The tall one held the passes as the other copied down the details. “So how’d you get in the house lads?”
The short one didn’t let me answer. “Aw fuck,” he said. “Open the door will you. I’m not standing out here in this piss.” He tore out the rain-soaked piece of paper he’d been trying to write on and screwed it up.
I said, “I can’t.”
The tall one had stopped smiling. “You fucking can and you will.”
“It’s a Yale lock. We don’t have the key.”
“So you’re fucking Father Christmas are you? How the fuck did you get in?”
I gambled and said, “Somebody let us in.”
“Stop arsing around. Who the fuck let you in?”
“The Goldthorpes’ family solicitor,” said Kelly.
“Who is…?”
I tried not to look too pleased. “Edward Clay and Son, Town-gate, Pontefract.”
“Fucking smart arse,” spat the tall one.
“Here, you’re not related to Johnny Kelly are you?” said the short officer as he handed back the passes.
“He’s my second cousin.”
“You fucking Micks breed like bloody rabbits.”
“Done a Lucan hasn’t he? Legged it.”
Kelly just said, “I don’t know.”
The taller officer jerked his head towards the road. “You better fuck off and find him ‘fore next Sunday, hadn’t you?”
“Not you Santa,” said the short one poking me in the chest.
Kelly turned round. I tossed him the keys to the Viva. He shrugged and jogged off towards the car, leaving the three of us stood there by the back door, the pouring rain running off the roof of the bungalow, listening to Hamlet, waiting for someone to speak.
The short one took his time putting his notebook away. The tall one took off his gloves, stretched his fingers, cracked his knuckles, and then put his gloves back on. I rocked back on my heels, hands in my pockets, rain dripping off my nose.
After a couple of minutes of this shit I said, “What is it then?”
The taller copper suddenly reached out with both his arms and pushed me back against the door. He gripped one gloved hand around my throat and crushed my face flat against the paint with the other. My feet weren’t on the floor.
“Don’t go bothering people who don’t want bothering,” he whispered into my ear.
“It’s not nice,” hissed the short one, an inch from my face on tiptoes.
I waited, stomach taut, expecting the punch.
A hand closed over my balls, gently stroking them.
“You should get yourself a hobby.”
The short one tightened his hand around my balls. “Bird-watching, that’s a nice quiet hobby.”
A finger pressed through my trousers, pushing up into my arsehole.
I wanted to spew.
“Or photography.” He let go of my balls, kissed me on the cheek, and walked off whistling
The tall copper pushed my face further into the door. “And remember, Big Brother’s watching you.”
A car horn honked.
He dropped me to the ground. “Always.”
The horn honked again and, coughing on my knees in the rain, I watched the size eleven steel-toecaps walk down the path and get into the police car.
The tyres turned and then the boots and the police car were gone.
I heard a door open, Hamlet barking louder.
I got to my feet and ran across the Close, rubbing my neck and clutching my balls.
“Mr Dunford! Mr Dunford!” shouted Enid Sheard.
Kelly had the Viva running. I opened the passenger door and jumped in.
“Fuck,” said Kelly, putting his foot down.
I turned round, my balls and face still burning, and saw Enid Sheard screaming bloody hell across Willman Close.
“Don’t go bothering people who don’t want bothering.”
Kelly had his eyes on the motorway. “It’s not such bad advice, you know.”
“What do you mean?” I said, knowing what he meant.
“Spoke to our Paula last night. She was in a bad way you know.”
“I know. I’m sorry,” I said, my eyes on the car in front, wondering why he’d waited until now.
“You could’ve asked me first.”
“I didn’t know. It was Barry’s idea more than mine.”
“Don’t say that Eddie. It’s not right.”
“No, really. I had no idea she was family. I…”
“You’re doing your job, I know. But it’s just that, you know, none of us have ever really got over it. Then all the stuff with this other lass, it just brings it back.”
“I know.”
“Plus all this shit with our Johnny. It just never seems to stop.”
“You’ve not heard anything then?”
“No, nothing.”
I said, “I’m sorry, Paul.”
“I know everyone reckons it’ll be some bird or he’ll be on one of his benders, but I don’t know. I hope he is.”
“But you don’t think so?”
“Johnny took it the hardest, you know, after Paula and Geoff. He loves kids. I mean,
“I’m sorry.”
“I know. I wasn’t going to mention it, but…”
I didn’t want to hear it. “Where do you think he is?”
Kelly looked at me. “If I knew that I wouldn’t be bleeding driving you around like your fucking chauffeur would I?” He tried to smile, but it wouldn’t come.
“I’m sorry,” I said for the thousandth time.
I stared out of the window at the brown fields with their single brown trees and bits of brown hedges. We were coming up to the gypsy camp.
Kelly switched on the radio and the Bay City Rollers were briefly singing
I stared past Kelly as the burnt-out caravans flew by and tried to think of something to say.
Nobody spoke until we were in Leeds, parking under the arches near the Post building.
Kelly switched off the engine and took out his wallet. “What do you want to do with this?”
“Half and half?”
“Yeah,” said Kelly, counting out the tenners.
He handed me five.
“Thanks,” I said. “What happened to your car?”
“Hadden said to take the bus. That you’d be coming back here, said you could drive me back.”
Fuck, I thought. I bet he did.
“Why do you ask?”
“Nowt,” I said. “Just asking.”
“We live in the Great Age of Investigative Journalism and Barry Gannon was one of the men who gave us this
