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wasting your time. He’s not the most sympathetic
     of people.’
    ‘OK. When do you want your first report?’
    Her voice changed, grew warmer. ‘When you’ve got something to tell me. Will you have something to tell me by, say, eight o’clock
     tonight? At Francesca’s?’
    Larkin grinned. ‘Maybe.’
    ‘Good.’ Was she flirting with him – or was he imagining it?
    ‘Oh, by the way. What was this information you said you had for me? You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.’
    She stiffened slightly; when she spoke it was with reluctance. ‘The Wayne Edgell case?’
    ‘Yeah?’ said Larkin.
    ‘We’re representing Gary Fenwick.’
    ‘Who’s Gary Fenwick?’
    ‘He’s the man who’s supposed to have murdered Wayne Edgell. I can see you haven’t studied your background file yet.’
    Larkin was stunned.
    Charlotte grinned. ‘Surprised?’
    ‘A bit.’ He recovered quickly, putting the information to work for him. ‘Trade of information, then – you help me with my
     assignment, I’ll put your mind at rest. Deal?’
    ‘Deal! Got to rush now – see you at eight.’
    They stared at each other. Larkin felt the thin ice begin to crack. He wondered what she was wearing beneath her business
     suit; that thought was enough to shift the North Pole.
    ‘Look … the last time I saw you, we …’
    She gently placed her lips on his, then removed them, in case he got ideas. ‘Later,’ she said, and disappeared through the
     door.
    Larkin sat there in disbelief. Against all his better judgement he’d signed himself up as private investigator, for his now
     married ex-girlfriend, who seemed to be coming on to him – in addition to working on the murder of a childhood acquaintance,
     in his home town.
Welcome back, Larkin. You sad, confused bastard
.

6: Checking In, Checking Out
    It was a stone bungalow; quiet, unassuming, homely, set back from Durham Road, situated in Low Fell which had once been a
     turn-of-the-century satellite community of Newcastle but was now no more than a section of main road with down-at-heel shops
     and pubs, a garage, and a Methodist church. It had been Mary Greene’s idea of a decent place to live.
    Larkin squeezed into the one remaining parking space near Mary’s house – Mary’s next-door neighbours seemed to be rebuilding
     their house from scratch, judging by the selection of skips and battered panel vans littering the road outside – locked his
     Saab rental car and approached the house of Mary Greene, née Torrington. He noticed next-door’s net curtains twitching – perhaps
     it was a watchtower they were building, rather than an extension. He felt in his pocket for the keys, looked straight ahead,
     and walked up the garden path as if he had every right to be there.
    As the tumblers of the lock clicked, a bilious dread overcame him. The last thing he wanted to be confronted with was the
     remains of a shotgun blast. His mind began to re-run the reel he had canned up for years; he tried to screen it out, to change
     channels, but it was no good. The sequence had started and he was transfixed. His heart beat faster; the blood pumped furiously
     round his body. Even with his eyes screwed tightly shut he couldn’t block out the images.
    Larkin forced his eyes open. Sophie and Joe wouldn’t be there. This was a different house, a different city. He had nothing
     to fear.
    The heavy door opened straight into the living room. Dark wooden beams running the length of the ceiling; a floral print three-piece
     suite; horse brasses, slightly tarnished; china figurines dusty with neglect. A print on the wall: Victorian children playing
     on swings. The relatives had done their looting; dust-free templates showed where they had recently helped themselves to ornaments
     of possible value, thinking Mary would no longer need them. As vultures think dead bodies no longer need flesh.
    The room was further tainted by the careless remains of police incident investigation; sills stained