her eyes off him. ‘And now I’ll have a vodka and tonic, please.’

Carol watched him go. The anger was clear in his movements. She hoped there was something beyond the anger, something that would make him pause and consider his future. She wished there was a way of reaching out to him, to explain why she was being so tough on him. But she also knew that he would read it wrong, coming from her.

When he came back with her drink, he’d buried the anger. There was nothing in his demeanour to suggest he was anything other than the dutiful subordinate. ‘I was out of order,’ he said, not looking her in the eye. ‘At school, I was a runner, not a footballer. I never got the hang of it. Know what I mean?’

‘Oddly enough, I do.’ She sipped her drink. The single measure was so weak, it hardly seemed worth the bother. ‘What do you think? Time for another look?’

Ten minutes later, they were back outside Rhys Butler’s house. It was fully dark by now. And still no sign of life. ‘You think we should take a walk round the back?’ Sam said.

‘Why not?’ They walked down the street, almost to the corner. A break in the houses led them into the alley that ran the length of the back yards. Sam counted the houses as they went, stopping at last outside the back of Butler’s home. He tried the handle of the door in the wall and shook his head. Carol put her fingers behind her ear. ‘Did you hear that, Constable?’

Sam smiled. ‘Would that be the scream or the sound of breaking glass?’

‘Probably the scream,’ Carol said, stepping back to let Sam have a clear run at it. To hell with equality when the alternative meant you could escape the aching shoulder. He rammed the door, simultaneously turning the handle. The soft wood around the lock splintered and the door fell open.

The back yard seemed even darker than the alley because of the shadows cast by its high walls. No light came from the house. Carol reached into her bag and took out a rectangle of plasticized cardboard the size of a credit card. She flexed it and a narrow beam of light spread out from it. ‘Nifty,’ Sam said.

‘Christmas stocking.’

‘You’ve obviously got an in with Santa. I got socks.’

Carol moved the light around. The yard was more or less empty. An outside toilet occupied one corner, its door half-open. ‘He’s not been here long enough to accumulate much crap,’ she said. The back of the house had an L-shape, the kitchen jutting out towards them. Windows from the kitchen and the back room both looked on to the empty yard. Carol crossed to the kitchen window and angled the beam inside.

The kitchen was fitted with the dark wooden units popular in the seventies. It looked untouched since then. Carol could see an electric kettle, a toaster and a breadbin on the worktop opposite. In the sink, she could make out a bowl, a mug and a tumbler. On the draining board, a noodle bowl and a wine glass. Looking over her shoulder, Sam said, ‘Looks like he still hasn’t found Ms Right.’

Looks like home to me. Carol thought with a pang of recognition. She turned away and did her best to illuminate the other window. It looked as if the walls were a giant collage stretching right round the room.

‘Fuck,’ Sam said. ‘Looks like we hit the mother-lode.’

Before Carol could reply, she heard a noise behind her. The ticking of an idling bike wheel stood out against the steady thrum of traffic noise. She whirled round in time to see a man and a bike silhouetted in the doorway. ‘What the fuck?’ he shouted.

Sam charged, but he was too slow. The door slammed shut in front of him. Carol ran across to help him pull the door open but there wasn’t enough room for them both to gain purchase. ‘You’re too late,’ the voice from the other side yelled. ‘I’ve chained my bike to the door. You won’t be able to get it open. I’m calling the police, you dirty thieving bastards.’

‘We…’ Carol clamped her hand over Sam’s mouth before he could come up with the hackneyed line so beloved of comedy writers.

‘Shut up,’ she hissed. ‘If we tell him who we are and he’s guilty, he’ll be off into the night and we’ll have a hell of a job trying to find him. Let’s just chill until the local boys get here and sort it out then.’

‘But…’

‘No buts.’

They could hear the faint chirp of mobile phone keys being pressed. ‘Hello, police please…’ This was a nightmare, she thought.

‘You could give me a leg-up on to the toilet roof. It’s lower than the wall,’ Sam murmured. ‘At least I can keep an eye out, make sure he stays put.’

‘Bloody Keystone Cops,’ Carol muttered.

‘Yes, I’ve just caught two people trying to break into my house. I’ve got them trapped in my back yard…Butler. Rhys Butler.’ He gave them the address. ‘Like I said, they can’t get out, I’ve got them trapped…No, I won’t do anything silly, just wait till you get here.’ A pause then the voice shouted, ‘See? The police are on their way so don’t try anything stupid.’

‘We are never going to live this down,’ Carol sighed.

‘Help me to get up on the roof,’ Sam urged.

