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away. I mean, what you did, it was a pig-headed, dick-cheesed move and a half. But you were, um…‌you were right.”
    Brian squinted. DI Marlow could barely look at him, as he scratched at his greying moustache.
    “Right? About what?”
    DI Marlow sighed and held out a couple of sheets of paper, filled with more text and numbers than Brian could even subconsciously be bothered to scan through. “Results just came in from forensics over at Burnley. The bones. You’re right. They didn’t match the heads.” He stuffed the papers back under his arm, keeping them out of sight, and looked over his shoulder. “I, er…‌I just thought you should know.”
    Then, he turned around and scooted off down the long, well-lit corridor of the station, towards the buzz and chatter of the office, towards everything Brian used to hate about his past.
    “Oh, and…‌erm…‌Your lift. They’re waiting out front for you.” Marlow raised his bushy eyebrows as he backed into the double doors and pushed through.
    A twinge of fear sparked up inside Brian. His lift? Shit‌—‌Stephen Molfer hadn’t gone and called Hannah to pick him up, had he? Fuck. He’d tell Hannah about today, but of course, in his own condensed, moderately biased version of the truth. He rushed down the corridor, sprinted down the stairs and barely broke a sweat. Fuck. He’d have apologised to her in his own way. Maybe it was the afternoon media. Maybe they’d printed the photos of him being dragged away in the afternoon editions and she’d put two and two together. Shit.
    He ran through the reception area, past Friendly Jill The Desk Lady, through the doors and into the growing autumn chill.
    The visitor parking area was empty. Hannah’s red Fiesta was nowhere in sight. There were two cars in the parking area next door. A black Ford Escort. And a…‌
    “Couldn’t leave you to catch the bus all the way back home. I’d offer you a pound, but I hear those bastard bus bandits are upping the prices yet again.”
    Brian’s stomach sank as he stared at the black Honda Jazz. He looked over his shoulder at the approaching voice.
    David Wallson flicked a coin into the air. His coat was undone, revealing a loose-collared blue shirt and a waistcoat dangling over his shoulders. “Want a lift?”
    Brian turned away from David Wallson and chewed even further into his lip as he approached the passenger door of the car. “Just get me home and don’t mutter a single fucking word to me. I’ve just about had it up to here.” He pointed at the top of his neck.
    Wallson hit the unlock button of his car key. “You’re very welcome, Brian. Thanks for your manners.”
    David Wallson turned up the radio as he crunched on a half-eaten Ginsters pasty. Christmas songs were starting to play on the radio. Already.
    “I swear they play this crap earlier and earlier every year,” Wallson said. Crumbs of pastry fell from his mouth and onto his creased black trousers. He indicated to the right, onto Watling Street Road. Brian would be back home soon. Back with Hannah. He could put this day behind him, providing they didn’t suspend him from PCSO duty for too long. He wasn’t looking forward to having to explain it.
    “I hear talk that they’re granting you a couple of weeks ‘paid leave’. Dressing it up so it doesn’t tarnish your reputation. Very kind of them.” Wallson bit into the last part of his pasty, cringing with every bite. “Horrible, these things. Horrible.”
    “How do you know about what they’re planning?”
    David tapped the side of his button nose. “I know things. That’s what I do.”
    Brian shuffled over in his seat as the black Honda got caught in a queue of traffic. Rain started to fall onto the windows. He just wanted to get home. Home, and away from everything. If he was being kicked off duty for two weeks, then so be it. As long as he didn’t have to spend it in Wallson’s company, he’d survive.
    “A man shouldn’t have to spend two