The Bad Things: A gripping crime thriller full of twists and turns

‘What?’

‘I don’t know. Yes I do. I wonder if he still loves her in some way.’

‘Well, you can go back in the morning and see how she is, or later, if you want to. I can stay here with Gus.’

She pushed herself gently out of his arms, dashing the tears off her cheeks. ‘Thank you. Now I know why I like you.’

‘And it explains why the telephone wouldn’t stop ringing.’

‘How do you know it was ringing?’

‘I could hear it during the long and lonely wait for you outside the door.’

‘Bugger.’

And on cue, it rang.

‘Alex Devlin?’

‘Yes,’ she said. She could try and protect her sister but when it came to herself it wasn’t so easy.

‘Hi, I’m Ed Killingback from ThePost and I wondered if I could have a few minutes of your time to talk about Jackie Wood and her winning her appeal today?’

‘Do you know what, Ed, I really am not up to it.’ She made her voice as cold as she could.

‘It won’t take long, and if you give me your story as an exclusive then you won’t have to worry about the others, will you?’ His young, eager tone wearied her. ‘We could put you up in a hotel so you’re not bothered by any of the red tops and—’

‘Look,’ she cut in, ‘I know how it goes and I’m not interested. Please leave me alone.’ She put down the phone with a satisfying clunk.

Her mobile began to belt out some grungy piece of music she didn’t know, but it had been set by Gus as her ringtone. She looked at the screen. Unknown number. She sighed and turned it off.

Malone switched on the kettle.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘This is exactly what you don’t want.’

‘What do you mean?’

She gave what she thought was a wry smile but probably looked more like a grimace. ‘You’re trying to avoid publicity now you’ve done your bit, and here I am, bringing it right back to your door.’

‘Hmm,’ he said, the kettle starting to boil. ‘I reckon I’m used to the parasites knocking on the door, don’t you think?’

‘I guess. But I don’t want you bothered by it.’ What she meant was she didn’t want him so spooked that he would leave her just as she was getting used to him in her life.

‘I won’t be.’ He poured water onto the two teabags. ‘How’s Gus?’

Bringing her into the real world. She looked at the clock. Football practice tonight. ‘He’s okay, I think.’ And yes, Malone knew about Gus’s patchy history. ‘Wants to go skiing with the school.’

Malone raised his eyebrows. ‘Expensive stuff.’

‘Hmm.’

‘And?’

‘And what?’ Alex knew she sounded defensive, and it was none of his business anyway.

Malone drummed his fingers on the kitchen unit. ‘And are you able to pay for it?’

‘That, Malone,’ she said, ‘is nothing to do with you.’ He handed her a cup of tea: dark brown builders’; just how she liked it. ‘I’m going up to my study to see if Liz likes you.’

‘I hope you gave me a good write-up.’

Alex stopped, her hand on the doorknob. ‘Sympathetic, I think you’ll find.’

‘And anonymous?’

‘Malone. What do you take me for? It’s an “all names have been changed to protect their identities” article. As you well know.’

He grinned. ‘Just checking.’

She gave a wry smile. ‘I’ll be back in a minute, help yourself to a biscuit or something. Read the paper. Do relaxing things.’ Then a thought struck her. ‘What are you doing here, Malone? Shouldn’t you be going deep undercover into a brothel or something? Saving people, being a hero?’

He gave a slow, gentle smile. ‘Don’t be flippant. It’s important stuff. Anyway, I’ve told you already, I’ve done my bit. Rescued all I can. Thought I’d come and say hallo.’

‘And see if my piece about you is going to be published in the Saturday Magazine. Egotist.’

Malone shrugged his shoulders.

Alex sat down in her study, switched on the computer and waited for it to go through its warm-up routine. She thought about Malone, lounging on the sofa downstairs, reading the paper, all relaxed and smelling of his organic soap, and she thought of Sasha alone in her flat with only the television and a razor blade for company, and she knew where she would rather be. She couldn’t say she felt guilty. How could she when guilt was so much a part of her life? There is only so much of it one can feel.

She and Malone had hit it off as soon as they met. And meeting had been an exhausting task involving clandestine calls to men and women who she was sure wore balaclavas just to answer the phone. Eventually she was deemed worthy of meeting the Man Who Saved The World From Harm, and she presumed they’d also checked out her credentials and whether or not she really was a journalist and not an undercover member of the Russian mafia or a gangland boss. Anyway, they met in a spit and sawdust pub south of the River Wensum. It was down an alleyway in an unprepossessing part of Norwich, and she’d had to muster all her reserves to walk into it without feeling intimidated.

She didn’t know what she’d been expecting – someone in a beanie hat and Jesus sandals she thought was most likely – but sitting at the table in the corner underneath the portrait of the Queen (yes, they still exist in pubs, and yes, that’s where she’d been told he would be sitting) was a man in his early forties – dark jeans, light blue shirt with white polka dots, trainers – nursing a pint.

She held out her hand. ‘Hi, I’m Alex Devlin. You must be Malone.’ Another conceit: last name only. She had resisted the temptation to introduce herself as Devlin.

To his credit he stood up, shook her hand, and offered her a drink. She was impressed, and it only got better from then on. And when they finally got round to it, the interview went well too. He told her what motivated him, the chances he’d taken, like befriending one of the women who was the girlfriend of the leader of the group he was supposed to be a part of. By ‘befriending’ Alex understood that he meant more than having a chat over a cup of coffee. He told her how he kept a flock of geese in the garden as they were the best alarm against intruders, how he had infiltrated the whole subculture of gangs. Although she thought he was mad to have taken some of the chances he had, she ended up admiring him. Oh, and sleeping with him. Pillow talk was quite good for in-depth personality pieces.

Of course, being the good interviewer she tried to be, she let him talk about himself and said very little about herself. But she found it…what – interesting? amazing? – that the gentle, mild-mannered man she got to know had been responsible for some of the major high profile arrests in recent months, after years of work. When she ventured to ask why he was letting himself be interviewed, he said he wanted to publicize what was going on as much as possible while keeping himself in the background. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘We have to be lucky all the time. People who are trying to destroy us and our way of life have only got to get lucky once. That’s why I do it.’

He also, he said, hated to see exploitation of people, and was hoping to be able to play some part in the war against human trafficking. Organized crime. Too much of that was going on. Kids brought in to be held as sex slaves. ‘All driven by the drugs trade,’ he said. ‘This area is rife with drugs factories. Houses on urban streets, isolated farms, sheds, barns – whatever.’ But for the moment, he told her, he was resting, he thought he’d done enough. At least for now.

The two-tone noise of the computer announced it was ready for business, and Alex let the emails download. She decided not to go on Facebook or Twitter; it would only push her blood pressure sky-high. That was the trouble with being a freelance – she felt she needed to be readily contactable, which was easy in the era of mobiles and social media, but, boy, when she wanted to lie low, it was bloody difficult.

The emails were, as she suspected, a mixture of clothes companies, train companies, and supermarkets advertising their wares, and requests for interviews about her and Sasha from various magazines. She deleted them all. But the one she wanted from her editor was there.

To: Alex Devlin

From: Liz Henderson