Andrea blew smoke out as she shook her head.
Shap nodded his thanks and Butchers checked his watch and noted the time in his book.
There were three other girls working: Shelley, Carmen and Dee. Shap and Butchers spoke to each of them and learnt nothing new. When they’d finished Butchers put his book and pen away slowly, eager to prolong the time away from the station but Shap caught his eye and jerked his head towards the exit. Time to face the music.
*****
Debbie had gone quiet. Even her crying was silent. She’d been taking the tranquillisers that the doctor had prescribed. Other people had been in and out, making meals that neither of them could face, tidying up a bit and dealing with the demands of a world that still turned. Debbie was upstairs now, creeping about.
Chris sat in the kitchen, the television on, sound muted. Last night’s Evening News was on the table, coverage of the accident on the front page. Ann-Marie’s face, hair in bunches, her new front teeth looking big in her face. He wondered why they had chosen that photo rather than any other. They had hundreds of her, videos too: holidays, birthdays, Christmases. Would a day ever come when he could bear to see her on the screen, chattering and hamming it up for the camera? The way she put her hands on her hips when she was exasperated by something, the sudden gurgle in her laugh.
He turned the sound up as the lunchtime news came on and pressed record on the VCR. A picture flashed up, a mug shot. ‘Greater Manchester police have taken the unusual step of issuing this picture of 27-year-old Lee Stone, who is wanted for questioning in connection with last night’s shooting.’ The shot changed to an alleyway and police tape fluttered in the wind. ‘The victim, Jeremy Gleason, aged 24, died at the scene. Both men lived in the Wythenshawe area of Manchester.’ The picture changed back to the studio. Behind the newsreader Stone’s mug shot remained. ‘Police have warned the public not to approach Lee Stone who may be armed but to contact the police immediately.’
And Ann-Marie? He was incensed. He killed my daughter too.
He fetched a bottle of vodka from the fridge and poured himself a tumbler full. He rewound the tape, played it again, freezing the image so he could study the photograph. Smoking steadily (no need to smoke in the garden now) he regarded the narrow eyes, the slight sneer to the mouth, the broad chin and close cut hair that gave Stone the look of a hard man, a bruiser.
