Bob Sanders didn’t like visiting other cop shops. He always felt he was being judged by his fellow officers. He knew what they might be seeing, a guy close to retirement, a guy on his way to the scrapheap, a guy who should have done better. But Bob knew he was good at his job. The only reason he hadn’t been promoted was that he had made enemies. If he didn’t like you, he told you so to your face. If he didn’t like your way of running things, he told you to your face. Not everybody was happy with that.

He’d been on the force for years, so was well known, if not always well liked. He pushed open the door of the cop shop and walked up to the desk, pressed the bell to let someone know he was there. When they arrived, he showed them his warrant card and asked to speak to Detective Sergeant Connolly. DS Connolly didn’t invite him up to the CID office, he came downstairs to meet him instead. Connolly was in his early thirties and looked tough but jaded, the sort of officer who should have found himself a different job. Being a cop had become too easy. Connolly shook Bob’s hand and asked him what the problem was.

‘You’re assuming it’s a problem,’ Bob said with a thin smile.

‘When isn’t it?’

Connolly asked if they could move outside. The day was bright and windy. On the pavement, he lit a cigarette. Bob had turned down the offer of one. Bob stood there, waiting for Connolly to get comfortable. But that wasn’t going to happen.

‘I’m interested in a BMW,’ Bob said. ‘I asked the comms centre to send out the licence number, and guess what they told me? They said it had already been done. I found that a bit odd, so I asked them when, why and who. Last night, it turns out, and the one asking was you, DS Connolly.’

Connolly inhaled some smoke and held it there, releasing it down his nostrils. He gave a shrug by way of an answer.

‘I’m assuming you know,’ Bob went on, ‘that the car in question is owned by a man called Donald Empson. It might tie him to a shooting at a garage yesterday. But the team only just got hold of that, while you seem to have a crystal ball tucked away somewhere.’ Bob paused, but Connolly was still concentrating on the cigarette. ‘Now, unless you want me going higher up with this, and by “higher up” I mean all the way to the top, I want to hear your side of the story. Might be, we can keep it between ourselves. Might be, you won’t lose your job and your pension.’

It was the sort of threat Bob knew Connolly would react to. The man puffed out his cheeks before speaking.

‘It was a favour.’

‘Who for, Don Empson?’ Bob watched as Connolly nodded. ‘So someone’s taken his car and he wants it back. Did he mention the shooting?’

‘He said there might be someone wounded.’

‘The guy in the garage is dead.’

‘I think he meant whoever has his car.’

‘And you kept this to yourself?’ Bob got right into Connolly’s face. ‘You’re worse than they are, do you know that?’

Connolly met the stare. ‘I’ve known it for years,’ he said, flicking away the remains of the cigarette and heading back into the cop shop.

Bob took out his phone and called Jane with the news.

Councillor Hanley’s house

Lorna Hanley had woken up that morning at seven. Her husband Andrew wasn’t in the bed. Putting on her dressing gown, she opened the door of his study a couple of inches and found him in his chair, asleep in his clothes. His mobile phone was beeping, telling him he had messages. His neck was at an awkward angle, and she knew he would be stiff when he woke up.

Downstairs, she made tea for herself and unloaded the dishwasher. There were only two Weetabix left, so she made a note to buy more, then dumped the empty packet in the bin. The bin was nearly full, so she hauled out the bag and tied it in a knot, replacing it with a fresh one. This was supposed to be Andrew’s job, and like so many of Andrew’s jobs she always ended up doing it herself. She had the radio playing as she ate breakfast. There was a report about another shooting. There were so many of them these days in the city. A garage owner was dead. The report stated that ‘one or more assailants’ might be on the run, and injured. She tutted and unlocked the kitchen door, taking the bin bag with her. When she opened the garden bin, she saw that there was a pair of shoes inside. They were Andrew’s shoes, his perfectly good shoes. Well, perfect apart from the paint, but paint could be removed.

She had shopping to do, and reckoned she could find a shoe repair shop. Maybe they’d be able to help. She placed the shoes in a carrier bag and decided to put them in the car so she wouldn’t forget. She had started to forget things, which was why lists were such a good idea.

‘You’ve too much on your plate, girl,’ she told herself.

But when she went out front to the car, she saw that there was a dent to the back bumper. No wonder Andrew had been in a mood last night, someone had banged into his beloved Jaguar! She tutted again and unlocked the doors. Yesterday’s newspaper was on the passenger seat. She swapped it for the shoes and took it into the house with her, ready for recycling. But Andrew had scrawled something in the margin of the front page. Maybe it was important. She placed her glasses on her nose and read the message.

RAYMOND’S GARAGE, 4 p.m., Empson/cash.

Lorna Hanley stared at the words as though they were written in some foreign language. She heard a noise in the doorway. Andrew was standing there, rubbing at his face.

‘You were there,’ she told him, her voice trembling. ‘You were at that garage, the one where the man was shot.’

He blinked at her. His mouth opened, and then closed itself again. Husband and wife locked eyes for a few moments. She was ready to hear his denial, but instead he turned and ran, leaving the front door wide open. She watched him go. She even stepped outside, to see where he might be heading, but he was gone. Back indoors, she finished her cup of tea, staring at nothing in particular. Then she lifted the telephone. Other wives might not do it, but she’d been brought up differently. She knew it was the right thing.

‘Hello?’ she said into the receiver. ‘Police…?’

‘Stewart? Is that you?’

‘Who else would it be? What’s the matter?’

Gorgeous George Renshaw was out of breath. He’d managed to flee the scrapyard and disappear into the maze of streets nearby. He knew he had to talk to his lawyer, but for some reason he’d called his brother instead. He was heading towards a café he knew. It was only two blocks further up the hill.

‘Are you walking?’ Stewart sounded amazed.

‘A cop came to see me.’

‘So?’

‘So she recognised one of the cars. Don took it from Raymond’s. I was just getting rid of it.’

‘So it ties Don to the scene of the shooting?’

‘And me with him!’

‘All you have to say is that you don’t know anything about it. Don Empson came to you with a car he wanted turned into scrap. You know him of old, so you felt you had to oblige.’

‘That’s good,’ George said quietly. He knew now why he had called Stewart. Stewart was always the one with the ideas.

‘So now I’ve done you a favour, maybe you can do one for me and get my money back from whoever took it!’

‘Don’s on the case.’

‘Of course he is. Until the cops pull him in…’

George had reached the café. Its door opened with a little ping of a bell. The owner knew him, nodded and smiled. George took the table by the window, phone still pressed to his ear.

‘Where is he anyway?’ Stewart was asking. ‘His nephew’s still not turned up for work.’ There was the sound of another phone ringing at Stewart’s end. He told George to hang on while he took it. George stared out of the window, wondering how the world could look the same as always when his own personal universe was exploding. It was less than a minute before Stewart came on again. ‘That was the cops,’ he said. ‘They want to know where they can find Benjy.’