Текст книги "Scarred for Life"

Автор книги: Kerry Wilkinson

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

Along the bottom of the picture, everyone’s name had been painstakingly listed, so Jessica had no problem finding Logan Walkden in the back row, standing tall and proud, hands behind his back, neck pushed forward like a strutting turkey; or Declan Grainger standing next to him, shorter and looking a little like a beaver with big front teeth. Partially hidden behind them was a flag that showed the school crest: something in Latin that Jessica couldn’t make out over the top of a fleur-de-lis.

Jessica glanced across the cafe at the three students still wearing their PE kits. One of them was showing something on his phone to the others and all three nudged each other with their elbows and howled with laughter.

Suddenly things began to make sense. No one would make the connection, because why would they?

Jessica could see in Garry’s face that he wasn’t quite there yet. ‘Are they working together?’ he asked.

‘How many people do you still know from school?’

Garry shrugged. ‘Hardly anyone – one or two from university.’

Jessica allowed herself a small smile. She also knew at least two of the people he knew from university. ‘Remember when Dave Rowlands was giving you stories on the quiet and no one could figure out where you were getting them from?’ Garry started to protest but Jessica cut across him. ‘All right, been there and done that. Let’s just say you operated on a nod and a wink. Nobody ever looked into the fact that you could know each other because no one ever does. The only reason somebody might realise that a person is an old school friend is if you introduce them that way – especially if you come from a big city.’

‘So these people are all friends . . . ?’

‘Grammar schools were before our time – but we both know it’s where young people went after passing the eleven-plus exam. You had to have something about you to go in the first place, so let’s assume everyone in this photo was relatively clever. Now let’s guess that the names of the people we know were somewhere near the top of the class: look at what they’ve achieved – business owners, an Olympian, an assistant chief constable and so on. You must remember being at school and there were always a few kids everyone knew were going to go on and do something half-decent?’

‘Yeah, then there were the other kids you knew would be serving you at the local Spar for the next ten years.’

Jessica laughed softly: ‘Exactly. It’s the ninety per cent in the middle you don’t know about. When I found out they were all the same age, it reminded me of something Holden said – “Everyone wants to be wanted, don’t they? It’s about feeling a part of something.”’

‘So you think this lot were part of a club?’

‘Perhaps. It might not be as formal as any of that. You don’t need a grand meeting house, or some secret cigar lounge; all you need is a nod and a wink. There’s no need to ever acknowledge each other publicly – I’d bet this is the only photo you’ll ever find of them together, unless there was a twenty-year reunion and so on. Don’t invite each other to weddings, don’t have them as godparents to your children, and why would anyone ever suspect?’

Garry was beginning to get excited, sensing a story that Jessica knew he’d never be able to write. He just didn’t know it yet.

He pointed at Declan Grainger. ‘So this guy is on the council and has a large say in planning – and he gave a big project worth millions to this guy?’ He pointed at Freddy Bunce.

‘Exactly. I’ll bet if you work your way around the names, you’ll find others too.’

Garry pointed to a face Jessica didn’t recognise. ‘He’s a lawyer. He owns a firm in the city.’

‘Think of the chain: you only need a few key people. Perhaps Logan Walkden decides he wants to build a golf course. He needs someone who could give planning permission, a lawyer to sort all the paperwork out, someone who owns a building company, a landscaper for the course, and so on. At the end of all that, there’s an awful lot of money swilling around, but unless you make a big deal over the fact the person you’re shaking hands with is someone you once went to school with, then why would anyone ever know? How many things like that have happened over the years? When you throw councillors into the mix with public money, you could be talking a fortune. It’s like when you’re looking for a builder or a plumber – you always ask a friend and they’ll say: “Oh, I know a guy . . .”’

‘And if you’ve got a high-up police officer in there, then if ever there’s a problem with a person asking questions, you have someone to put a bit of pressure on . . .’

Jessica suddenly felt vulnerable, hoping that wasn’t true but acknowledging that Garry was only confirming her own theory.

Perhaps sensing that, Garry tried to shoot it down: ‘It’s a bit limited, isn’t it? Not everyone in this picture is going to be successful?’

‘That’s why you would occasionally need to bring new people in. You wouldn’t need that many – just a select few in key positions.’

Finally, Garry got it: ‘. . . Like Damon Potter?’

