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He stood up, and Reynolds turned away to pick up a map. Jonas noticed that his brown hair sprouted from his scalp in doll-like tufts. He knew the conversation was at an end. But if he walked away now, he wouldn’t be able to bring it up again.

‘Do we have the names of the owners of the damaged cars at Tarr Steps?’ He hated saying ‘we’ when he knew he was barely included. It was a poorly disguised attempt to remind Reynolds that he was also a policeman.

Reynolds looked up at him again. ‘Of course.’

‘Maybe I could ask them a few questions.’

‘Such as?’

‘I’m not really sure yet.’

Reynolds pursed his lips and Jonas could see him trying to think of a reason to say no. But eventually he said, ‘Of course. Do you mind, Elizabeth?’ and turned back to the papers.

Rice got up and motioned Jonas to follow her, which he did, through the creaking passages and stairways of the old pub to her room.

‘’Scuse the mess,’ she said, although the only thing he could see out of place was a pair of black lacy panties over the back of the armchair.

She took a box file from the wardrobe and put it on the bed. Jonas stood silently just inside the door while she rummaged through it, until she smiled and held up a clear A4 folder.

‘Here it is. I’ll write the names and contact details down for you.’

‘Thanks.’

She turned her back on him and sat at the small scratched desk in the chair that didn’t match – or stand square on the floor.

When Rice turned round and held out a sheet of paper for him, she asked, ‘How are you, Jonas?’

‘Fine, thanks,’ he said automatically, as he took the paper.

‘How is it being back at work? Must be strange.’

‘A bit.’ He shrugged.

He didn’t know why Elizabeth Rice was taking an interest in his wellbeing. Didn’t know if it was genuine concern or keeping tabs on him.

‘Take it slowly, won’t you?’

Jonas wasn’t sure if she was being sarcastic, so he didn’t answer her. Instead he looked at the notes she’d made. ‘Thanks for these.’

‘Sure. Let us know what you find.’

‘Will do.’

He put a hand on the door knob; he couldn’t wait to leave.

‘Jonas?’

He turned in the doorway and she walked over to him.

‘If you need someone to talk to, make it me.’

He looked at her, a little bemused, then mumbled ‘thank you’ or something like it, and left.

Rice watched the door close behind Jonas and squirmed with embarrassment.

Make it me. She had no idea where she’d come up with the B-movie dialogue. She might as well have invited Jonas Holly to come up and see her some time.

Mind you, she thought, it would be nice if some bastard came up to see her some time. She’d broken up with Eric six months before and missed a man in her life. Of course, she worked with men every day, but that wasn’t the same thing. They were cops, and the last thing Elizabeth Rice wanted was to work with cops all day and sleep with one at night, too. And now she’d gone all Mae West on poor Jonas Holly – who’d surely suffered enough already – when all she’d meant to do was let him know she was someone he could talk to if he needed it.

Not that he was unattractive, she thought suddenly. He was too thin, of course, but he was at least symmetrical, which she’d started to value around here. He had nice eyes and short, dark hair. Plus he had that solemn, guarded air about him that she found appealing. Still, she didn’t know why she’d said something so suggestive. Rice prided herself on being professional – not the oldest professional …

She sighed. What the hell. She was probably worrying needlessly. Eric had never taken a hint unless it was dropped on his head like an anvil. Men were like that. Jonas Holly probably hadn’t even noticed her accidental come-on.

She turned to put the file back in the wardrobe.

Oh bollocks!

She’d left yesterday’s knickers on the back of the chair.

21

IT WAS SHANE’S idea to ask Steven for help in getting their money back.

‘Steven?’ said Davey in astonishment. ‘My brother Steven?’

‘Yeah,’ said Shane. ‘He’s taller than Mark bloody Trumbull.’

‘Only a bit. And he can’t fight.’

‘Maybe he wouldn’t have to fight. Maybe being taller and older would be enough. Maybe all he’d have to do is ask and he’d give him our money back.’

Davey shrugged. ‘He wouldn’t do it. He’s a right chicken.’

‘Aw, c’mon, Davey! If I had a brother, you know I’d ask him. But I don’t.’ Shane only had a big sister, Davina, and she cried at chick-flicks, so there was no way they could set her on Mark Trumbull with any expectation of success.

‘He’s probably spent the money already,’ said Davey gloomily, which, in fact, was very nearly true. Mark Trumbull had got Ronnie Trewell to buy four cans of Dry Blackthorn from Mr Jacoby’s shop, then vomited near the swings. He’d done the same thing four days running until Mr Jacoby got suspicious and Ronnie stopped playing ball. That was twenty quid gone. After that, he’d bought a skateboard from Lalo Bryant for £12, and two porn mags – Big Jugs and Beaver Patrol. Thirty-eight quid’s worth of ill-gotten bliss.