Текст книги "Scarred for Life"

Автор книги: Kerry Wilkinson

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‘Why would you be?’

He nodded gently, weighing up the situation. If he wanted to be awkward, then Jessica would happily take him down to the station and caution him. ‘It means I sit on the committee. We decide the competitions we’re going to enter each year, plus deal with various things relating to how we spend our funds. We had to renovate the changing rooms over the winter, plus get a new rowing machine. It’s only a twelve-month position. You take over in June each year, at the end of the summer term. It’s almost always someone doing a post-graduate course.’

‘What are you studying?’

‘An MSc in global management.’

‘Did you do your undergraduate degree here?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’ve been a member of the club since your first year?’

Holden nodded as Jessica gave Archie a nudge, letting him know he was up.

He peered at the honours board and then addressed Holden. ‘If you’re student president, that implies there’s a real president.’

‘There’s a life president, he’s on the committee too. There are ten positions, all voted for except life president.’

‘Who does that role?’

‘James Jefferies.’

Archie shrugged. ‘Who’s that?’

Holden pointed towards a photograph on the wall that showed a slightly wrinkled man next to a boat holding something she couldn’t quite make out. Next to him, Jessica recognised Holden.

‘He won an Olympic bronze medal thirty years ago,’ the student said, grinning.

Archie was having none of it: ‘Bronze medal, eh? Did he fall in or something?’

‘Huh?’

‘Well, if he only won a bronze, what was he doing? Rowing backwards?’

Holden spluttered, eyes wide, staring at Archie. ‘It’s really hard just to qualify for the Olympics, let alone win a medal.’

‘Bollocks is it. I’d be ashamed to come home with anything other than gold.’

Archie wandered up to the honours board and brushed away a speck of dust as Jessica stifled a grin. In the old days, the softening up would’ve been her job. He was like a little pitbull she could let off the leash as and when she chose. Usually, she wouldn’t go in so strong, but given the information Holden had opted not to tell her the previous night, she wasn’t in the best of moods.

‘When you sit on the committee, do you talk about upcoming social events?’ Jessica asked before he could compose himself.

Holden turned back to Jessica, wondering what was going on. ‘I suppose.’

‘And what’s your memory usually like? Can you remember what you had for breakfast earlier?’

‘I didn’t have breakfast.’

‘Aah, but you remember that – and if you recall that, then why didn’t you tell me last night that you, Damon and all the other members of the rowing club were here for a giant piss-up two nights ago?’

As Holden’s eyebrows rose, Jessica could see the penny dropping. ‘It was a busy night,’ he replied, trying to stay cool. ‘I didn’t know if Damon had been at the party and didn’t want to give you wrong information.’

His cheeks puffed out, a sigh of relief that he’d come up with that on the spot.

‘So, was he here or not?’ Jessica snapped.

‘When the news came out about his body this morning, everyone was in shock. Some of the lads were saying that it was only Wednesday night that we saw him last. That jogged my mind.’

Holden smiled unconvincingly. He’d known full well Damon had been at the rowing club’s party on the night he died. When Jessica had seen him the previous evening, she’d known he was holding something back; now his evasion had given her every reason to arrest him.

Jessica peered across to Archie. ‘What is it we usually call this?’

‘Being a knob head?’

‘I was thinking more “obstructing a police officer”.’

Holden was even more confused than before, glancing between Jessica and Archie, trying to work out what was going on. Good, Jessica wanted him sweating. ‘I wasn’t trying to obstruct anything,’ he protested. ‘I’d just forgotten; there were a lot of people here.’

‘How many?’

‘Most of our eighty members, plus some partners, alumni, the committee – at least a hundred and fifty.’

‘Do you have a list of attendees?’

‘Our membership secretary might.’

‘Good – I’m going to need those details.’

‘Right, I can—’

‘What do you remember about seeing Damon on Wednesday night?’