‘His dad is local, which would be important too. It would all be about keeping wealth among yourselves, so you don’t want someone that’s going to disappear off to London to build a property empire. I met Damon’s father – he’s called Francis and runs a haulage firm in the city. After university, Francis was going to help his son set up any business that he wanted. He’d have been the perfect person for the St Flora people to bring in. You want those who are young, rich and have a promising future.’

‘So you think the Olympic rowing guy tried to recruit Damon and then . . . ?’

Jessica shook her head. ‘James Jefferies is in a wheelchair and doesn’t even seem to like students. He might have been the one that made the phone calls to try to get the members to change their stories about what Holden Wyatt was doing on the night Damon died – he even told us he had students’ phone numbers – but I wouldn’t have thought he was otherwise involved.’

‘Why would he want them to change their stories?’

Jessica took a deep breath. She didn’t know for certain but the small amount of evidence she did have was staring out of the picture at her in grainy black and white. She pressed an index finger to his face. ‘To protect this guy.’

44

Jessica knew she had only one way of getting justice for Damon Potter – and it involved her doing something she’d spent the past few weeks avoiding.

She knocked on DCI Cole’s office door and waited as he held a hand up. He was on the phone again, facing the wall, avoiding accidental eye contact. Eventually, he waved her in, making a point of checking his watch: it was time for them to go home.

‘I need to talk to you about something, Sir.’

‘Can it wait until tomorrow?’

‘No.’

Cole yawned, making no effort to hide it, and turned to face his computer screen. ‘Go on then.’

Jessica sat opposite him but didn’t know where to start. Then she thought about the messing around she’d had to endure through the day: borrowing cars, taking buses, the back and forth.

She told him about her car and her bins and before she knew it, everything was flooding out: how she felt marginalised, bullied and paranoid. She told him about the past fortnight and gave him a photocopy of the reunion picture, pointing out Pomeroy and everyone else. Then she showed him the final face and told him why she thought Damon Potter had died. It might have been an accident but someone should still take responsibility for it.

Cole listened without interrupting, glancing at the photograph as Jessica talked him through it. When she was finally finished, breathless, he stared at her. For a moment, it felt like the Cole of a few years ago, not long after they had both been promoted and they worked together all the time; when he put his trust in her to go out and do stupid things that got results.

Then he peered away again, leaning back in his seat and yawning once more. His eyes were closed and there was an uncomfortable silence. He looked old. Defeated. When he finally opened them, he was staring over Jessica’s shoulder, pinching the bridge of his nose. His voice was croaky and low: ‘Have you ever felt so tired that you don’t know what day it is?’

‘A few times.’

‘I’m just so sick of all of this: I lost my wife, I hardly ever see my kids – and even when it’s my days with them, they’d rather be out with their mates. Not that I blame them; I’d have been the same. Then I come here and sit in this office and the phone never stops ringing.’

He glared at the phone on his desk, as if willing it to prove his point. It remained silent.

‘The meetings, the emails, the paperwork. Then I have requests from upper management.’ His eyes flickered to Jessica’s and away again. ‘People I need to keep an eye on. I used to be a young man: fit, happy, with a life to look forward to and now . . .’

Jessica didn’t know what to say and could rarely remember feeling so uncomfortable.

Eventually, he finished the thought: ‘. . . now I’m resorting to sending capable people out on fool’s errands. I don’t even know why I bother coming in.’

Jessica assumed he was speaking about giving her Kylie and Michael to deal with but didn’t push it. ‘What would you like me to do, Sir?’

Cole’s eyes snapped open. He pointed to the face in the photograph that Jessica had identified. ‘I’ll make the necessary arrangements. We’ll get a warrant for his house and office and we’ll go in early tomorrow morning.’

‘Me too?’

He nodded wearily. ‘You too.’

45

There might have been a certain satisfaction in getting the tactical entry team to smash their way through a door at five in the morning but Cole had told her to keep it low key and Jessica wasn’t about to disobey him now.

If there were any residents of the quiet cul de sac awake at this ungodly hour, Jessica thought it would be a good time for them to look out of their windows because they were about to get a show. She rang the doorbell and knocked three times – not too hard but enough to wake anyone up, even her. A few seconds later, a light came on somewhere inside. Officers had gone to the back of the house just in case but Jessica doubted there would be any trouble. There was the sound of footsteps on stairs and then a weary-sounding male voice: ‘Who is it?’

