Текст книги "Time to Die"

Автор книги: Caroline Mitchell

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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Chapter Forty-Two

Jennifer found Ethan at the entrance to a disused warehouse at the south-facing end of the old chalk quarry. It had been closed off to the public several years ago, situated at the back of the industrial site, miles away from town. Barbed-wire fences and signs threatening prosecution were usually enough to see people off, but it was a desolate enough location to provide shelter for The Reborners group without being found. Police had searched it when the investigation began, and Jennifer wondered if the group was relying on lightning not striking twice in the same place. The warehouse was large and draughty, and someone had covered the chalky floor with numerous blankets and cushions, all laid in a circular pattern. The centre culminated in a collection of bungs, lighters, and pipes. Jennifer scanned the room for Bert Bishop, the man who called himself the Raven. It was obvious she was the last one to arrive, as the dregs of the occupants were questioned, some being led out in handcuffs. Ethan gave the scene a murderous glare as he waited to confront the head of the operation. Jennifer was not surprised to hear it was a fresh-out-of-the-box DCI. Underhand dealings went a long way to winning promotion, but would award him little respect from his colleagues.

‘Why was the location messaged at such late notice?’ Jennifer said, peering into the scene.

Ethan pulled an electronic cigarette from his inside jacket pocket and inhaled the vapour. He seemed too clean-cut to use them, but all coppers had their coping mechanisms, much like Jennifer with her swearing and office banter. He blew out the smoke, before turning to answer. ‘That’s how the group works. New members aren’t trusted. They only receive notification once the sessions are in progress. Sometimes they get there for the tail end. The message came in just as Zoe was in interview with her domestic suspect. She knew something was up when she checked Facebook, because someone had replied on her behalf.’

‘Sneaky bastards. How did they do that?’

‘It’s a police-authorised social media account. It wouldn’t have been difficult to get the password, with the right authorisation.’

‘I take it they haven’t found him … the Raven,’ Jennifer said; she had thought not, judging by her DI’s disgruntled expression.

‘Of course they haven’t. We’d planned for Zoe to infiltrate the group slowly and put her undercover experience to good use, but they just went bowling in there.’

‘So what now?’ Jennifer said.

‘You head back to the nick with Zoe while I speak to the DCI here. Zoe’s waiting in the car, there’s no point in compromising her identity,’ Ethan said, his voice tinged with annoyance.

‘But what about the interviews, boss? Shouldn’t we head back to Lexton to get the ball rolling?’

‘No. Take Zoe back to Haven and await further instruction,’ Ethan said firmly.

Jennifer sighed. There was no reasoning with him when he was like this. He was too busy gearing up for turf wars, police style.

Zoe’s black baseball hat sat low on her forehead during the drive back to the station, reminding Jennifer of a sullen teen. She was relieved she turned down Zoe’s offer to drive. She seemed to be in a worse mood than Ethan, and that was saying something.

‘They’ve made some drug arrests, and seized some DMT,’ Jennifer said. ‘Hopefully they’ll be able to get some decent intel in interview.’

‘Not with those bunch of clowns interviewing them,’ Zoe said. ‘They don’t know what they’re dealing with.’

‘I don’t get how people have kept quiet about it for so long. It’s been going on for months now, I would have thought someone would have given their location away.’

Zoe slouched in her seat. ‘There’s no chance of that. They know what happens to people who squeal.’

‘If they’re so scared, why are so many people desperate to join? Is it for the drugs or the promise of redemption? DMT’s not addictive, is it?’

‘It’s not about addiction. The people who join The Reborners have lived very troubled lives. The cult makes big promises, and it delivers. DMT is mindblowing. It can literally help people become born again.’

‘Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.’

Zoe lifted her cap, giving Jennifer a sly grin. ‘If I had, I wouldn’t admit it to a fellow copper. I like my job too much.’

Jennifer smiled. The more she talked to Zoe, the more intriguing she became. ‘But the effects are hallucinatory. Aren’t all drugs are like that?’

‘They’re not random trips, lots of people report visiting the same spiritual dimension. It’s a process. Each time you do it, you progress further, receiving messages, communicating with higher realms. The drug doesn’t stay in your system like others do, but the psychological effects are long term.’

‘Why are people killing themselves, if it’s so great?’

