He reached down for his glasses and lifted them onto his nose, and then started to flick through the red top.

He chuckled at the first few stories, footballers’ tales, massage parlours and mistresses, the press getting all vexed at overpaid young men enjoying themselves too much. He was flicking quickly, the pages making him smile, just as he’d hoped. Then he saw a headline, Cop Flops Secrets.

He started to read it, a story of an anonymous police officer sending emails to the press about a murder on the other side of the county. He shook his head. Someone was going to lose their job, and for what? Some work-place grievance?

Then he stopped. He felt a jolt in his chest, winded, and his fingers gripped the side of the newspaper. His mind flashed back through the years, like a video on fast rewind.

He put the paper down on his lap and looked out of the window again.

The story had taken him back to just one boy, the one who had always troubled him. The abuse-driven anger he had always understood, but it had seemed to be more than that in his case. It was his coldness that stuck with him, the matter-of-fact way he talked about what he had done. A direct stare, a tilt of the head.

He looked at the story again, and the memories from twenty years earlier became louder. The coffee machine bleeped that it had finished, but Rupert ignored it. He was thinking of something else now. Or rather, someone else. A quiet and withdrawn child, his hands on his lap, a flick of light hair, no emotions on his face.

Jane Roberts was found strangled, with her mouth and other orifices filled with dirt and leaves.

He glanced out of the window once more, but he thought the garden looked untidy this time, the cherry blossom cluttering his lawn and weeds emerging in the gaps between the flowers.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Jack had been distracted by the emails, because the first time he realised he had unwelcome visitors was when the front door flew open. He hadn’t heard a car outside.

Jack turned around, shocked, and then he looked for a weapon, a knife lying around, anything, but there was nothing to hand. Three men walked in, wearing black jeans and black T-shirts, hair cropped short, two of them with scars on their faces, memories of past conflicts etched into their skin. One of them was holding a dog, one of those muscled breeds, with menace in its eyes, straining at a leash. The man holding it was older than the other two, tall and angry-looking, his cheeks flushed booze-red. Don Roberts, Jack guessed.

Jack tried to weigh up the situation. People like Roberts were all about intimidation, mean dogs and scowls, but Jack’s first guess was that Don wouldn’t attack him in his own home. They ruled by reputation, big men in a grim pond, self-crowned kings of a part of Blackley that most people aspired to leave, but Jack was not one of their subjects, and so was more likely to report them. Don was there to frighten, not harm.

But Jack had written about Don’s daughter, about how she had been found. That would make him unpredictable.

Jack tried to look relaxed. He crossed his ankles and waited for Don to speak first.

It was a long and uncomfortable minute.

Eventually, Don Roberts said, ‘You know who I am?’

Jack nodded. ‘Jane’s father.’

Don faltered at that. Normally people deferred to him, the big man, but Jack had referred to him in relation to his dead daughter.

Don tensed and recovered. ‘So you know why I’m here.’

‘The article about the police leak.’

Don scowled and moved forward, so that the dog was by Jack’s feet, its mouth open, panting slightly. ‘You wrote some disgusting things about my daughter.’

Jack heard the break in his voice and saw how his eyes were rimmed red. He tried to remember that Don had lost a child. And Don wasn’t wrong, because Jack had mentioned what had happened to Jane.

‘If you read the story, you’d know it was about a police leak, not your daughter,’ Jack said.

Don handed the dog to one of the other men and then bent down to put his face close to Jack’s. ‘You didn’t have to write it.’ He was so close that Jack could see the spittle on his lips and smell the lack of sleep on his breath.

‘It’s what I do.’

‘Not good enough,’ Don said, glaring at him.

‘Be angry at whoever is spreading stories, not me,’ Jack said, and tried to hide the nervousness in his voice.

‘I just want the fucker caught,’ Don said in a growl. There were the beginnings of a loss of control. His fingers shook and his breathing seemed laboured, as if he was struggling to hold onto his emotions.

‘So work with the police,’ Jack said.

‘What, so they can put him in a cell and give him a television, let him taunt me from prison with his Facebook page? Let him out in fifteen years’ time when he promises to be a good boy, and all the time my daughter stays dead?’ Don took some deep breaths and looked down. When he looked up again, his mouth was screwed up into a snarl, his fists clenched tightly. ‘That isn’t going to happen.’

‘So what is coming to Jane’s killer?’

‘Justice,’ Don said. ‘My brand, not the official version, and you’re going to help me.’

Jack’s tongue flicked across his lips, his mouth dry. ‘How?’

Don reached into his pocket and pulled out a small craft knife. He turned it in front of Jack’s eye, the blade glinting in the light that filtered in through the window. ‘I’m not going to hurt you right now, but I just want you to know how dangerous it is to say no.’

Jack swallowed. ‘I don’t know how I can help you.’

‘It’s easy,’ Don said. ‘There is someone in the police contacting you, because that is what your story is all about.’ Don pressed the flat of the blade against Jack’s face, the tip pointing towards his eye. ‘Get him on your side and tell me what he says.’

Jack didn’t respond. He wanted to shake his head, but the blade was too close.

‘What’s wrong?’ Don said. ‘Got a pang of conscience?’

‘It’s more than a pang,’ Jack said, his voice hoarse. ‘It would just be wrong.’

Don Roberts smiled, just a flicker, and then he pressed the blade down more firmly against Jack’s skin. ‘I didn’t give you a choice.’

Jack struggled to keep his face still, not wanting a grimace or twitch to send the blade into his eye. ‘What if I don’t accept?’

‘Anybody who stands in my way is my enemy, and you do not want to be that person.’

Jack’s gaze flitted between the blade and Don’s face. He could hear the dog growling, like a low rumble, his paws making light clicking sounds as he tried to get closer.

Don stepped away and put the blade back into his pocket. Jack let out a long breath and looked towards the two apes standing behind Don. They were smirking.

‘So do you agree, Mr Garrett?’ Don asked.

Jack chewed on his lip and then looked down as he shook his head. ‘I can’t do it,’ he said, trying to keep his voice calm. ‘It would be illegal, and if you caused the murderer any harm, I would be implicated. So no, I won’t do it.’

Don stared at him, his hand inside his pocket. Jack thought he was going to go for the blade again, but the silence grew, and then Don snarled, ‘I expected that response, but I’ll persuade you eventually.’

With that, Don turned to leave, his two henchmen in his wake. When the door clicked closed and he was alone again, Jack let out a long breath and cursed the leak story. Now he was really getting attention he didn’t want.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Rupert glanced towards the building that had been his practice until a few years ago. A building at the end of a long row of shops, painted white and with vertical blinds blocking the view inside, a small brass plaque by the front door, Barker and Holmes. He knew it would be quiet, because it wasn’t even ten o’clock. Most appointments were in the afternoon. The morning was for writing reports.