‘Detective Inspector Jessica Daniel.’

‘Oh . . .’

There was a rattle of a chain and the sound of a bolt being pulled across until the door was opened, revealing a man in stripy pyjamas, a long felt-looking dressing gown and hair that seemed to have been styled by electroshock treatment.

Professor Robert ‘Call Me Bob’ Harper stared on wide-eyed as Jessica shoved the warrant under his nose, waved her fellow officers inside, told him that his university office was being turned upside at that very moment – then informed him that he didn’t have to say anything but that if there was something he was later going to rely on in court then he should probably spit it out.

His face was blank: ‘Can I at least get changed?’

Six hours later and that was still the only thing Call Me Bob had said. He had been taken to the cells underneath the station, phoned his solicitor, and then spent the rest of the time apparently going over his story with him.

Jessica had risked breakfast in the canteen and then gone to see Cole in his office. He looked even more tired than the night before but offered a small smile when he told her that his phone hadn’t rung all morning. Jessica didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing – but she could guess. After that, she had gone to keep her head down until Bob – and his solicitor – were ready. Whatever they were talking about seemed to be taking a long time for someone who was ostensibly just a lecturer.

As she was re-reading every piece of evidence they had, there was a knock on her office door. Archie sauntered in, hands in pockets. ‘I always knew it was him. The dodgy hair gave it away. I told you he was iffy.’

‘Saying someone’s a bit “iffy” rarely leads to a conviction. If you were so sure, why didn’t you point it out properly a week ago?’

‘I figured I’d let you get the credit. No one likes a smart-arse marching in and saving the day, do they?’

Jessica waved him in and he wheeled across the spare office chair, legs splayed wide, nodding knowingly. ‘Is everything all right with the other thing you had me looking at?’

Jessica had almost forgotten that it was Archie who had first pointed out that Freddy and Logan were the same age. It seemed like such a long time ago. ‘Yes, forget it – all sorted. Anyway, why are you in a good mood?’

‘Someone left a little present in my cubby hole last night.’

Jessica suppressed a giggle – Asian Jugs had gone down well.

‘Anyway,’ Archie added. ‘I know how I figured out it was Call Me Bob but how did you finally work it out?’

Jessica didn’t want to talk about the photograph – it was never going to be part of any case they had and, aside from Garry, her and Cole, no one else knew about it. Seeing Bob in the middle of the photo alongside all the other names had put her onto him in the first place but they had more than that now.

‘It was you, actually,’ Jessica said. ‘When you knocked those papers off his desk to show his hip flask, it had me thinking all along that perhaps he was hiding something. When we hit a wall, I started to run a few further checks on him.’

As a white lie went, it at least served its purpose. Archie rolled his shoulders forward and sat up straighter, embarrassed by the praise. ‘Aye, well, I didn’t do that much . . .’

‘His office is in that huge building that overlooks the park. Last night we checked his swipe-card access and found out he left around fifteen minutes after the final confirmed sighting of Damon at the rowing club’s party. Assuming Damon had left to go home, there’s a very strong chance they would have seen each other in the car park.’

‘That’s not much on its own.’

‘We found cocaine at his house and the alcohol at his office, plus remember how he kept going on about Damon? He was obviously fond of him.’

‘Is he . . . ?’

‘I don’t know. He’s still a bachelor, not that it necessarily means anything.’

Archie stared at Jessica, lips pursed. He must have known that the things she’d listed so far didn’t mean much other than they’d have him on a drugs possession charge. It was a jump from that to murder or manslaughter but he also didn’t know what she did about Bob’s connection to Pomeroy and everyone else. She’d told Garry the grammar school clique would need promising, rich youngsters, so who better to recruit them than a business professor? Something told her that there was more going on than she suspected too – no angry phone calls to Cole, and the length of time Bob had been with a solicitor, made Jessica think that this wasn’t going to be a standard interview. The first rule of any successful group was to protect itself above any individual.

Perhaps sensing that there was more to it than he realised, Archie nodded with a fake knowingness. ‘So what’s he doing?’

‘Downstairs with his solicitor.’

‘Definitely guilty then.’

‘I want you to be in the interview room with me.’

Archie couldn’t stop the surprise from spreading on his face. ‘You sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘And it’s all right with—’

‘Let me worry about other people.’

Soon after, word came through that Bob was finally ready. Just Bob – no solicitor.