Sometimes silence worked, making the witness or suspect fill the awkward gaps, but Holden was too calculating; the best method was to keep firing questions at him.

‘Not much. It was a big black-tie thing – suits and cocktail dresses. We hold one every November because that’s when our membership has settled with the new recruits – once they’ve decided they’re committed. We hold another one at the end of the university year.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’

‘Right, right, I . . . I assume he was looking smart. We all were.’

That tallied with the shirt and dark trousers in which his body was found, so Holden wasn’t lying about everything.

‘Was he here with anyone?’

‘I’m not sure. I don’t think so. A lot of the rowing teams tend to keep to themselves – I didn’t spend any time with him. People started drifting away after a couple of hours. I think he left.’

‘Did he or didn’t he?’

‘I’m not sure. Some of the others might know. I was here all night.’

Archie jumped in without being asked: ‘I suppose you’ve got witnesses? Someone who’ll tell us you spent the evening knocking back girly cocktails?’

‘Well . . .’

‘This is quite a big club,’ Jessica said. ‘What else do you do here? It can’t just be rowing and posh parties?’

‘We hire it out now and then—’

‘I was thinking more about the two separate date rape allegations against club members from the past eighteen months.’

Holden’s eyes narrowed and he glanced around nervously at the empty surroundings. He was shrinking in front of her, clearly wishing he’d got out while he could. ‘Both of those were unproven with the charges dropped.’

Jessica turned to Archie, who had taken a sheaf of papers from a cardboard wallet and was sorting through them. ‘Aye, but what about the three call-outs for public disorder in the past three years?’

‘I wasn’t president for any of those. We’ve been adhering to rules about noise and sticking to the curfew.’

Archie moved to the next sheet. ‘One of your members ended up in hospital with hypothermia last year.’

‘He was training on his own on the water! How were we supposed to know?’

Archie moved to the next sheet but Jessica cut him off. ‘The fact is, Mr Wyatt, there’s a disturbing pattern here: complaints about noise and mess, a serious medical incident, date rape allegations and now a murder. All apparent accidents, all connected to the club you’re running. Things are spiralling out of control, aren’t they?’

Holden opened his mouth to reply and then stopped, drawing himself back up to his full height. Archie puffed his chest out and splayed his legs slightly, as if gearing up for a good old-fashioned ruck on Deansgate. Jessica looked from one man to the other, feeling the testosterone. Holden towered over the constable but Jessica wouldn’t have wanted to guess who’d come out on top if it ever came to it. Not that it would.

‘None of those earlier things happened while I was president,’ Holden said calmly. ‘Whatever happened to Damon is unfortunate – but I was here and I’m pretty sure he left halfway through the evening. I don’t know what happened after that. If you’re unsure then perhaps you should go and do some proper police work.’

Jessica let the silence hang for a moment, hoping Archie wouldn’t jump in. When he didn’t, she felt even more confident that he really did know what he was doing. She stared at Holden, who held her gaze defiantly. ‘I’m going to need a full list of all current and former members of this club,’ she eventually said.

Holden shook his head. ‘Those details don’t exist.’

‘I thought you said the membership secretary would know who was at the party?’

‘That was different – it was a ticketed event, so we would have kept track. We’ll have the current members but nothing other than that. I think you’ll find there are data protection laws anyway.’

He rocked back on his heels, the hesitation of before now gone. The smug bastard.

Archie started flicking through the folder again and handed Jessica a printout without her having to look at him.

‘One of my colleagues found this on the university website this morning,’ she said, beginning to read. ‘“For clubs to be able to use the official university seal, or to be eligible for loans, bursaries or grants, they must securely keep full membership lists of all current and former members for a minimum of ten years, or for the length of time the club has been in operation. Said details must be provided to the university upon written request within seventy-two hours.”’ Jessica looked back up at Holden, wide-eyed and innocent. ‘Didn’t you tell me last night that some of your funding came from the university?’

Archie rolled his shoulders forward and snorted quietly.