‘You just want to get a new suit on the firm,’ Carol said, following him round to the end of the toilet furthest from the gate. Nevertheless, she braced herself and made a cradle of her hands. She bent so Sam could get his foot anchored. ‘One, two, three,’ she breathed, straightening as he pushed himself off the ground.

Sam hit the roof at chest height, using the strength of his shoulders and upper arms to lever himself higher and on to the roof as Carol shouted, ‘You’re bang out of order, mate, you’re going to be so sorry,’ to cover the scrabbling of his body against the tiles.

‘You shut up,’ Butler shouted back. ‘The cops will be here soon and then you’ll be sorry you messed with me.’

It was, Carol thought, the bantam cock bravado of the small man with something to prove. Even in that short glimpse, she’d seen how slight Rhys Butler was. Taking on Robbie Bishop in a fist fight had been madness. All the more reason to take him on at arm’s length. ‘We’ll see who’s sorry,’ Carol shouted. ‘Little big man.’

She leaned against the toilet, pissed off and cold. She wasn’t given to standing on her dignity, but an episode like this would rocket round her own force and likely end up on somebody’s blog. Carol Jordan, captured by the villain she’d gone out to arrest.

It didn’t take long for the local bobbies to show up. Two of them, by the sounds of it. Butler, sounding over-excited as a birthday child, told them what he believed had happened. ‘I came home and there they were, breaking into my back room. They already broke the gate down, look, you can see where it’s all splintered, I had to chain my bike to the handle.’

Butler kept repeating himself. One of the cops evidently decided he’d had enough. ‘This is the police,’ he shouted. ‘We’re going to open the door now. I advise you to remain calm and stay where you are.’

Sam stuck his head over the edge of the roof. ‘Up or down, ma’am?’

‘Stay where you are,’ she grunted. ‘This is going to be very embarrassing.’ She took out her warrant card and held it in front of her. Various metallic noises came from the other side of the wall, then the door inched open. A very large man filled most of the doorway, his torch held at shoulder height and blinding her.

‘What’s going on here, then?’ he asked.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Jordan from Bradfield Police,’ she said. ‘And that-she gestured up to the roof; the torch beam followed her arm, ’-is Detective Constable Evans. And he-’ she pointed over the PC’s shoulder to where Butler was frowning next to the other uniformed officer, ‘-is Rhys Butler, whom I am about to invite to return to Bradfield with me to answer questions relating to the murder of Robbie Bishop.’

Butler’s mouth fell open and he took a step backwards. ‘You’re kidding,’ he said. Then, seeing the look on her face, he said, ‘You’re not, are you?’ And, predictably, he took to his heels.

He’d taken two steps when Sam landed on top of him, knocking the breath out of his lungs and two teeth out of his mouth.

It was going to be a very long, very farcical evening, Carol thought wearily.

Paula ran her thumb and index finger down the glass, making a path in the condensation. ‘So you see, I don’t know what to do for the best,’ she said. ‘On the one hand, I owe Tony for the help he gave me after…after I got hurt. On the other hand, I don’t want to go behind the chief’s back.’

Chris had a pile of photographs they’d printed from the emails Stacey had solicited. All of the subjects had been at school with Robbie and none of them had alibis other than partners or spouses for the previous Thursday. She sorted through them again, rearranging them according to some set of criteria known only to her. ‘You could always run it past her,’ she said.

‘According to Tony, she’s already blown it out of the water.’ Paula reached for the photos and looked through them critically. Most of them had printed up pretty well. They looked like people, as opposed to police mug shots.

Chris shrugged. ‘What you do on your own time is your own business. So long as you don’t do anything to jeopardize an existing investigation.’

‘But should I be doing it at all?’ As the evening had worn on, Paula had grown less convinced of the appropriateness of what Tony was asking.

Chris put her hands flat on the small bar table, thumbs underneath, as if she was going to tip it over in one swift movement. She looked down at her neatly manicured fingernails. ‘Once upon a time, there was somebody I thought I owed a favour to. Kind of like you with Tony, but for different reasons. She asked me for something. Just a phone number, that was all. A number I could get easily and she couldn’t, not without questions being asked. Anyway, I did the needful. And that was the first step on a journey that got her killed.’ Chris sniffed hard, then looked Paula straight in the eye. ‘I do not blame myself for what happened. If I hadn’t done her that favour, she would have found another way of getting what she wanted. What’s important to me is that when she called on me for help, I was there. When I think of her now, I know I didn’t let her down.’ Chris let go of the table and gave Paula a rueful smile. ‘It’s up to you. You know what it is to live with consequences. You have to think about where you might be with this six months, a year down the road.’

