The noise that indicated a text message went off on Jessica’s phone. She took it out of her pocket and skimmed through the messages, laughing to herself when she saw it was from Adam Compton.

‘Just wondrin if u fancied a coffee or sumthing?’

Given his clumsiness the previous day, she had wondered if he might contact her for some reason other than a professional one at some point. It seemed typical of his awkwardness that he wasn’t brave enough to ask her out for a proper drink. Coffee? No. Glass of wine? Maybe. He may have been a bit geeky but he wasn’t a bad-looking guy and seemed nice enough. She thought of the ribbing she would get from Rowlands if he found out she was thinking about going out with someone from ‘Virginville’.

She typed a message back, read it over three times to make sure there were no critical spelling errors or any possible way it could be misinterpreted and then sent it.

‘Maybe. Bit busy at mo. Will call u at some point.’

Jessica figured she would leave him hanging for a while longer. She had only given him her number for work reasons after all.

She tapped away at her computer’s keyboard and logged onto the internal computer system to search for a phone number. She had left Denise Millar her phone number and only half-expected a call but decided she would be proactive and contact her again herself. It wasn’t that Jessica believed she could add much more to the investigation, she just wanted to hear how the woman was. Farraday’s lack of feeling had sharply contrasted in her mind with that of the young man’s poor mother.

She dialled the number into the desk phone and it was answered on the second ring. ‘Is that Mrs Millar?’

‘Yes, who’s this?’

‘This is DS Jessica Daniel. I visited you a few days ago.’

The woman had sounded downbeat but the inflection in her voice raised slightly after Jessica had introduced herself. ‘Have you got some news?’

‘Not really. I’m sorry if I got your hopes up. I was just wondering how you and Jamie were coping?’

‘Oh . . . right.’ The woman sounded disappointed and Jessica instantly felt bad for inadvertently giving an impression she had something of any significance to say. Mrs Millar continued speaking. ‘We’re as well as can be expected. It’s hit Jamie hard. He’s not been out since.’

‘I just wanted to let you know we are working as hard as we can on this . . .’

Jessica didn’t finish her sentence before the woman started speaking again. ‘It wasn’t even the main story on the local news. I know he wasn’t an angel but you’d think someone would be interested? No reporter or anyone has even come to speak to me . . .’

She tailed off and Jessica felt awful. ‘I’m sorry . . .’

‘Oh, I know it’s nothing to do with you. It’s not your decision, is it? The girl you sent around has been nice enough. I felt a bit bad as there’s no food in the house. I told her I was fine and that she should nick off.’

She was referring to the liaison officer who was assigned to the parents or close relatives of victims in serious cases.

‘Is there anything I can do?’ Jessica asked.

She could hear Craig Millar’s mother taking a deep breath. ‘Just find who did it.’

7

Ben Webb hunched over the snooker table to line up his shot. He could feel a slight fuzziness around his eyes as the day’s beer intake was slowly beginning to take hold. He had been waiting for the feeling all evening as he knew he played a lot better when there were a few drinks inside him.

The lights above the table flickered slightly and Ben pulled back from his shot, scowling at the hanging set of lamps above him. He crouched back over to line it up again when the lights went out fully. Ben stood and turned to his friend at the other end of the table. He could only see a silhouette in the gloom. ‘Hughesy, you wanna go have a word?’

The snooker club was empty apart from four men around one playing table. Two were sitting chatting to each other, the only light a small desk lamp on a round table between their chairs. Four drinks were on the table and one of the men picked his up to finish what was left. Ben and his friend Des Hughes were standing next to the snooker table itself. Five large playing tables were in darkness near to them and now their lights had gone out too. Apart from the lamp next to the chairs, the only illumination came from the bar next to the exit.

Des walked around the table and stomped up the two steps that took him away from the playing area onto an area where people could sit and eat. There were no lights there either and Des cursed as he clipped a few of the chairs on his way over to the bar. His heavy boots clanged off the chair legs, his cries of anger echoing quietly around the empty space. As he approached the bar, he called out. ‘Oi, Mario. What happened to the lights?’

An olive-skinned man with dark hair walked through a doorway from behind the bar and approached the front. The man wasn’t very tall but he stood a couple of inches higher than Des. It would have been clear to any outsider who was more intimidating though. The person behind the bar was slight and, while Des wasn’t particularly muscular, he had naturally bulging forearms and hunched forwards as he walked. He may have been short in stature but he made sure his posture showed he meant business – it had served him well over the years. The lights from above the bar glinted off Des’s shaven head, the tattoos running down his arms prominent against the rest of his skin.

‘My name’s not . . .’ the man behind the bar started to say.

‘I don’t give a fuck if your name’s Mario, Luigi or any other dirty foreign muck. Turn those lights back on before I come back there and turn them on myself.’ Des thumped his fist on the bar to show he wasn’t joking and the other man took a step back.

‘It was closing time twenty-five minutes ago . . .’

Des stared at him and narrowed his eyes. ‘I’m not going to ask again.’

The person behind the bar gulped and gave a half-look behind him before nodding. His voice wavered slightly but he said: ‘Okay, okay.’ The man went back through the door way behind the bar and Des heard a low cheer behind him. He turned around to see the lights flickering back on over their table and then turned back to the bar. The server was in front of him again.

‘Give me a pint of this stuff too,’ Des said, pointing to one of the pumps on the bar.

The man stammered as he replied. ‘I . . . I can’t. It’s too late . . . My licence.’

Des slammed his fist down on the bar, harder this time. The pump handles shook and glasses rattled. ‘Do you really want me to come back there?’

The man shook his head furiously. ‘No, no. Please . . .’

‘Right, well, you better get pouring then, hadn’t you?’

The barman reached under the bar and pulled a glass out. Des grinned as he saw the man’s hand shaking as the liquid flowed from the tap into the glass. He put the drink down on the bar and looked up at Des. ‘Two pounds eighty please.’

Des looked at him incredulously, picking up the drink and turning around. ‘You must be bloody joking,’ he said, still walking.

Back at the table, Ben was re-lining up his shot. ‘Hughesy, what do you reckon? Pink or blue?’

Des put his drink down on the table between the other two men and walked towards his friend. ‘Blue. Just kiss off it and roll down for that final red. Piece of piss and fifty quid in the bag.’

Ben hunched back for his shot as Des took a step back. The other two men stood and took a step towards the table to watch. Ben pulled back the cue and pushed forwards.

He knew instantly he had missed.

The white ball did slip nicely off the blue and run down to set up the red but the coloured ball rattled off both jaws and rested over the centre pocket.