‘A little . . .’ Holden replied, trying not to look at either of them.

‘And there’s a university crest underneath the logo with oars on it out the front as well . . .’

‘Yes.’

‘It’d be a shame if you lost all of that because someone had been careless with the records. That doesn’t seem the type of thing that a well-run place like this would risk happening . . .’

‘I did say there was a membership secretary, perhaps he’d have a better idea—’

Jessica pointed towards the door in the far corner. ‘How about you go into that office back there and do whatever it is you have to do in order to get me what I need. There might be data protection laws but then there’s also telling porkies to an officer.’ She turned back to Archie. ‘What is it we call it again?’

‘Being a knob head?’

‘Obstructing a police officer.’

Jessica gave him her best glare and Holden shook his head slightly, scarpering in the direction of the office.

‘He’s a lying little rich kid, isn’t he?’ Archie said when they were alone.

‘Not so little.’

‘Whatever – we should do him for something anyway.’

‘Nah, I’d rather he was out here shitting himself. If need be, we’ll keep an eye on him. He’ll be off talking to all his chums later on, getting their stories straight. I want them all nervous; that’s when one of them will say something stupid.’

‘You think he was involved?’

Jessica blew out through her clenched teeth. ‘Dunno. Even if it was some sort of drinking accident, why would he leave the body in the bin out the back? Dumping it in the river would be better – it might’ve been dragged down stream and ended up in the canal. He might be a slippery little shite but he’s not stupid. I still don’t think he’s telling us everything.’

Peering up at the walls, Jessica took in the rest of the surroundings. There was a large upturned boat hanging from the ceiling that was snared to the walls, as well as half-a-dozen crossed oars.

‘What do you know about initiations?’ Jessica asked quietly.

‘When I was playing footy as a kid, they made us do a lap of the field before we could start. Do you think they’ve got the new recruits giving them handjobs in the shower or something?’

Jessica shrugged. ‘It was the way he said they always hold this function at this time of year, after the new recruits have decided they want to commit. It’s odd having a party in November – why wouldn’t they do it at Christmas instead? They’d still have the same number of members. “Committed” was a very odd choice of word. Plus people keep saying they thought Damon was looking forward to something – perhaps it was becoming a full member here.’

‘Posh twats beating up other posh twats . . .’

Jessica replied sternly. ‘Someone’s died.’

Archie sighed, letting her know it was just a front. ‘Aye, I know. I was only arsing around.’ He breathed in deeply through his nose. ‘What shall we do?’

‘When we’re done with him, how about you look through his membership lists and make a few phone calls? See if you can find a pissed-off former member. If they have been hazing people, there must be someone who’ll blab.’

Before she could say anything else, Holden hurried out from the office on the far side of the room carrying a handful of papers. He gave them to Jessica and then stood tall, refusing to meet either of their eyes. ‘If that’s everything, I’ve got things to do.’

‘For now,’ Jessica replied. ‘But the next time we have a word, it’ll be under caution at the station. That way, if you try to lie again, we’ll have it on tape. I don’t like people looking me in the eye and feeding me a pile of shite.’

His expression didn’t change. ‘Fine, I’ll bring a solicitor too.’

‘You do that – see you soon.’

Jessica slowed as she walked, allowing her footsteps to echo around the deserted building. Archie followed suit until they were outside, where drizzle had replaced the earlier mildness.

‘Do you think we’ll see him again?’ Archie asked.

‘Definitely.’

‘What are you doing later?’

The question took Jessica so much by surprise that she answered without thinking: ‘I’ve got someone to meet tonight, then I’m off for the weekend.’

7

Jessica sat alone in the late-night greasy spoon drumming her fingers on the sticky once-white table. Fry-ups for breakfast were one thing but she was definitely getting too old to be eating this late, let alone putting away something this unhealthy. She had deliberately chosen a cafe just off the Northern Quarter, easily within walking distance of anywhere in the city centre. It was a place in which Friday-evening drunks and after-dark regulars would sit in silence and pile through solidified fat on a plate before or after sloshing down some ale from around the corner.