Paula was touched. Chris didn’t often share personal stuff, not even with her. She knew everybody else thought there was a special bond between the two of them because they were both lesbians, but they were wrong. Chris treated Paula exactly as she treated everyone else. No special favours. No secret intimacy. Just a sergeant and a constable who respected each other professionally and liked what they knew of each other. Paula was comfortable with that. She had friends enough outside work and the one time she had succumbed to a close friendship at work it had ended up causing her more grief than she cared to think about. But tonight’s revelation was a reminder that she still had a lot to learn about her sergeant. She nodded. ‘Point taken. The only question is when I’m going to be able to follow it up. It’s not like this is going to ease up any time soon.’

Chris glanced at her watch. ‘You could be in Sheffield by nine if you left now. That would give you time to talk to people in the pub. And if you check into a cheap motel, you could talk to the housekeeper first thing.’

Paula looked surprised. ‘But I’m supposed to…’

‘Kevin and I can manage Amatis. It’s probably a waste of time anyway. I’ll cover for you in the morning. If Carol gets lucky in Newcastle, she won’t even notice you’re not around.’

‘If she’s doing interviews, she might. She likes to pull me in on those if they get sticky.’

‘Good point.’ Chris smiled. ‘I’ll buy you a couple of hours. I can tell her you were exhausted and I told you to take your time coming in. But you need to do your bit. You need to make sure you catch up with the housekeeper bright and early. You think they do breakfast meetings in Rotherham?’

Paula grinned. ‘She’s Polish. They work all the hours God sends. She’ll totally get an early meeting.’

Chris shoved the pile of photos towards her. ‘You better take these. If it’s the same killer, he might be among this lot.’

‘What about you and Kevin?’

‘I’ll go back and print out another set. It won’t take long, not now Stacey’s got the file set up. If I call her now, she’ll have them done by the time I finish my drink and get back.’ She reached for her glass. ‘And you need to get your arse in gear, Constable.’

Paula didn’t need telling a second time. She scooped up the pictures and headed for the door, a bounce in her step. She didn’t want to think about how awkward it would be to prove Carol Jordan wrong. What she was focused on was proving Tony Hill right.

Paula had never done the lottery. A mug’s game, she’d thought. But as she walked into the Blacksmith’s Arms on the outskirts of Dore, she wondered if maybe she’d been wrong. Danny Wade’s house was only quarter of a mile away from the pub, and she’d swung past it on her way there. What she’d been able to see through the gates had made her whistle. She could think of lots of ways to fill a mansion like that without once having to resort to 00 gauge. She made a mental note to check out who was going to inherit. It never hurt to eliminate the obvious. Or not, as it often turned out.

The pub matched its environment. Paula reckoned it was a lot more modern than it looked. The ceilings were too high, for a start. She guessed the beams might be polystyrene, but it didn’t matter. They looked authentic. The bar was decked out with wood panelling and chintz, tables and chairs grouped so that it imitated a drawing room rather than a saloon bar. At one end of the room, old church pews flanked an inglenook fireplace where logs blazed on substantial iron fire dogs.

Paula guessed they had a lively lunchtime and weekend trade. But at quarter past nine on a Friday evening, it was much quieter than a city-centre bar would be. Half a dozen tables were occupied by couples and foursomes. They all looked like accountants and building society managers to her. Smartly dressed, nicely turned out, scarily interchangeable. Stepford couples. In her leather jacket, black jeans and solitude, she stuck out like a hoodie at a Tory fête. As she walked to the bar, she was aware of conversations pausing and heads turning. A middle-class version of Straw Dogs.

There were a couple of blokes sitting on high stools at the bar. Pringle sweaters and dark slacks. They could have wandered straight off the nearby golf course. As she drew nearer, she realized they were probably a couple of years younger than her. Barely in their mid-twenties, she guessed. She thought her dad probably had more sense of adventure. Probably right up Danny Wade’s street.

Paula smiled at the barman, who looked as if he’d be more at home in a Spanish karaoke bar than here. ‘What can I get you?’ he said in an accent that matched her preconception.

God, how weary she got of soft drinks when she was working. ‘Orange juice and lemonade, please, she said. As he prepared her drink, Paula pulled out the bundle of photos. There was no point beating about the bush in here. Nobody was going to become her friend. Not the Spanish barman, not the Nick Faldo clones, not the cosy couples. She had her ID ready when the drink was placed in front of her, precisely centred on the beermat. ‘Thanks. I’m a police officer.’

The barman looked bored. ‘It’s on the house,’ he said.

‘Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll pay for it.’

‘Up to you.’ He took the money and brought her change back. The Pringle twins were openly staring at her.