‘DMT fucks up your head for one, and can give you flashbacks. Long-term users can disassociate themselves from reality, although it’s beyond me how anyone can do DMT for very long. It’s not like recreational drugs, it’s heavy shit – and if you have a bad trip …’ Zoe whistled. ‘It’s enough to make you lose your mind.’

‘Hence the suicides. So what happened when you did it?’ Jennifer asked.

Zoe smiled knowingly. ‘Cheeky. We’d have to be on intimate terms for me to tell you that.’

Jennifer smiled as she pulled into the station car park, feeling very much like she was being flirted with. ‘You know, I’d never take drugs, but if I was held at gunpoint and forced to choose one …’

‘Then choose weed,’ Zoe said. ‘DMT’s not for you. Believe me, babe, you don’t want to go there.’

[#]

The first thing Jennifer did when she got back to the station was log on to the custody system to read the updates on the arrests. The updates were disappointing, with five people nicked, out of a group of over fifty members. Five people, in a drug-fuelled oblivion, who spoke of meeting mother earth and beings from another dimension. None of them stood out as having any prior dealings with the police, and one was actually a vicar. Jennifer swivelled her chair around as Claire exited her office.

‘Sarge, check this out. One of the suspects is a vicar! Hopefully he’ll have an attack of conscience and give us some names.’

‘From what I’ve heard so far, not many people were privy to names,’ Claire said, flatly. ‘Their so-called leader wore a mask.’

Zoe piped up. ‘Interesting, reminds me a bit of the Wizard of Oz. I wonder if Bert Bishop was the one behind the curtain?’

Claire folded her arms and sat on the edge of her desk. ‘We’ll be the last ones to know if he is. Ethan’s just called in. He doesn’t want us helping Lexton with the interviews.’

Jennifer frowned, her voice rising in her throat. ‘What? He can’t do that!’

‘He has,’ Claire said. ‘He’s had a bust-up with the DCI and threatened to cut all ties. He’s told me to inform you that from now on we keep our own cases.’

‘But what about this case?’ Jennifer said. ‘We need to speak to the suspects in custody.’

Claire emitted a sigh. ‘I’m sorry. This is my fault. I should have insisted we kept ownership from the start. Ethan will be back later. He’ll explain things then.’

Jennifer decided not to impart the response resting on her tongue, instead nodding in mock understanding. Lexton had been using them all along. She lowered her eyes to the floor, too annoyed to speak. She would go it alone if she had to. She had a connection with the Raven, something Lexton MIT couldn’t comprehend. He would be hers, even if it meant risking her job.

Chapter Forty-Three

‘Thanks for arranging to meet up, Jenny,’ Christian said, as Jennifer rested the cappuccinos on the table. She took a seat in his booth, adjusting her ears to the chatter of a language she did not understand. The town had been flooded with foreign students during the Easter break, and Haven’s coffee shops and eateries now came filled with noisy queues. She returned her attention to Christian. Clean-shaven and well-dressed, he appeared a lot more together than the last time they met. It felt like the old days, meeting up for a coffee in town.

She had forgotten many of her school friends to concentrate on her career, but her friendship with Christian was something she was happy to resurrect, particularly if she gleaned any new information about the Raven. Jennifer felt a pang of sympathy, wondering if Christian’s showbiz friends had deserted him now he was in the throes of grief.

‘Everyone calls me Jennifer now,’ she said. ‘I left Jenny behind after I finished school. How are you doing?’

Christian wrapped his hands around his mug. ‘It comes in waves. I feel guilty for talking about Felicity all the time, because people must be getting sick of hearing me go on about her. The problem is, I can’t think of anything else.’

‘Well you can talk to me. I know what it’s like to lose a loved one.’ Jennifer stirred in her sugar, wishing they had arranged to meet somewhere quieter. She leaned forward, resisting the urge to rest her hand on his. ‘I won’t tell you that you’ll get over it because you won’t, but it will get easier as time goes by.’

Christian nodded slowly. ‘My mother keeps telling me I should go for grief counselling, but I want to wait a few weeks, see how I feel then.’

‘That sounds sensible. I remember when my mum died I didn’t want to talk about her to anyone. Now … well, I’m moving forward with my life, and I think she’d be happy about that.’

Christian drew in a small intake of breath. ‘How insensitive of me, waffling on about myself after you losing your mum at such an early age.’

‘Don’t be daft. I don’t have the monopoly on grief,’ Jennifer said, relieved to hear the cacophony of noise float out of the building as the foreign students disappeared with their takeaway cups.