This really was living the dream.

She peered at the clock over the door, where a brown film of grime covered the vaguely transparent face. Nine o’clock on the dot – another evening away from Adam, another evening of doing things vaguely related to work. Each time he’d smile and nod, saying he understood and that he wanted to watch something geeky on television anyway. Either that, or he’d go to his sister’s flat and they’d sit and chat about whatever it was they talked about when Jessica wasn’t there. Probably her, or was that being paranoid?

One minute past nine: the person she was hoping for wasn’t coming.

Jessica should’ve known it. She’d tried to be clever but, as ever, she was being too smart for her own good. Who wanted to spend Friday night in a place like this? She should’ve been at home, wrapped up in a blanket watching reality television in what she and Adam both pretended was an ironic way, even though they each secretly enjoyed it. Actually, she should’ve been out on the town, drink in hand, enjoying herself: she wasn’t that old, for God’s sake. Thirty . . . something. Definitely not the big four-oh.

Ugh.

Two minutes past nine.

Jessica wiped the remaining streak of egg yolk from her plate with her finger and held it in her mouth. Why had Archie asked what she was doing that night? Was he asking her out? Or trying to be a mate? They didn’t really know each other but there was undoubtedly a spark there, like when you’re on a train or a plane, or stuck in a waiting room somewhere and something funny happens that you’re not sure anyone else has noticed. You exchange a knowing look with a stranger, a mere flicker of the eyes or a slightly raised eyebrow, and suddenly you know exactly what they’re thinking. For the tiniest of split seconds, you have a window into their soul and it feels fabulous. You might never see them again, never know their name, perhaps not even speak, but just for a moment you understand what being human is all about. She had that with Archie. They worked on the same wavelength and yet she’d gone from being the apprentice kept on a leash to being the handler allowing the new recruit to do his thing. She’d gone from being Darth Vader to Emperor Palpatine, she’d . . . hang on a minute, was that from Star Wars? Bloody hell, it was. Star Wars! Christ, going out with Adam and hanging around with Dave Rowlands had rubbed off on her so badly, she now knew the names of people in geeky sci-fi films. This was a new low.

Three minutes past nine.

The depressed-looking man behind the counter of the cafe leant forward onto his elbows and yawned, peering up at the relic of a television perched precariously on a mount above Jessica’s head. In the days of flatscreens, 3D, digital, plasma, LCD and who knew what else, this was a square box out of the dark ages. Either that or the 1970s, one or the other. There was a socket high on the wall, with the yellowing grungy plug practically welded into position. Jessica doubted it had been moved since the day it had been installed. It was on silent and there was a boxing match on. Jessica peered up at the clock again.

Four minutes past nine.

The time on her phone said the same. How long should she wait? She’d said nine, yet she didn’t know what the other person’s time-keeping might be like, let alone if they were coming at all. Five past nine? Ten past?

Jangle, jangle.

Jessica looked up to see a rake of a girl push her way through the door, a stringy mess of tangled black hair whipped backwards by the breeze as she peered from side to side, taking in the surroundings. She couldn’t have been any older than seventeen at the most. Her face was thin, her skin almost white; her eyes skimmed across the two men sitting at the back of the dining area before settling on Jessica. When their eyes met, Jessica gave a gentle nod, knowing this was the girl.

The young woman stepped quickly and soundlessly across the cafe, moving like a trained ballet dancer on the tips of her toes but without the grace. She was wearing a pair of skinny jeans that seemed loose, betraying the stick-like legs underneath, with a padding of tops and a thin-looking dark fleece covering her upper half. On her hands she had half-fingered gloves with a hole in the left palm. Through her nose there was a small silver ring.