When Jessica had let him get changed earlier, Bob had opted for his teaching wear – cords and elbow patches. His hair had been flattened at some point since then but the past few hours had clearly taken a toll – his skin seemed saggier, eyelids droopier.

With the tape and camera running in the interview room, Jessica reminded him that there was no need to be there by himself.

‘I can speak for myself,’ Bob said.

Jessica felt confused: ‘But you’ve just spent the past few hours downstairs with your solicitor . . . ?’

‘I decided to dispense with his services.’

‘Right . . . the first thing we need to discuss is—’

‘I did it.’

‘Did what?’

‘It was me who left Damon’s body in that bin.’

Jessica had thought something unexpected might happen but not this. She started searching through the papers on the desk in front of her. Even Archie sucked in a small gasp.

Bob was facing the video camera in the top corner of the room, talking to Jessica but not looking at her. ‘Shall I start at the beginning?’

‘Okay.’

‘I was looking into starting an after-hours club at the university – something for the brightest and best. Damon fitted the bill, obviously. I’d spoken to him briefly about it around the university and he seemed willing. That night, I had been working late at the university. I swiped out and saw Damon walking out of the park.’

Jessica suspected that part was true – although the ‘after-hours club’ sounded unlikely given what she knew.

‘He was, let’s say, a little worse for wear. Perhaps not drunk as such but a little giddy and giggly. I asked if he wanted a lift home.’

‘You didn’t take him back to his flat though . . .’

‘No – we went to my house. I said we could talk a little more about my idea for the club and he was fine.’

‘What happened at your house?’

Bob’s voice cracked slightly. ‘He said he didn’t really like beer, so we were drinking whisky. Then I asked if he wanted to try something a little stronger.’

‘What?’

‘I suppose you’ve already found it by now – but I usually have a small amount of cocaine around the house. It helps at the end of a week.’

‘Damon’s flatmate said he wasn’t into drugs.’

Bob shrugged. ‘What can I say? I didn’t force him.’

‘Did anything else happen between you?’

Bob looked away from the camera, facing Jessica. ‘Like what?’

‘Do you want me to spell it out?’

‘If you’re asking if we had sex, then no. It wasn’t his thing.’

‘But you asked?’

‘Does it matter?’

Jessica decided not to push it while he was talking freely anyway. ‘What happened after that?’

Bob turned back to the camera. ‘I really don’t know. One minute he was fine, the next he was convulsing on the floor. He started coughing and I didn’t know what to do. The next thing I knew, well . . .’

Jessica had a sense that the story was true – except that Bob had taken him back to his house to talk about the St Flora’s group and not an after-hours club. Damon wouldn’t be the last student to overindulge in booze and drugs and Bob wasn’t struggling to tell a made-up story, plus it fitted with the forensic evidence they did have.

‘You know that Damon choked to death on his own vomit?’

‘Yes.’

‘You could have saved him, possibly by altering the angle his body was at – definitely by calling an ambulance.’

‘I know.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘I’d been drinking too. I didn’t quite realise what was happening until it was too late. I tried shaking him but he was gone.’

‘What about an ambulance? They could have talked you through resuscitating him.’

‘I don’t know . . . it happened really quickly.’

‘You were thinking about yourself, knowing that if a student was found dead in your house with drink and drugs in his system, then it’d be the end of your career.’

Bob shrugged. He did seem genuinely devastated, head bowed, arms under the table. ‘What do you want me to say?’

‘Tell me what you did with his body.’

‘You can probably figure it out. I got a sheet, wrapped him up, put him in the back of the car and drove back to the university.’

‘Drunk?’

‘I’m guessing you’ve never been in a situation like that but it’s amazing how sober you feel.’

Jessica was pretty sure that breath tests and blood-alcohol levels didn’t take that into account, but then drink-driving was the least of his worries.

‘How did you lift him by yourself?’

For the first time, Bob seemed unsure of himself. ‘Sorry?’

‘He was a rower – I’ve seen the photos and he had a lot of muscle on him. He was taller than you as well.’

‘I . . . didn’t really think about it.’

‘So you’re saying you carried him by yourself?’

Bob glanced to the camera, then Jessica, then back again. ‘Of course.’

That was something she very much doubted – but there was no evidence to the contrary.

‘Why did you return to the university?’

