Deity

didn’t usually join in such meaningless banter. He didn’t see the point. They’d know the result after the match and the endless speculative boasting seemed like a waste of effort — doubly so if they lost. Tonight, however, he was happy to kill time, to be distracted by trivia and he spent another vacant half-hour trying to respond to his teammates’ incoherent ramblings.

Kyle’s Smiths CD was playing. After fruitlessly searching for Kyle in the dark fields the night before, Jake had returned to pick it up and bring it home. Now he was going to his party. What would Kyle say to him when he opened the door? Track 9 began to play. Take me out tonight.

Jake glanced sideways at the DVD-shaped parcel on the bed. Picnic at Hanging Rock — Special Edition. He’d bought it earlier today and it was expensive. His mum had wrapped it for him though he wouldn’t tell her who it was for in case she mentioned it to his dad. When she’d asked if it was for a girlfriend, he’d let her believe it.

With a heavy heart, he typed in a final inanity, being careful to misspell a couple of words, and logged out of MSN.

Becky’s face fell as Kyle opened the door to her. ‘Shit. What happened to you, Kylie?’

He smiled weakly at her despite the painful swelling around his face. ‘You should see the other guy — not a scratch on him,’ he joked.

‘But what. .?’

‘I had a disagreement with Wilson about my sexual orientation.’

‘That fat tub of guts. At least you’ve got a sexual orientation.’

Kyle giggled then winced in pain. ‘Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.’ He ushered her in. Becky couldn’t hear music or even a TV. Only Adele was there, sitting on a small sofa with a bottle of untouched WKD in her hand, staring into space. She glanced up at Becky and smiled when she saw the jeans, trainers and sweatshirt, the leather rucksack over her shoulder.

Becky nodded back at her and looked around. ‘Geek Boy not here?’

Adele shook her head. ‘Not yet. Do you want a drink?’

Becky prepared to refuse, citing her skin as the reason. A model must have beautiful skin. ‘Don’t see why not.’

Jake stood beneath the streetlight outside Kyle’s house. He’d been there nearly five minutes, just watching, wondering what to do. He’d seen no one arrive and no signs of life. There wasn’t even the barely muffled pulse of loud music that had greeted his arrival at every other teenage party he’d attended. Maybe Kyle hadn’t come home after the previous night’s beating. Maybe he was lying out in the fields injured or dead. For the first time in his life, Jake envied people who smoked.

With a deep breath, he approached the glass front door and raised a hand to knock. But instead of knocking, he waited. He couldn’t hear anything; no music, no laughter and none of the usual loud screeching and shouting for attention that characterised every other conversation held at such gatherings. It was as quiet as the grave.

He stood frozen, his hand aloft, ready to pound on the door. Finally he lowered his arm and walked around the side of the house where there was a large floor-to-ceiling window. The curtains were drawn but Jake could see movement on the other side so he drew nearer and fixed his eye to a crack in the material. He pulled back and turned away, deep lines of confusion etched on his brow. A second later he walked back down the small drive and set off for home.

Becky stood at the sink in Kyle’s kitchen and wiped the last of the talcum powder from her face. When she’d finished, she stared at her reflection in the window. The harsh strip-lighting left no hiding place for all the minor blemishes that others overlooked but she obsessed over. She looked away at once.

The noise of the TV increased as a door opened and Adele came over to put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Okay, Becks?’

Becky smiled faintly. ‘Always.’ She laughed. ‘Lamest party ever, right?’ Adele smiled back. ‘I should text Fern and tell her she got off lightly.’ Adele raised an eyebrow but Becky had already realised. ‘Right. No phones.’

‘Come and watch Badlands. You’ll like it.’

Eight

Saturday, 21 May

The next morning, Brook jogged up the steps of the entrance to Division Headquarters in St Mary’s Wharf, and waited for Noble to swipe his card against the sensor before following his subordinate through the smoked- glass door. Sergeant Harry Hendrickson was on the Duty Desk and spotted DI Brook hurrying by. Hendrickson was in his late fifties and had a face like Sid James on a bad day. He’d never got over being rejected by CID in his distant youth, and a detective as clever as Brook had become the natural focus for his resentment, the more so because Brook wasn’t a local man.

Hendrickson sneered as sourly as he dared in Brook’s direction, but the senior officer kept his eyes glued firmly to his feet. Noble in turn gave Hendrickson no more than a glance as the pair passed.

‘Morning, Detective Sergeant,’ bellowed the uniformed officer when Noble didn’t acknowledge him.

For once Noble didn’t answer or react to the fake bonhomie. Usually he nodded a greeting, played along to keep a foot in both camps as he had with Keith Pullin the other morning. But this was getting out of hand — too many people felt they could be openly hostile and Noble decided it was time to stonewall the backhanded insults aimed at his superior.

Brook pushed through the door that led to the lifts but he ignored them and made for the stairs. At the same moment a lift door opened and Chief Superintendent Mark Charlton stepped out. Brook saw him from the corner of an eye but pretended not to notice and bounded towards the first step.

‘Morning, gentlemen,’ called Charlton, raising an arm and halting Brook in mid-stride.

‘Morning, sir,’ said Noble. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m good.’

Brook turned to face the Chief Super with barely detectable scorn. Noble watched him, wincing in anticipation. Good at what? was Brook’s usual retort to such a greeting. More often than not it was followed by Are you American? Noble saw Brook open his mouth to speak but fortunately the moment passed without comment.

‘What news about that floater?’ asked Charlton, looking beyond Brook to his destination. Close to regulation minimum height, Charlton was always uncomfortable standing beside two six-footers. ‘I’ve had Brian Burton from the local rag on to me about it. Just an old tramp, I heard.’

Brook raised an eyebrow. ‘Even tramps have mothers. Sir.’ Charlton and Brook’s eyes locked briefly before the Chief Superintendent looked away, tight-lipped.

‘You know what I mean, Inspector. The type to get falling-down drunk and end up in the river — the type worth a fourline paragraph on page eleven of the Derby Telegraph.’

‘There’s a little more to it than that,’ answered Brook.

‘Oh? How so?’

‘We’re still assessing that, sir,’ said Brook. ‘It’s not suicide and it could yet be murder.’

Noble looked sharply at Brook.

‘I see,’ said Charlton. He tried to sound authoritative. ‘Well, get your paperwork on my desk today and don’t waste any more time on it than necessary.’

Brook smiled his reply.

Charlton was on the verge of turning away before finding a riposte to Brook’s earlier gibe. ‘You know, you glamour boys in CID never really have day-to-day dealings with tramps or the homeless and alcoholic. It’s us in uniform that have always had to clean up their mess. The nurse punched and kicked in Casualty. The primary-school kids on their way home lured into a derelict house and sexually assaulted. If you’d seen what I’ve seen out in the field, you wouldn’t think some of these scumbags had mothers.’ He glared at Brook only to see that he’d already