Jessica tried to hold her stare but the girl clearly wasn’t comfortable, looking everywhere except directly at her, before sliding into the chair opposite. Without a word, she reached into her pocket and tugged out a small leather purse, plopping it on the table between them.

‘I suppose you want this back,’ she said, staring at the table.

Her tone made her sound even younger than she looked, even though it had an edge.

Jessica picked the purse up and opened it, unfolding the note she had left inside before going to Piccadilly Station the night before.

‘Thanks for stealing my purse. Sorry there’s no money in here but if you’d like a free meal and twenty quid, then come to Rav’s Cafe in the Northern Quarter at 9 p.m. tomorrow.’

‘What would you like to eat?’ Jessica asked.

The girl glanced at the menu on the wall over the top of the counter. ‘You police or something?’

‘Let’s say “something”. What do you want, or shall I get you the all-dayer?’

For a moment there was no reply. Jessica could hear the young woman breathing in, wondering what she should do. Eventually, the answer came: ‘That sounds good.’

Jessica picked up her plate and empty mug, returning it to the counter and asking the bored man if he could sort out a second all-day breakfast, a rack of toast, and two mugs of tea. She gave him a tenner, told him to keep the change and then sat back down opposite the girl.

‘What’s your name?’ Jessica asked.

The girl still wouldn’t look up. ‘What’s it to you?’

‘If I’m going to buy someone tea, it’s nice to know what to call them.’

‘I only came for my twenty quid.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘You’re Old Bill, aren’t you?’

‘I think “Old” is a bit harsh. I’m still in my thirties.’ The girl didn’t laugh. ‘All right,’ Jessica added. ‘I’m police but it’s just me on my own: no big flashing lights parade, no army of clowns in uniform with truncheons – they’re all over by the Printworks waiting for Tiger Tiger to kick out later. It’s like a bloody zoo down there on a Friday night.’

Not even a smile. ‘Am I in trouble?’ the girl whispered.

This time it was Jessica’s turn to pause. ‘No.’

There was a moment of silence punctured by the scraping of forks on plates from the two men at the back. In the kitchen, there was a sudden sizzle, making the girl jump. Her eyes darted from side to side as her chair slid back.

‘It’s just a pan,’ Jessica said.

The girl righted herself, picking at the hole in her glove. ‘Bex.’

‘Is that short for Rebecca?’

‘What does it matter?’

‘Fair enough, Bex. Nice to meet you. I’m Jessica.’

Jessica held out her hand for Bex to shake but the young woman simply stared at it, unmoving. Jessica put her palms back into her lap. More silence.

‘How old are you?’ Jessica asked softly.

‘Old enough.’

‘Do you have somewhere to live? Parents?’

Jessica already knew the answer, even though it didn’t come. She sat listening to the plates being scraped behind her and the various clatters from the kitchen.

Fourteen minutes past nine.

The man from behind the counter sloped across to the table and plonked a plate in front of Bex loaded with three rashers of fat-laden bacon, two sausages, fried bread, two fried eggs with orange juicy-looking yolks, two slices of crusty black pudding, a mound of chopped tomatoes and a large dollop of baked beans.

Not bad for three pounds fifty.

Bex didn’t hang around, grabbing the bottle of brown sauce, giving everything a liberal coating, and then diving in with her fork. Slop, slop, crunch, squish, swallow, mmmm . . . and then it was on to the toast.

Jessica cradled her tea, watching the waif of a girl demolish the meal in under five minutes and then use the final slice of toast to wipe every last drop of sauce and egg yolk from the plate.

‘Do you want anything else?’ Jessica asked.

Bex’s eyes flickered hungrily towards the menu. ‘You some sort of do-gooder?’

‘I wouldn’t say that.’

‘You’re not a lezzer, are you?’

‘No.’

The door jangled again, three men stumbling through, bouncing off each other drunkenly before collapsing into a booth three tables away from the one Jessica and Bex were sitting at. The biggest one – a fat bloke wearing a T-shirt two sizes too small – shouted that they wanted three all-dayers ‘chop chop’ and then collapsed into a fit of laughter along with his boorish mates.

