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Steven looked down at the magazine for the first time and then back at Mark Trumbull.

‘I know where you live,’ he said, and started walking.

‘No you fucking don’t.’

‘Number seventy-two.’

Mark Trumbull hurried after him. His right hand was in a fist, but he wasn’t sure whether he should actually hit Davey’s brother or not. Some vague notion he’d picked up about Steven Lamb from the collective consciousness of school made him unusually cautious. ‘You gimme my magazine or I’ll fuck you up, shithead.’

Steven Lamb said nothing and kept walking. Mark Trumbull looked nervously up the street. His house was only fifty yards away and his parents were home.

‘Hey!’ he said angrily and clutched the back of Steven’s T-shirt.

Steven turned and slapped him so hard with the rolled-up copy of Beaver Patrol that Mark Trumbull staggered off the pavement and into the road, clutching the side of his head.

Steven kept walking.

He was at the front door.

‘Where’s the money?’

Mark Trumbull stood a few feet away – panic-stricken. He didn’t know how to stop Steven knocking. Maybe he was bluffing. He’d never knock.

Steven knocked. ‘Where’s the money?’ he said again.

‘Shit! Here!’ hissed Mark Trumbull. ‘Here! Just don’t … Just come away from the bloody door! Here!’ He dug in his jeans pockets and shoved money at Steven – crumpled notes, and coins spilling on to the pavement.

‘It’s not all here,’ said Steven.

‘I spent some. That’s all there is. I swear. I fucking swear!’ Mark Trumbull was sweating and almost weeping with panic. Steven wasn’t moving away from the front door of his house. Why wasn’t he moving away?

Steven glanced at the magazine. ‘What else did you buy?’

‘Some cider. Another magazine. A skateboard. Please, mate …’

‘Bring the skateboard to school tomorrow and give it to Davey.’

‘OK! I will. I swear. Please …!’

The door opened and Mark Trumbull’s mother stood there, looking irritated.

‘Yes, what?’ she said to Steven, then noticed her son. ‘What’s going on, Mark?’

The bully looked pleadingly at Steven Lamb, who handed Mark Trumbull’s mother the curled copy of Beaver Patrol and walked away.

As he approached home, Davey and Shane were waiting on the doorstep.

‘Did you get it?’ Davey yelled from twenty houses away.

Davey asked three more times before Steven pushed past him and Shane, went inside and up to his bedroom, and shut the door.

‘He didn’t get it,’ said Shane flatly, and followed Davey inside.

Davey slapped the bedroom door with the flat of his hand. ‘Steven! Did you get it?’

‘What’s all the noise up there?’ said Nan from the front room. ‘I’m watching the War.’

After a brief pause, Steven opened the door. ‘I got what was left of it. About sixty quid.’

Davey and Shane exchanged shrugs.

‘That’s better than nothing,’ said Shane. ‘Thanks, Steven.’

‘You’re awesome, bro!’ said Davey. ‘Where is it then?’

‘It’s not yours.’

‘It is ours!’ Davey flared immediately.

‘You found it. That doesn’t mean it’s yours,’ said Steven. ‘Mark Trumbull owes you a skateboard. If he doesn’t give it to you tomorrow, let me know.’ He closed the door again and turned the key in the lock.

Shane was open-mouthed with injustice, while the anger rose higher and higher in Davey. He kicked the door.

‘Bastard!’ he yelled. ‘I don’t want a skateboard! I want my fucking money!’

He kicked the door three more times – hard enough to splinter the wood around the lock.

Davey was so angry with his brother that he never even heard Lettie coming up the stairs. Shane stepped swiftly aside, so she could get a clear run at her younger son.

22

ONLY TWO OF the three people on the list Elizabeth Rice had given Jonas actually lived within the force area. The third, Stanley Cotton, lived in Cumbria. Jonas had been to the Lakes once as a boy and was mystified by the idea that anyone who lived there would bother coming all the way to Exmoor on holiday.

There wasn’t much to see at David Tedworthy’s immaculate Dunster home. He’d already had the broken window in his Mercedes repaired.

‘Got photos if you want to see, though,’ he said helpfully. He and his wife had been nothing but helpful since Jonas had arrived. Mary Tedworthy had made him have a cup of tea and a rock-hard home-baked scone before he’d even been allowed to view the car. He’d nibbled at the scone slowly, and managed to slip the last few bites to an ancient and smelly Golden Retriever that had been drooling on his trouser leg since he’d sat down. Then the gleaming three-month-old Merc had been ready and waiting for him, still dripping from a wash – as if he were a prospective purchaser, not a policeman.

He looked through the digital photos on their state-of-the-art Apple computer. They showed a single smallish hole in the rear passenger window.

‘Were these taken at the scene?’ he asked.

‘No – when we got home. For the insurance.’