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weeks stuck at home with fuck all to do.”
    “I’ve got stuff to do,” Brian snapped. “Projects. The bathroom. The garden. I’ll live.”
    Wallson raised his brows and tilted his head from side to side as the traffic crept forward, slowly. “You could do those projects. That would be a good idea. Or you could help me out.”
    Brian frowned. If he wasn’t so bewildered, he might’ve burst out laughing at Wallson’s call for help. “I can help you? And how do you…‌Why would I possibly help you?”
    As the car turned the corner onto Sharoe Green Lane, Wallson cleared his throat. “You’re a good detective, Brian. I know you think you’ve put all that behind you, but you’re good. I mean, you went up there and figured out the bones were dated differently to the severed heads way before anybody else, right? I mean, you knew after one look at the fucking bones that they were older than the heads. That’s good detective work. Really good.”
    Brian smiled and shook his head. “And what are you suggesting? You’re going to get me my job back? Is that right?”
    “Don’t be stupid,” Wallson said. He tossed the empty pasty packet over his shoulder. “I’m giving you the opportunity to…‌to be our man on the inside.”
    “‘Our’ man on the inside? Who is ‘our’?”
    Wallson hesitated, then cleared his throat again. “The Lancashire News . But hear me out‌—‌it’s strictly my business, and shouldn’t reflect badly on the company.”
    Brian laughed. “You want me to be your spy? Is that it?”
    “No,” Wallson said. “Well. Of sorts. I want you to investigate the Pendle Hill massacre. Pendle Hill is a fucking disgrace of a location to manage. It’s got Blackburn, Burnley and Preston police all trying to get to the bottom of it, which means a shitload of false information and mixups. Which gives us…‌Which gives me the chance to take advantage. A chance to gather some really great reporting and deliver it directly to the deserving public. I want you to be the vessel of information.”
    Brian could not believe what he was hearing. He shook his head. “You want me to be your private investigator? You want me to risk my own livelihood just so you can sell tabloid crap to the public? Seriously?”
    The car slowed down as it got closer to Brian’s road. “I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate. The Lancashire News , things are changing there. All the new employees coming in are ruining the essence of the place with their tacky headlines. It’s going down the pan. Unless we can report on something big. It will save the Lancashire News . And it will…‌it will save my career. Or kick-start it.”
    Rain powered against the window as the car turned onto Brian’s road, creeping ever slower as David Wallson quite unsubtly haggled for more time.
    “And say I did take this crazy offer of yours. Which I won’t. But just say for a moment I did. What’s in it for me?”
    The car came to a halt. David Wallson smiled. “I was hoping you’d ask that.” He reached over, opened up the dashboard of his car, and a bunch of documents tumbled out over Brian’s knees.
    “What’s all this?”
    David shrugged. “Take a look through it. I’m sure you’ll recognise it. I’ve been holding on to it for a very long time. I thought you might be interested, but only when the time was right.”
    Brian thumbed through the documents. He didn’t recognise them at first, with their abstract letters and numbers, but the more he moved through them, the more familiar they became. A sense of dread welled up as he saw the dates, on papers signed and approved by Robert Luther, Nicola Watson’s murderer.
    “But…‌But these can’t be‌—‌”
    “The originals burned in the fire? Right. I get that. And yet here they are, in my car dashboard. Printed evidence that Robert Luther, not Michael Walters, was responsible for the death of Nicola Watson. Evidence of a police cover-up. And evidence that your