Jessica turned back to Bex, who had shrunken into herself, knees up to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs.

The fat man caught Jessica’s eye. ‘All right, love?’

‘Oi, dickhead, shut up, yeah?’

He smiled and nudged the friend next to him. ‘Steady on, darling, what is it, your time of the month or something?’

Jessica pulled her identification out of her pocket, striding across the floor and thrusting it under his nose. ‘Fancy repeating that down the station on a D and D charge? If not, then pipe down and shut your pair of monkeys up too.’ She jabbed a finger at the other two men and then returned to her seat. Behind, the other two men had stopped scraping at their plates and hurried towards the exit. The man behind the counter said nothing.

Bex had finally looked up from the table and was staring at Jessica. She dropped her feet back to the floor as Jessica handed over her ID.

‘You’re a detective inspector?’ she asked quietly, passing the card back.

‘Yes.’

‘But you’re not going to arrest me?’

‘No.’

‘I’m sorry for stealing your purse.’

‘Did you steal all six wallets and purses over the past month?’

Bex eyed her feet. ‘Maybe.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Seventeen.’

‘And you live rough?’

She shrugged: ‘Some nights I get into the shelter.’

‘Parents?’

A shake of the head.

‘Y’know, I can probably—’

‘It’s fine.’

Bex pulled her gloves off, putting them next to the clean plate and balling her fists. Jessica could see the scrapes along her knuckles and a separate scab on the back of her right hand.

‘I only pinch from people who have a few quid.’

‘I’m not that rich.’

‘You looked it.’

‘Exactly – and maybe it was like that for the other people you stole from too. Some people just make an effort one day a month, or a year, because they come into the city to watch a show. They might save for months, might have children at home with a babysitter they can barely afford to pay. It might be their only treat.’

Bex said nothing for a little while, though her fists were still clenched. ‘I don’t have the money to give back if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘I’m not – I’m just pointing out that people aren’t always what they seem.’

A pause. ‘Like you?’

‘Maybe.’

‘What are you going to do?’

Jessica reached into her pocket and took out a twenty-pound note, placing it on top of Bex’s gloves. ‘A deal’s a deal, but you have to stop nicking. There are cameras all over the city and it’s only a matter of time until someone snags you. Plus I’m a police officer; I should be taking you in.’

‘Why aren’t you?’

Jessica finished the rest of her tea and put the mug down, shooting a glance towards the still-silent trio of men in the booth. ‘There was this guy I knew who lived on the streets for years. He finally got clean a few months ago but I’ve been thinking about him, wondering if I should’ve done more to help earlier.’

Bex stared at the money but didn’t pick it up. ‘So you’re helping me?’

‘I don’t know . . . perhaps. The pickpocket could’ve been anyone.’

In a flash, Bex snatched the twenty-pound note and whipped it into her pocket. She rolled her sleeves up and wrapped her hands around the tea mug.

‘Nice tattoo.’

Bex glanced down at the spidery patterned web on her arm and then rolled her sleeve down again. ‘Thanks.’

‘What does it mean?’

‘No idea. I just liked the pattern. Some guy in town did it for free . . . well, not exactly “free” but . . .’

‘Perhaps you can help me with something?’ Jessica delved into the bag by her chair and pulled out a copy of the same photograph she’d been looking at with Izzy earlier – the robber with the tattoo on his wrist. ‘What do you think of this?’ she asked, passing the picture across.

Bex held it at arm’s length. ‘I don’t know who it is.’

‘I meant what do you think of the tattoo.’

Bex narrowed her eyes and stared at Jessica, wondering if there was some sort of trick being played. Eventually she brought the photo nearer and narrowed her eyes. ‘It’s nice – some sort of tribal thing. Samoan or Hawaiian? Maybe African? It’s intricate. The artist is good.’