He spoke without a pause, the story perfectly drilled. ‘Familiarity? I’m not sure. A few years ago, there was a man fished out of the river who’d fallen in and drowned. I suppose I thought it would be easy enough to make it seem like that. It was late . . . well, early, I suppose. At the back of the university buildings, there are these lanes that run down to the park and the river but there were a few small groups of people around wearing suits and dresses.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I waited. There was a party on, so when it went quiet I took Damon down towards the front.’ He caught Jessica’s eye. ‘I had to drag him some of the way on the path but I had the sheet. When I got down there, I spotted the metal bin and thought it’d cause fewer problems if I left him there.’

‘Why?’

‘I’m not sure . . . I wasn’t thinking properly. I suppose I thought that if his body ended up in the river then it could have floated anywhere.’

It wasn’t the best of reasons but given the rest of his story, it almost made sense: she didn’t believe he actually wanted to hurt Damon and he likely wouldn’t have known that the bin was going to be emptied hours later. In a strange, warped way, being left to be found in a bin offered a minuscule amount of dignity compared to floating miles in a river and perhaps never being found. Of course, the truth could be that Bob left the body there knowing the blame would be thrown elsewhere. Either way, he had a story that he was sticking to.

Jessica nudged Archie with her knee under the desk and he was instantly the jack-the-lad Manc, as much at home selling dodgy TVs as he was in an interview room. He pressed both forearms onto the table, looked at Jessica, then back across the desk again.

‘What a load of old bollocks. You expect us to believe that you carried the body of a strapping young athlete out to your car, down a ramp, then lifted him into a bin all by yourself? Give over, mate. I’ve heard more convincing stories off Scousers.’

Bob didn’t flinch, staring at the table. ‘Believe what you want – I’ve told you the truth.’

‘And what about this after-hours club of yours? There must have been something else going on – Damon was a smart kid: rich, athletic, bright future. What were you offering him that made him so keen to go back to your house?’

He’d asked the exact question Jessica wanted him to without even knowing it.

‘I don’t know. He was very academic – I can only imagine he enjoyed interacting with others who were up to his level.’

‘What a load of shite.’

‘I don’t have anything else to say.’

And he didn’t. Archie kept pushing and pointing out the inconsistencies in Bob’s story but he would only repeat that he’d told them all he knew.

Eventually, Jessica tapped Archie on the knee again and he backed off, still staring ferociously across the room. ‘I just have one final question,’ Jessica said. ‘Who are you scared of?’

‘Sorry?’

‘I’ve seen enough people who are scared of other people over the years. It gives off a scent. I can smell the fear in here. Constable?’

Archie joined in: ‘Aye – fear and bullshit. The room stinks.’

‘Who is it?’ Jessica asked.

Bob’s eyes flickered up at the camera again but he didn’t flinch, shaking his head instead. ‘Who have I got to be scared of?’

Jessica ended the interview and called the uniformed officer stationed outside to take Bob back to the cells. As the professor stood, Jessica slotted behind him as Archie moved in front. Archie apologised to the officer for messing up protocol but it gave Jessica the moment she wanted. She reached up and pulled down the collar of Bob’s shirt. He spun and tried to tug it back up but she had already seen the tattoo just above his shoulderblade embedded on his wrinkled skin: a black and white fleur-de-lis.

46

Jessica sat in the chair opposite DCI Cole’s desk, telling him everything that had happened with Robert Harper. He nodded, asked her if that was all, and then said he’d deal with the CPS. Jessica was already on her feet in the doorway when the red mist hit. It had been building for so long that she was pointing a finger and shouting before she knew what she was doing.

‘No, that’s not all. You do realise he almost got away with it because of you? Whether it was Pomeroy or whoever else, you let them do this and you almost let some kid get the blame for it.’

Cole peered past her along the length of glass where the corridor was empty. ‘If you’re going to raise your voice, can you at least do so when the door’s closed?’

Jessica slammed it. ‘That’s your answer?’

Cole remained sitting, voice calm. ‘I was asked to do something by a member of the command team. I did as I was told.’

‘You did as you were told without asking questions!’

‘Perhaps that’s something you need to learn? We got there in the end, didn’t we?’

Jessica couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Getting there in the end shouldn’t be the way they did things. She spat the reply. ‘I know what you did.’

Cole’s lip were sealed but he snorted ever so slightly through his nose, nodding. ‘Do you?’

‘Yes.’