Christian gave a faint smile. ‘I can’t tell you how good it is to meet up with someone from the old days. The showbiz scene is everything I ever wanted, but some of the people I work with are very jaded. That’s what I liked about Felicity, she was so exuberant, so full of life. She loved being in the spotlight, but she never forgot her humble beginnings.’

Jennifer thought of the young girl, due to get married with her whole life ahead of her. ‘I’m sorry, Christian. You know if there was anything I could have done to have stopped this …’

‘Don’t think that for a second, and I didn’t mean what I said before about warning you something was going to happen. The only person to blame for this is my cousin. I’m convinced of it now. I haven’t had one phone call from him since Felicity died. Killing Felicity was revenge for me refusing to take him in.’ Christian paused to swallow his coffee. ‘I’ve written down some things about my cousin that I didn’t mention before; perhaps it might help with your enquiries.’

Christian spent the next twenty minutes filling Jennifer in on his cousin’s strange behaviour: what he knew about his background, what his mother had told him about Bert’s family, and his last contact. But it was nothing Jennifer had not already gleaned from Dr Carter.

Her phone began to vibrate on the table and she frowned at the unknown number. ‘Sorry, Christian, do you mind if I take this?’

‘Go ahead, I’ll get us another coffee.’

Jennifer gave him the thumbs-up sign as she pressed the answer button. She really should be heading back, but Christian had brightened so much since coming out, she didn’t have the heart to say goodbye.

‘Hello?’ Jennifer said as she answered her phone. There was silence on the other end. She strained her ears to hear breathing in the background. She was in no mood to deal with a prank caller. ‘You have three seconds to speak or I’m hanging up. One … Two …’

‘Wait, Jennifer, it’s me.’

Jennifer frowned. ‘Who?’ The answer came as soon as she had uttered the words.

‘It’s me, dad.’

Her stomach flipped. It was her turn to remain silent, and it took several hellos before she spoke.

‘How did you get my number?’ she said, a trickle of fury rising within.

‘I took it from Amy’s phone.’

‘You took it, not asked for it I presume.’

‘I don’t want to argue, Jenny, I just want to talk.’

Jennifer cringed at the sound of her name being shortened for the second time that day. It served as a reminder of a past she would rather forget. ‘It’s Jennifer. And I don’t want to talk to you.’

‘You seem to be carrying a lot of anger. I think it would be good for us to talk about things, move forward.’

You want to blame me for everything you mean, Jennifer thought. She glanced around the coffee shop. She wouldn’t put it past him to be watching her, gauging her reaction. So she did what she always did when she was trying to conceal her fury. She put on her best telephone voice and responded the same way she did to the cold callers that plagued her home number. ‘No thank you, I’m perfectly happy as I am. Now if you don’t mind I’m in the middle of something. Please don’t bother me again.’

Jennifer swiftly ended the call and switched her phone to silent. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, and opened them to find Christian sitting in front of her. His awkward smile displayed his discomfort. ‘Sorry. Private call?’

She shrugged apologetically as she accepted another coffee. ‘It’s my dad. I haven’t heard from him in a decade and suddenly he wants to be friends.’

‘I take it that you don’t want to?’ Christian said.

Jennifer tore off the strips from two sugar sachets and poured their contents into the hot, frothy liquid. The chocolate powder design sank with the brown sugar, and she watched it all dissolve as she stirred it together.

‘You don’t know my father. He can’t take responsibility for anything, including his own emotions. He’ll always look for something, or someone, to fix things, because he can’t do it himself. He tried it with the booze and now he’s trying it with me. I’m not having it.’

‘Sounds like you’ve given it a lot of thought.’

Jennifer gave a short laugh. ‘You could say that. And I know people would say that life is short, and I should make up with him, but it’s because life is short that I’m keeping well away. I don’t want to waste my time with him.’ She glanced up from her coffee, trying to read his expression. ‘You probably think I’m a real cow.’

‘Actually you’re wrong. I remember what it was like for you growing up. From what I heard, your father was no help at all.’

‘Oh yeah? You must have thought we were a right band of commoners,’ Jennifer said, remembering her old school days. The darned tights, the second-hand uniforms. Christian was right. Her father was of no help at all.

‘I wouldn’t say that. I remember my parents talking about what a great police officer your mother was. Mum used to say that she made it her business to know everyone in Haven. Of course, the place was a lot smaller back then. But they were very sad when she died. I don’t think your father was seen as a bad person, but it was no secret that he liked a drink. I think you’ve done very well with your life, considering all the upset you’ve been through.’