‘Have you ever seen anything like it on a person before?’

‘No.’ Bex moved the photo even closer until it was directly in front of her face, and then handed it back. ‘It’s not finished.’

‘What?’

‘The tattoo. Look at the bit that loops under his wrist.’

Jessica stared closely at the picture. It wasn’t that they’d missed the discrepancy when they’d examined it, more that they’d thought it was a glitch in the quality of the CCTV footage. The scythe shape wrapped around the robber’s wrist, interlocking with a thick dark line, but there was a spot where they joined that looked as if the tattooist’s needle had slipped. It was almost smudged. It could still be problem with the camera but the more Jessica looked at it, the more she thought Bex was right. For something so permanent, it was a strange mistake for a person to carry around on their body.

Jessica put the picture back into her bag as the younger girl started to put her gloves back on.

‘Where are you sleeping tonight?’ Jessica asked.

‘Don’t worry about it.’

Jessica took a business card out of her pocket and a pen from her bag, turning the card over and scribbling her address on it. ‘I’m out in Swinton if you need a roof. We’ve got a spare room . . .’

Bex snatched the card away, pocketing it without looking at it. She glanced across to the men in the booth and then back at Jessica, top lip curling into a snarl. ‘I told you I’m not a fucking lezzer, right? Now piss off.’

Jangle, jangle, and she was gone into the night.

8

‘Buster, will you come back here? Buster! Buster!’

The cold air set Philip Raymond off coughing. Bloody Manchester weather: cold one day, warm the next. Frosty, misty, rainy, icy. What the hell was wrong with this place? And where had the sodding dog gone?

‘Buster!’

Philip pulled his coat tighter and zipped it up, setting off in the direction in which the dog had disappeared. On a nice day, it was a lovely stroll through the woods that separated Ellesmere Golf Course and the M60. The previous day, it had been warm enough for people to be walking around with their tops off. Well, the men, anyway. Now his breath corkscrewed into the sky and his sodden feet slid across the muddy slope as he tried to up his pace. It must have rained overnight. For a change. This really was an ungodly time to be up on a Saturday morning.

Philip dug the toecaps of his boots into the soft ground and kicked his way up the slope towards the tree-line.

‘Buster!’

Bloody dog. It wasn’t even his. Emily had promised she’d do all the feeding and walking if only she could have a puppy for Christmas. Eleven months on and it was exactly as he had predicted. Emily spent half her time in her room on the computer and the other half chatting on her phone to her friends. At least it had better be her friends. She wasn’t old enough for boys yet. He tried to remember what he was like at thirteen. Was he into girls then? He didn’t think so; it was all football down the park with his mates. But then kids were different today, weren’t they? It wasn’t just football down the park, it was shooting heroin in the playground and sending naked pictures to each other on their phones. That’s what it said in the papers anyway. They grew up so quickly. One minute you could hold them in the palm of your hand, the next they’re telling you they hate you, slamming doors and refusing to be seen in public with you.

‘Buster!’

And they couldn’t look after their own pets.

Philip stood on his tiptoes, peering through the darkened gaps between the trees. In the distance he heard something scurrying but it was as likely a squirrel as it was Buster. He walked the long way around a thickly packed hedge and quickened his pace. This happened every time he let the dog off his lead. Buster would spot a critter somewhere, get his shaggy head down and tear off.

The truth was, whether Buster was his daughter’s dog or not, Philip liked getting out of the house on a weekend morning to go for a walk. He preferred it when it was warm but at least it wasn’t raining today, even if the ground was sodden. The cool air helped to clear his head and at least it got him away from his wife’s snoring. It was like a pneumatic drill boring into a concrete block. Philip dreaded to think how many hours of sleep he’d lost over the years lying awake, hoping she’d shut up sometime soon. Rolling her over, pulling the covers away, poking her in the back, holding a pillow over her face for ten minutes . . . well, threatening it at least: none of it made any difference.