Shap raised his eyebrows. ‘Anywhere he might be staying?’
‘He’s got a girlfriend, black girl, she’s round a bit but I think they mainly go to her place. She’ll know Mr Tulley, she was at the school.’
‘Know where she lives?’
‘No. But she works in town, one of those bars, our Kelly saw her serving. ‘Ang on.’ She leaned back into the house, cocked her head and yelled. ‘Kelly… Kelly
what’s the name of that bar where you saw Dean’s girlfriend? The bar… Dean next door. Right.’ She straightened up. ‘Steel, they call it.’
‘Thanks,’ Shap wrote it down. ‘Look, if you see Dean, will you ask him to give us a bell, DS Shap, this is the number, we just need to see if he saw anything yesterday.’
She nodded, took the card from him. ‘Have you got any leads then?’ Interest lit her eyes.
‘Too early to say.’
‘Terrible thing,’ she lowered her voice, ‘they say his insides were all spread out like some voodoo thing.’
Shap smiled, enigmatic, he reckoned, that was the word. He said nothing, enjoying the lurid speculation. He tipped his head, cocked his index finger, a little farewell gesture that he practised in the mirror.
Butchers returned, his face full of something.
‘Where’s mine?’
Butchers ignored him. Shap shot him a look. Lardy boy had about as much charisma as a garden snail. Why couldn’t he have been paired with Chen? Nice bit of eye candy. That’d brighten the daily grind.
‘Dean Hendrix,’ Shap told him. ‘Not home. Got his girlfriend’s details, though. Pay her a call later then we’ve cleared all the houses on Denholme Avenue.’
While Douggie was paying, Dean saw the newspaper; Allotment Murder Hunt. Felt his belly flip round. Turned and went outside. Shaken, and wishing he’d never seen it. Spoiling his day like that.
The park wasn’t far. They passed the bowling green which was deserted, the grass lumpy and discoloured. Coming towards them was a little kid, a right shrimp on a massive battery operated tank.
‘Look at him,’ Dean said.
‘Neat.’
‘He could crawl faster. Look at his face.’
The kid was whining, his mouth turned down, close to tears. Dean clocked his parents, trundling along behind. Looked like they weren’t speaking to each other.
Douggie giggled. ‘This way.’
They parked themselves on a bench by some trees at the edge of a playing field. A crowd of Asian lads were playing footie, kicking a lightweight ball about using carrier bags and coats for goal posts. Dean leaned back, hands behind his head, looked up at the trees, watched the branches frame the sky.
‘If you had two grand,’ Douggie said, ‘and you had to buy one thing…’
It was a game they’d played inside. If you had…? A way of spinning fantasies, of daydreaming. They would add more and more conditions: it had to be red and only made in the US… it had to fit in a drawer, it had to make music. They became increasingly surreal until the game transformed to a puzzle. Trying to figure out what on earth could possibly fit the list of qualities the other guy had come up with.
‘A suit,’ said Dean.
‘A suit?’ Douggie looked at Dean. ‘What the hell do you need a suit for?’
‘Don’t need,’ said Dean. ‘Want. Some of us have style, could have style.’
‘Oh, aye?’ Douggie laughed. The kids’ football smacked him full on the back of his head. ‘Oy,’ he jumped to his feet.
‘Sorry mister,’ one of the lads yelled. Douggie kicked the ball back.
‘D’you wanna game?’ another lad shouted.
‘Yeah,’ Douggie stood up. ‘We’ll slaughter you.’
They raced about for half-an-hour. Douggie was a dream with a ball, bouncing it from knee to knee and then flipping it over his shoulder and onto his heel. Scoring goals from ridiculous angles. He’d clown about in-between bowing to imaginary audiences, pretending to weep with joy. It creased Dean up. The kids obviously thought he was a total nutter but allowed it because of his skill.
Dean was fast but couldn’t do much to control the ball. When the umpteenth goal had been scored, Dean held his hands up. Enough. He was covered in sweat, his hair limp from it, his windpipe was burning from rushing about, his knees felt weak. The lads protested but Dean and Douggie quit. They went back to the bench. Douggie lit one of the joints. Dean took a hit. Man that was strong. Made him cough. Then he went dizzy, lovely and dizzy and he felt lazy, hazy, like his blood was full of sherbet.
‘If you could change one thing, just one, in the last year…’ Douggie began.
Yesterday. Dean’s mood shrivelled and soured. Stupid bloody question. Yesterday. Oh, man, yesterday would never have happened.
CHAPTER NINE
Janine got a text message, from Michaeclass="underline" pls gt donuts ck chocsprd chili cola pudn. She read it aloud.
Richard looked bemused.
‘Michael, he doesn’t speak anymore – just texts us.’ Janine told him.
She started the car and took the road back towards the station. She noticed her petrol gauge was on red, reminded herself to top up soon.
Richard broke open a pack of Eccles Cakes and started munching.
She stared at him for a moment. ‘Where d’you put it all?’
‘Big brain. What was that diet you all went on – the grapefruit one?’
‘Grapefruit and eggs. Dire. Only thing that produced was methane,’ she giggled. ‘About later – have you booked somewhere?’
‘No, but if you think I…’
‘No, no. Play it by ear. Have to get the kids.’
‘Yeah.’
She patted her mobile. ‘Do some shopping.’ The kids would go bananas if they had to go another day without the essentials.
‘Right. Rain check?’ He asked her.
‘Hope not,’ she said quickly.
Richard grinned. ‘What d’you fancy?’
Janine raised her eyebrows and he rolled his eyes in response. Mucking about. She laughed, enjoying the flirtation, and hit the indicator – only it was the wrong lever and the windscreen wipers clattered noisily across the screen making her feel completely foolish.
The bevy of reporters surged forward hurling questions and taking photographs as Richard and Janine got out of the car.
‘Any news, Chief Inspector?’
‘Any leads?’
‘Was it a random attack?’
‘Have you found the weapon?’
‘Give us something, Chief.’
Janine held up her hand. ‘There’ll be a press conference tomorrow morning, time to be announced. No comment until then.’
Lesley Tulley seemed to have shrunk in the hours since they had last seen her. Already petite, she reminded Janine of a bird, fine-boned and nervy, on the edge of flight. Must be shattered, Janine thought, the shock easing now and the burden of grief settling.
They were in Lesley’s lounge, asking about Matthew’s friends and acquaintances. And enemies.
‘Matthew didn’t have any regular social engagements,’ Janine summarised. ‘Did you have your own friends, Lesley?’
‘Had. You know how people drift apart, once you all get married, harder once people have children.’ One hand gripping the other tightly.
‘You’re right,’ Janine acknowledged. ‘And you’ve none of your own?’
Lesley hesitated, she seemed shaken by the question. ‘I can’t have children.’
Janine cheeks grew warm, she was acutely aware of her own obvious pregnancy. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ She gave a pause wanting to allow Lesley to regain the fragile composure she had.
Richard spoke next. ‘What about Ferdie Gibson, Mrs Tulley?’
Lesley stared at him, her eyes wide, confusion creasing her brow. ‘Who?’
‘He attacked your husband but you didn’t say anything yesterday.’
She shook her head slowly, overwhelmed. As if she genuinely hadn’t considered the possibility, thought Janine.