Jennifer may have taken offence if anyone else had dissected her home life like that, particularly people who had come from a privileged background themselves. But there was something about Christian’s honeyed tones that made her feel better. Despite what he was going through himself, he still tried to provide comfort and reassurance to others. It just seemed to come naturally to him.

‘Thanks. My days of dwelling on the past are behind me. I just want to move on,’ Jennifer said, knowing that was not strictly true.

Christian displayed a smile full of warmth and empathy. ‘I know it was the worst possible circumstances but I’m glad we were thrown together. In my line of work you just don’t know who your real friends are.’

‘I’ve enjoyed it. We’ll have to do this again.’ Jennifer looked at her watch then downed the rest of her coffee. ‘I’m afraid I have to dash, but thanks for the coffees, my treat next time.’

Christian left with Jennifer as she pulled on her jacket. ‘If you hear anything about Bert you’ll let me know, won’t you? I can’t relax at night, knowing he’s still out there. I told the kids’ mum they can’t stay over until he’s caught. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to them.’

‘Your home is like Fort Knox, and the police are all over this. As soon as he’s apprehended I’ll let you know.’

‘He’s here somewhere,’ Christian said, as they entered the car park. ‘Haven is such a rat run of lanes and hideaways, but he can’t stay hidden forever.’

‘Exactly. And as soon as he comes out, we’ll be waiting. Just call me if you have any concerns, but in the meantime just take each day as it comes.’

Christian reached out his arms to give her a hug. It was one of the things she liked about him. He was never afraid to show his emotions.

Jennifer waved Christian off as he drove past, leaning against her car, mulling over her father’s call. She took her phone out to delete the recent call history then paused. Perhaps it’s better to keep his number, she thought, in case I need to get in touch. Her finger hovered over the delete button. Then again, I could save it under ‘Twat’ and then I’d know if he tried to call me again, she thought. She giggled to herself, and saved it under the letter ‘D’ for dad. It was as much as he deserved.

Her eyes flicked up to the sky and she was relieved to see an absence of ravens. Pinkish candy-floss clouds streaked the sky, intermingling with white smoky chemtrails as the sun went down. One of her mother’s sayings repeated in her mind. ‘Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight.’ Jennifer wondered what sort of worries her mum had at her age. Not serial killers and rabid ravens. As far as she knew, her mother dealt with only one killer in her lifetime. Jennifer shook her head. Only one. As if dealing with lots of serial killers was normal. For Jennifer, she knew terror would seek her out in every form. At least now she felt strong enough to know she would cope with whatever was thrown at her. Life had changed so much in the last year, yet she was feeling stronger now than ever. She was her own woman, had her own independence, and the strength to stand up to her father. Even the memories of the past could not hurt her any more. It was just as well. She would never truly be free of it.

Chapter Forty-Four

Bert

Bert peered through the car window down the quiet cul de sac. His time on the streets was severely restricted, now Haven was crawling with police. It wasn’t the only thing that was crawling; the intense itching had returned like fire ants, boring tunnels under the surface of his skin. He had seen it in the cards. There would be another death before the homeless man’s prediction came true.

It could not come quick enough as far as Bert was concerned. A mixture of torture and excitement heightened his senses. His cards had led him here, where all the houses looked the same, their low brick walls skirted by small neat flower gardens. All square, boring and functional. Not like the house he shared with mother. But mother was gone. He accepted that now. The cause of her death was murky. Had he really killed her? Or had he frightened her before he left, wrapping his fingers around her throat, only to release them as she cried out for mercy? Years of drug-taking had addled his brain. But it was not the recreational kind. The memories of The Rivers mental health facility had slowly returned, ebbing like the tide, bringing him nearer to lucidity. The closer he got to his end goal, the clearer his mind became.

He returned his attention to the task in hand. Net curtains twitched next door as a silver Mercedes pulled up on a driveway, the glint of the evening sun dazzling against the metallic paint. A pair of long bronzed legs stepped out of the driver’s side, attached to a pair of red high heels. Despite her short leather mini skirt and low-cut blouse, the woman alit with reasonable grace. Her long black hair contrasting against her sheer white blouse, she tottered to the boot of the car, wrapping her polished nails around the handles of the various pink glossy shopping bags. Bert squinted as she dropped her car keys, bending from the waist to pick them up. He tutted as he leaned forward for a better view. He could almost see her knickers as her skirt rode up her thighs. This woman clearly did not care about revealing her body to all and sundry. The next-door neighbour’s curtains twitched a second time as the woman walked up her short drive with her purchases. Bert pulled his keys from the ignition and stepped out of the van. She was too wrapped up in her purchases to notice, and closed her front door behind her.