‘I’m investigating the death of Danny Wade. He lived up the road?’

‘He the one who got poisoned?’ The barman’s interest was barely awakened.

‘That’s what happens when you use cheap foreign labour,’ the Pringle nearest her said. He was either incredibly stupid, incredibly insensitive or incredibly offensive. Paula couldn’t be sure which. She’d have to wait for his next utterance to be sure.

‘Mr Wade was poisoned, yes,’ she said coolly.

‘I thought that was all sorted out,’ the other Pringle said. The housekeeper made a tragic mistake, isn’t that what happened?’

‘We just need to clear up one or two details,’ Paula said.

‘Bloody hell, are you saying she did it on purpose?’ Pringle One said, turning round properly and giving her an avid look.

‘Did you know Mr Wade, sir?’ she said.

‘Knew him to speak to.’ He turned to his friend. ‘We knew him to say hello, didn’t we, Geoff?’

Geoff nodded. ‘Just to chat at the bar, you know. He had a lovely pair of Lakeland Terriers, very well-behaved dogs. In the summer, he’d bring them down with him and sit out in the beer garden. What happened to the dogs? Carlos, do you know what happened to the dogs?’ He looked at the barman expectantly.

‘I have no idea.’ Carlos carried on polishing glasses.

‘Was he always on his own?’ Paula asked. ‘Or did he come in with friends.’

Pringle One snorted. ‘Friends? Do me a favour.’

‘I was told that he ran into an old school friend in here recently. You don’t remember that?’

‘I remember,’ said Carlos. ‘You two know the guy. He came in a few times on his own, then one night Danny came in and he recognized him, this other guy. They had a couple of drinks together over by the fire.’ He pointed across the room. ‘Vodka and Coke, that’s what he drank.’

‘Do you remember anything else about him?’ Paula asked, deliberately casual. Never make them think it’s important; then they want to please you, so their imagination fills in the blanks.

The Pringles shook their heads. ‘He always had a book with him,’ Carlos said. ‘A big book, not like usual.’ With his hands, he described something about eight inches by ten. ‘With pictures. Flowers, gardens I think.’

‘Not enough to do with your time, that’s your trouble,’ Pringle One pronounced.

Paula spread the pictures across the bar. ‘Do you see him here?’

All three crowded round. Geoff shook his head dubiously. ‘Could be any one of these,’ he said, pointing to three dark-haired, blue-eyed men with thin faces.

The barman frowned, picking up a couple of the pictures to study them more closely. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘Is not them. Is this one.’ He put his index finger on a fourth shot and pushed it towards Paula. This image had dark hair and blue eyes. His face was long, like the other three, but much broader across the eyes, narrowing to a blunt chin. ‘His hair is shorter now, combed to the side. But it’s him.’

Geoff stared at the chosen photo. ‘I wouldn’t have picked that one, but now I look at it…you could be right.’

‘I spend all my time looking at faces, matching them to drinks,’ Carlos said. ‘I’m pretty sure this is him.’

‘Thank you. That’s very helpful. Did you happen to hear any of their conversation?’ Paula asked, gathering the photos together with the identified shot on top.

‘No,’ Carlos said. ‘My English is not good enough for this kind of talk.’ He spread his hands in so foreign a gesture that Paula instinctively knew he was lying. All I do is take orders for drinks and food.’

Yeah, right. She’d be talking to him again, she suspected. ‘Never mind,’ she said, her smile reassuring. ‘You’ve been very helpful. I might have to come back and talk to you again, Carlos.’ She produced her notebook. ‘Maybe you could write down your full name and contact details?’

While he wrote, she turned her attention back to the Pringles. ‘Have you seen that bloke in here again, after the night he met up with Danny?’

They exchanged glances. Geoff shook his head. ‘Haven’t seen hide nor hair of him, have we?’

As if he’d accomplished his mission and didn’t have to come back. Paula gathered up her notebook and made her escape. Back at the car, she stared at the photo Carlos had identified. Number 14. According to Stacey’s key, this was Jack Anderson. He hadn’t sent in his own photo. He’d been one of a group of three in someone else’s picture. But he’d been to Harriestown High, and he’d overlapped with Robbie Bishop.

Paula looked at the clock on the dashboard. Only quarter to ten. She was due to meet Jana Jankowicz at eight. She could either find a cheap motel in Sheffield and sleep badly or head back to Bradfield for a few comfortable hours in her own bed. And that way she’d be able to show her face at Amatis. Maybe they’d get lucky and pick up a second ID on the photo. For sure, she would pay back some of the favour Chris Devine had granted her. For Paula, who always preferred debtors to debts, it was no contest.