Without a word, he dug into his pocket and took out a set of keys. He turned and unlocked a black metal filing cabinet behind him, reaching into the bottom drawer and taking out a shoebox. He locked everything back up before turning towards Jessica and offering her the box. ‘Go on.’

Jessica took it hesitantly, lifting the lid and pulling out tightly packed folded newspapers. At the bottom was something she recognised. Something she hadn’t seen since a cold evening in a cobbled alleyway.

‘These are my glasses,’ she whispered, barely believing they were there.

‘I know.’

She glanced up. ‘Where did you find them?’

‘I think you know.’

Suddenly, the fact that Cole had been cold with her for months made sense. ‘I—’

‘I don’t want to hear what you have to say. I’m still a police officer. Sometimes it’s better not to know.’

‘But—’

Cole spun and grabbed her wrist. ‘Stop, Jessica. They were found at a crime scene where someone was shot dead. No witnesses and a gunman that apparently had no connection to him. I don’t want to know the rest.’

‘I didn’t—’

‘STOP!’

Cole’s voice thundered around the room and he gripped Jessica’s wrist so tightly that she dropped the box.

‘I don’t want to know,’ he added, still shouting. ‘Just take those and do whatever you want with them – but if you want to lecture anyone else about what they get up to, then perhaps you should look at yourself.’

Jessica picked the box up and began to put the newspaper back in.

Cole’s voice was almost back to normal when he spoke again: ‘You should know that I’ve already put my notice in. I finish officially on December the thirty-first. There’s going to be an announcement soon. Pratley’s review is due on January the second but Greater Manchester Police’s past behaviour is going to be branded “institutionally corrupt”. It won’t affect anything from the past ten years or so – but it will still recommend a top-down reshuffle. It’s going to be a very different place to work from next year.’

‘How do you know that?’

He snorted again. ‘Because when you mix with others and don’t spend all your time working against them, believe it or not, some people are more willing to talk to you.’

‘I’m sorry, I—’

‘I don’t want to talk about it. We’ve got a few more weeks and then we go our separate ways – but if you think I’m such a bad guy after everything that’s happened, then perhaps you should ask yourself who put that letter through your door.’

Jessica stared at him, searching for the truth, even though his eyes were still fixed on his desk. ‘You?’ She paused, still not believing it. ‘Why wouldn’t you just tell me?’

‘You forget that we’ve worked together for a long time.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Since when did you listen to me? Or anyone? You were happy to go away thinking I was whoever you wanted me to be. I told you that I had to listen to – and obey – what I was being told by other people. I could hardly endorse you running around poking your nose into things officially.’

Jessica almost whispered the word ‘Pomeroy’ again but Cole had confirmed it without needing to say the name. He was far better at this game than she was.

‘How did you know about the logo?’ she asked.

‘How did you find out about the connections between everyone in your photograph?’

‘They were all the same age.’

‘Do you know how old I am?’

‘You’re not—?’

‘I wasn’t in their year – I’m a little older. It was my school crest.’

Jessica stopped to consider it. Asking someone which school they went to thirty or so years ago was not something people did. ‘So you knew about them?’

‘Not really – there were a couple of lads in my year who called themselves Florians. No one thought anything of it but they used the symbol. When the pressure was being put on me from above, it was mentioned that perhaps I should remember where I came from.’

‘Pomeroy knew that about you?’

Cole nodded but wouldn’t say the name. ‘It didn’t take much to put two and two together once I knew that,’ he replied. ‘I didn’t know anything about Damon Potter getting it tattooed – that was news to me – I just thought I’d give you enough of a nudge to figure it out yourself.’

‘Freddy Bunce’s van?’

‘I have no idea – you found that.’

Jessica still hadn’t worked it all out but she had a few theories. She wasn’t going to find out any more from sitting around with a shoebox in her lap.

‘I should go,’ she said.

Cole didn’t reply but then he’d already said it – she needed to look at herself.

47

Jessica sat in the supermarket cafe nursing a cup of tea. It wasn’t so long ago that she would have been drowning her sorrows in a pub but this felt more appropriate.

Dave had piled through lasagne and chips, while Garry had eaten a salad, saying that he had to look after himself. Jessica had simply drunk her tea. It was dark outside, time for them all to go home, time for the staff to start thinking about closing.

After telling the pair of them about Bob’s confession, which would be common knowledge soon enough anyway, they still had the same questions she did. All Jessica could offer was speculation.