Bert felt a chill of unease. The bright spring weather left him exposed under the gaze of the surrounding houses, and he hesitated as he stepped onto the pavement. A crawling itch behind his right ear drove him onwards, and he tipped his hat over his forehead as he strode down the narrow alleyway. It acted as a cut-through between the house to his side and the one in front, affording him a clear view into the rear of the house with the twitching curtains. Bert peeped into the scrubby back garden, furnished with a homemade wooden tree house and glass house devoid of plants. The overgrown grass and lack of toys suggested the two-storey home was bereft of children. The tree house consisted of what appeared to be a hastily nailed together floor, supported by three rickety walls and a roof.

Bert ducked from view as a pot-bellied man exited the back door. His vest had seen better days, and even from over the fence, Bert could see it was stained with the remains of his lunch. The grey hairs running through his mop of sandy hair suggested he was at least late fifties. Peppered sideburns crept down his jaws, met by a patch of stubble. Pot-belly man waddled down the path humming happily. He hitched up his baggy jeans before beginning the ascent up the wooden steps of the dingy tree house. Bert cringed as the man’s pants crept back down with every step he took, revealing the crack of his considerable backside. But it was of no concern to pot-belly man as he struggled to climb the ladder. His binoculars swung with each step, attached on a cord around his thick neck. Once inside, he pulled up a chair and stared expectantly through his binoculars. For a moment, Bert thought the man was bird watching, until it became apparent he was staring directly into the top window of the house next door. Bert rolled a cigarette, trying to look innocuous as he heard the hum of a car motor pulling up behind the Mercedes. As the car door slammed, pot-belly man beamed a smile, shifting in his chair as he leaned forward for a better view. What on earth? Bert thought, as the watcher’s thick fingers single-handedly undid his belt buckle. Unable to see the focus of his excitement, Bert crept down the alley for a better view. But it was no use; although the room next door had no curtains or blinds, he was unable to see from his vantage point. Bert sucked the last of his cigarette and flicked it on the ground. He had other ways of finding out.

He returned to his mother’s car, averting his eyes from the unsavoury activity in the tree house. Just how was he going to speak to him? It wasn’t as if he could knock on his door and offer a reading. But like everything in Bert’s life, the cards would guide him into finding a way.

The answer came the following morning as Bert ventured out with his van. He took the country lanes, rather than the main road that led him into town. They served not only as a useful short cut, but as excellent cover from the sharp-eyed locals on the lookout for suspicious activity. He tried to have confidence in his mission, but it was difficult to blend in when you were driving a rusted orange VW splodged with bird droppings.

He did not see the bicycle shoot out of the side road until it was too late. Bert stamped on the brakes, sending the van screeching to a halt, but the man he had watched the day before hit the panel with a thunk, before skidding off his bike onto the verge.

Bert clambered out of the van, wondering if this was a random accident or all part of a greater plan. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, reluctant to offer his hand. He hesitated, and then remembered his gloves before pulling them on and reaching out to help.

‘I … I don’t know what happened, I think my brakes failed.’ Pot-belly man spoke in a scouse accent, groaning as he climbed to his feet. He brushed away the pebbles embedded in his face, each one blooming a pinprick of blood in its wake. He shook the dust from the knees of his baggy jeans, and then straightened up to inspect the damage to the van. Shaking his head, he stared at his mangled bike. ‘That could have been me under there. Have I damaged your van?’

Bert looked at the gnarled metal of his bike partially lodged under the bumper. ‘That’s all right, it doesn’t matter.’ He tried to contain the tingle of excitement sparking inside him. The perfect opportunity had landed in his lap, and it would be worth a dent in the van to get the man alone. ‘Just hold on while I pull it out,’ he said, wrenching at the handlebars and pulling it free. The wheel was completely buckled, and he leaned what was left of the bike against the van, and turned to survey the man’s injuries.

‘Can I call you an ambulance?’ Bert said, half-heartedly. ‘Your elbow’s bleeding.’

