bed, eating men. Fucking one, while sucking another one off, her hands wanking another couple at the same time. That's who she was. A complete fucking slut, fucking and fucking, pricks all over her, covered in semen, swallowing semen, squeezing her cunt lips on endless cocks.
'How does that make me… the fucking… bad guy?'
The words are spoken at an empty room.
She'd moved away. Moved house. He hadn't seen her in so long. Was it a year or two years? The time seemed so long. It dragged. He thought about her every day, yet there was no possibility of ever seeing her again. Unless she decided to come back.
Would she come back? It seemed incredible to him that she had not already regretted leaving. All those men, but what did they ever give her? Sometimes he wondered if something had happened to her. Maybe that was it. Maybe it was the things he'd said when she'd ended the relationship. She had never admitted the other men, but he could tell that he was right when he'd accused her. No one looks that guilty unless there's something for them to be guilty about.
Three o'clock in the morning, the non-stop clock ticking in his brain. Christmas Day. She should be lying beside him; instead, she was probably still at some hangover of a Christmas Eve party, still fucking blokes, still fucking. Still fucking.
He'd find her soon enough. These other women, the ones who looked like Jo, but who weren't Jo, they were all the same. They weren't Jo. Sometimes they might as well be her. They weren't Jo.
One minute past three in the morning. The non-stop clock ticking in his brain. He'd find another Jo. He'd find another one.
Fucking Jo. Fucking Jo. Fucking all those other men, yet he was the bad guy.
Fucking Jo.
'I wasn't co-fucking dependant…'
Fucking Jo.
14
Sitting in the lounge, small lamp burning dimly, coffee all round, the Christmas tree unlit and pathetic in the corner, one man's weak concession to seasonal spirit. On the settee Evelyn Bathurst sits, sleepy eyed, Nescafe Gold Blend, black, three sugars, in her hot little hand. Decided she needed to speak to me tonight, thought she'd come and wait for me, so let herself into the flat. Polis make the best criminals. I've hit the wall. Need sleep. I'm close on forty-five and massively unfit, not eighteen. I can't handle staying up all night shagging anymore. If she doesn't get to the point soon I'm going to fall asleep on her.
'I shouldn't be here. I'm sorry.' For the seventh time.
'Look, it's not a problem, Evelyn.' Another large draft of coffee, another cigarette; hope that they start kicking in. 'I don't mind. Just take your time, I'm not going anywhere. When you're ready.' Mr. Compassion, that's me. Course, I want to give her a shake and tell her to get on with it, but I can see when a young woman is troubled.
Glance at the watch. Almost six o'clock. Shit.
I look at her, the worry lines on her young face. At least this'll make it easier to get out of the thing tonight, assuming she actually talks to me in the next two hours. She looks like a wee lassie sitting there. About to tell her father that's she pregnant; or she's dropping out of university, to go and build water pumps for villagers in West Africa. Can't believe I tried to get her into bed.
She drains her coffee. Looks at me. I recognise it. This is it. If she's about to tell me she's pregnant or that she's going to drop out of the police to go and build water pumps for villagers in West Africa, I'll be disappointed.
'You have to promise me that you won't tell anyone about this,' she starts.
Looks on the point of tears. Better sharpen up, take her seriously.
'Don't worry, Evelyn, I'm not about to tell anyone.'
'If this gets out at the station…,' and she doesn't finish the sentence. Lifts the mug to her mouth, finds it empty.
'I'll get you another cup. You get yourself together and tell me about it when I get back in.'
She nods, wipes her eyes. I take the mug and head for the kitchen. Sounds serious.
Stare out of the kitchen window at the cold and empty streets while the kettle boils. Wonder what she's going to say. Start to get a bad feeling, and for the first time think that maybe I don't want to know what she's just about to tell me. Sometimes ignorance is best.
Make the coffee, take it back in, hand it over and sit down. This time there's no delay. Engages my eyes for a second, takes a deep breath, then she starts talking immediately. Words tumble out in a great rush, sentences tripping over each other.
And immediately I know I was right. I don't want to hear it.
15
Walking into the office, five to eight. Wide awake. Had a shower, still feel dirty. Brought Bathurst in with me and she's gone off to their locker room. She lifted the weight from her shoulders by transferring it to mine and came into work in a better frame of mind than she was in at my flat. Not that I can do anything for her, but I said the right things and she's made her confession. And now I'm stuck with the information.
The light is on in Taylor's office and I stick my head round the door. I'm glad that he wasn't part of what I've just heard about. Want to tell him, but know I can't.
'Morning.'
He looks up. Smiles, sort of.
'What were you up to last night then, you shagger? You were spotted three minutes ago promenading across the carpark with Bathurst.'
Christ, you can't do anything, can you? I'm about to go on the defensive but decide against. They can think what they like.
Don't smile. Don't feel like it.
'Any news?'
He nods.
'Aye. While you were out shagging last night, some of us were working.'
'Spare me.'
'We got your Healy character. Picked him up at a pub in town, steaming out his face, about half ten.'
What was I doing at half past ten? I was deep in the arms of Charlotte Miller. Already seems a long time ago.
'And?'
'He sobered up pretty quick. Got him in a cell overnight. Jonah's coming in to talk to him this morning.'
'And is he going to be sober?' Almost spit the words out, knowing what I now know about Jonah Bloonsbury. If Taylor notices the tone, he doesn't comment.
'Is he ever? He'll have the run of CID today without the witch in, so who knows what he'll be like.'
Nearly spring to her defence, but manage to zip it.
'What do you think of our guy?' I say instead.
He leans back in his chair, tosses a pen onto the desk. Purses his lips. Shakes his head.
'Don't know, to be honest. I see what you mean about him, but I think he's just a stupid little shit.'
Implied criticism, I shouldn't have been getting everyone excited.
'Aye, right. I wasn't sure. Bloonsbury was the one frothing at the mouth over it. Just a gut feeling.'
He nods. 'Aye, well my gut feeling says it's not him, but Jonah's the one to make the decision. Anyway, we
