A Place of Safety

He hangs up and drops the phone through a grate into a drain.

When he turns to retrieve his place back on the step a girl has taken his spot. She peers out at him from the hood of an oily parka.

Luke is lost as to what to do next. His mind is fit to explode.

The girl scratches her face with bitten nails. Each one is down to the quick, yet painted a luminous orange.

She gestures to the grate. ‘You could have sold that.’

Luke points to his rucksack. ‘Can I get my bag?’

‘You shouldn’t leave it hanging around.’ Her voice is loud with a strong Liverpudlian accent.

He nods. Of course he shouldn’t have left it. Anyone could have nicked it.

She passes it up to him. ‘Got any ciggies in there?’

Luke shakes his head.

‘Anything to drink?’

‘No.’

‘You’re not much cop then, are you?’ she says.

Luke laughs in spite of himself. Hers is the first half-friendly face he’s seen since he left home. ‘I don’t suppose I am. Much cop, that is.’

The girl pulls herself to her feet and adjusts her oversized coat. It makes her look pitifully small, hidden in its folds. When she’s a few feet away she turns back to him.

‘If you’re hungry I’ll show you where to get some scran.’

Luke is not the least bit peckish, but he races after her all the same.

‘I’m Luke,’ he says.

The girl smiles. ‘Everyone round here calls me Mad Caz.’

‘Do you want counselling?’ asked the Chief Super. Jack raised an eyebrow.

The Chief Super put up his hands. ‘I have to ask.’

‘I’d rather put all this behind me,’ said Jack. ‘Get back to normal.’

The Chief Super nodded. ‘If you change your mind the offer’s there.’

Jack thanked him, but he knew it wasn’t something he’d take up. Yapping endlessly about how he felt wouldn’t change the fact that one of the boys from the school was lying in intensive care and the shooter, Artan, was on a slab.

He’d been down this road before, in Northern Ireland, and he knew the best way to recover was to look forward, not back. You couldn’t change the past, but you could shape your future.

And what was Jack’s future? What did he actually want? If you’d asked him a year ago he wouldn’t have known. A bigger flat? A pay rise? For Liverpool to win the double? Now he had no hesitation. He wanted Lilly and Sam.

He drove to their cottage knowing everything he needed was inside. For too long he had pussyfooted around, flirting, complimenting, letting Lilly get away with murder on his cases. He never imagined a woman as sorted as she was would have time for a loser who had never held down a relationship for longer than six months. Now he had her there was no way he was going to let anything stop him from making this work.

Lilly answered the door. She smiled with her mouth but not her eyes.

‘What’s happened?’ asked Jack.

‘The girl’s been arrested.’

‘The other shooter?’

He saw her shoulders tense. ‘She didn’t shoot anyone.’

‘And your man went all the way to court to tell you that?’

‘Milo asked me to help her,’ she said.

He didn’t like the way she said his name, as if there were magic in it.

‘And what does this Milo expect you to do?’

She turned away and walked towards the kitchen. ‘He wants me to represent her.’

Oh, no. She wouldn’t—would she? She was bloody pig-headed, but even she would see this was madness.

‘You can’t do it,’ he said.

‘I know.’

‘You were there, Sam was there.’

‘I know.’

‘Mary Mother of God, I was the one who shot her boyfriend.’

‘I know.’ Lilly threw up her arms. ‘I bloody well know all that.’

‘So you told him no?’

‘I told him no.’ She didn’t meet his eyes.

Alexia Dee stretched out a smooth leg and admired her shoes. Purple suede with a high square heel. A small hole at the toe allowing a flash of nail of the same colour. Pure sex.

‘Busy, are we, Posh?’

Alexia pursed her lips. Her boss was in a foul temper, stalking around the office like a lion waiting for a kill, leaving his usual trail of stale smoke and sweat.

Steve Berry hated quiet days, unable to settle, pouncing on the phone like an addict on his drugs. Well, everyone hated the quiet days, didn’t they? Alexia hadn’t studied for three years in the backwoods of Bristol to spend her time drinking coffee, but any decent journalist knew that it’s part of the job. You sit. You wait.