The man looked down at his elbow, the skin patterned with freshly forming blood patches. ‘No, thanks mate, I don’t need the ozzy. I’d better be getting back before it gets dark.’ Taking the bike, he stifled a groan as he limped forwards.

Bert put his hands on the handlebars of the bent-up bike. ‘Let me run you home, I insist.’

‘That’s proper kind of you. The name’s Geoffrey by the way. I’d shake your hand but it’s a bit sore like.’

Bert decided against offering his own name in return. ‘No problem. Come in for a drink, you look like you’re about to faint.’

Bert slid back the side door of the van and Geoffrey climbed inside, looking around in amazement as Bert flicked on the lights and showed him a seat.

Geoffrey squeezed in behind the jutting Formica table, resting his belly under the wood. Bowing his head, he clasped his hand to his jaw as he sat slumped with a sigh.

Bert handed Geoffrey a large brandy, mentally offsetting the costs against what was to come.

‘Nice one, mate. I’m not holding you up, am I?’ Geoffrey said, swirling the brandy in the chipped enamel cup.

‘Not at all, I’ve finished my work for today,’ Bert said, faking his cheeriest smile.

‘Oh, I thought maybe you were retired. Things ’aven’t been the same for me since I was made redundant.’

Bert nodded sympathetically. ‘I’m a tarot card reader. I have clients up and down the country. Would you like me to read your cards?’ Bert did not wait for a response as he plucked the musty deck of cards from his jacket pocket and placed them on the faded yellow Formica table.

Geoffrey frowned, but Bert knew that even if he did not believe in such things, he would not want to hurt his new friend’s feelings while he was being so hospitable; particularly when he was willing to ignore the dent on the front of the van.

‘Sure why not,’ Geoffrey said, ‘me sister’s into all this, she goes to the spiritualist church and everything.’

‘And what about you?’ Bert said, licking his cracked lips as he shuffled the cards.

‘No disrespect, mate, but I don’t believe in all that stuff. Still, each to their own, eh?’

Bert laid down the cards and picked up the brandy bottle, clinking it against Geoffrey’s ceramic cup. ‘Here, have another drink.’

Bert felt the raven draw near as he rifled through Geoffrey’s past. As cine-camera images flashed to the forefront of his mind, he recounted Geoffrey’s early days as a mechanic in Liverpool, before he hurt his back and moved to Haven to be near his sister. He got a job as a factory packer and came close to marrying, but being made redundant caused his fiancée to break off the engagement. Geoffrey had since resigned himself to living alone.

Geoffrey shook his head in amazement. ‘This is a wind-up. You’ve been speaking to my sister, haven’t you?’

Bert raised an eyebrow in his direction. ‘If that were the case I wouldn’t be able to forecast what you’ve been up to of an evening now, would I?’

Geoffrey giggled, the brandy bringing a bloom to his cheeks. ‘Oh yeah? And what would that be?’

Bert replied in a low voice, as he eyed the man with some disdain. ‘I know that you like to spy on the woman next door.’

‘Sexy Mandy? So would you if you’d seen her. Phwoar, she’s dynamite!’

Bert was astounded. The man wasn’t even ashamed of his actions.

‘She’s married,’ Bert said. Even from a distance he had seen the flash of gold on her finger.

‘I know, lucky bastard. I don’t know what he did to deserve her. She’s a right little goer,’ Geoffrey chuckled, apparently none the wiser to his drinking buddy’s disgust.

‘It’s voyeurism,’ Bert said, his words measured. Now was not the time for anger.

But Geoffrey did not hear him. ‘Last night she had on a black PVC bra, a fishnet vest and PVC pants. She goes shopping for all this gear then tries it on for her auld fella when he gets home from work. It’s better than watching Television X!’

‘It sounds like my predictions have been true. Let’s look into your future.’

‘Sure thing, mate, let me know if I score a night with that bird from next door.’

Bert steeled himself as he watched the last moments of Geoffrey’s life unravel before him. Ironically, the sequence that led to his death occurred after another evening of watching Mandy perform for her husband. Bert tightened his lips, reining in his smile.

‘You’re going to break your neck climbing down from that tree house,’ he said. Tipping off the man was the last thing he wanted to do, but giving the warning was all part of the reading and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

But Geoffrey burst out laughing, his large belly vibrating against the table. ‘Thanks, mate, you’ve given me a right giggle there. Next thing you’ll be telling me wanking makes me blind. I feel much better now, but I think it’s time I made a move.’