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activated to greater purpose.
    Until then, there was the watching.

Chapter Nine: Streetlight Serenader
    Jason walked home from the club, bag slung over his shoulder and mulling over the day. When he’d left for work that morning, he’d had no idea that he’d be involved in a murder investigation. Of course, “involved” was too strong a word—he was watching other people investigate a murder. It was like being an extra in CSI.
    The most surprising thing, of course, was that the unassuming Amy Lane was able to tell a woman was dead from a photograph. He had seen her working at her computer, but this had real-world, practical use.
    He’d never thought of computers like that before. Of course, people used them to type up reports or whatever people in offices did. And Facebook was fun to waste an hour or two on games or to look up some bird from last night’s pull, but Amy used it to work out how people were connected and who might’ve killed them. Jason decided he’d been born in the wrong decade—he’d have been better in the seventies or eighties, maybe, but then he would have most likely ended up down a mine. The beauty of the music might’ve made up for it though, and he hummed his own off-key version of “Comfortably Numb.” He wished his mam had kept his dad’s old record player, mourned the boxes of classic LPs gathering dust in the attic, unplayed.
    The rain had settled into a mild drizzle and he pulled up the collar of his leather jacket, hunching his shoulders against the chill. His mam would give him another lecture when he got home about how he needed a mac and would catch his death any day now. Jason started to wish he’d brought the car down, but parking in the centre was hell and would’ve wiped out half his day’s wages. Still, he should’ve brought change for the bus.
    Jason made for Bute Street, his home in the former Docklands—the bit that hadn’t been overhauled for the shiny new Cardiff Bay. His mind was on dinner and how much tea he could drink before it was ready. But as soon as he stepped back into his territory, he was aware something was wrong. He knew this part of town like it was his family, but now it seemed hostile, threatening. The last edge of dusk was fading away and he put his head down and walked faster. Suddenly, he didn’t want to be out alone.
    A couple of boys sauntered out from a side street and Jason recognised them, checked them over for weapons, and carried on past. They ran with a gang out of Canton but they weren’t bad kids. Jason could say that, because his mam was friends with their mams, and he was sure they’d caused their families fewer tears than he had his.
    He was only a hundred yards from home now, but he was seeing more faces by the roadside, the same crew. He didn’t know what they were planning but he couldn’t help but feel he was part of it somehow. And then the boy standing in the middle of the road proved it. Damage Jones. The hood pulled over his cropped brown hair couldn’t hide his coal-black eyes, that intense stare that made him the spit of Lewis—a ghost from Jason’s past in the form of his best mate’s baby brother. Well, not his best mate anymore.
    It was no use pretending that he hadn’t seen him, making a scene like that in the street, so Jason slowed right down. The pavement ahead was blocked and he had no choice but to step off the kerb, turning his walk into a casual stroll through his turf. Damage was just a kid, nineteen years old and full of himself, the prick. But he also had an axe to grind and Jason had avoided the inevitable confrontation, like any sane boy would.
    He’d spent six months lying low, hanging around his mam’s and the garage, but not on the streets after dark. He wasn’t afraid—Jason Carr weren’t afraid of no one—but because he didn’t want to break Damage’s nose, especially when he owed the kid’s brother a debt he couldn’t repay.
    “Evenin’, Damage. Throwing me a surprise party?