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former colleague, Cassandra Emerson, did not die in vain. A hell of a lot of juicy information.”
    Brian’s cheeks flared. He tossed the papers aside and grabbed David Wallson by the scruff of his collar. “Why would you have this information? And why would you bring it up? Why?”
    David Wallson shuffled free of Brian’s grip, a trademark slimy grin still on his face, as the pair of them sat outside Brian’s house in Wallson’s car. “It doesn’t matter how I got it, or when, or even why. What matters is that you have a chance to exorcise those demons of yours, once and for all. A chance to stop being blamed for the pointless death of Cassandra Emerson by your ex-colleagues. All I need from you is your co-operation.”
    Brian took a look at the documents resting in the footwell. A black and white photograph, previously unseen, of Robert Luther, his arms embracing Nicola Watson’s shoulders. Absolute proof‌—‌or near enough‌—‌that Robert Luther would finally be brought to justice, even in death.
    “I’ve moved on,” Brian said. He took a deep breath and opened the door of David Wallson’s car. “I’ve got a new life now. I put myself in too much danger last time. I can’t help you. Do not visit here again.” He slammed the door shut and made for the entrance of his house, where Hannah would be waiting for him.
    “McDone,” David shouted.
    Brian gritted his teeth and turned around.
    “Just take this, at the very least.” He tossed a square, white envelope out of his window. It landed on the gravel and speckles of rain fell down on it. “An anniversary card. From me. I won’t bother you again. You know where to find me if you change your mind.”
    “I won’t,” Brian started, but David Wallson had already wound his window up. He accelerated back towards the main road, petrol fumes coughing out of his exhaust pipe.
    Brian reached down for the card. He opened it up as he approached his front door. Definitely a card inside. The correct weight, glossy paper. Maybe the wanker had grown a soul after all.
    The front door creaked open in front of him. Hannah was standing there, arching her neck down the street in the direction of the exhaust fumes. “Did you get a lift back, honey?”
    Brian stared at the card. It was an anniversary card, Wallson was right about that.
    But it was what was inside the card that twisted the rules somewhat.
    “Brian? Are you okay? What’s that you’ve got there?”
    “Oh, nothing,” Brian said, stuffing the card into his jacket pocket. “Just an…‌an anniversary card from one of the lads.”
    “Well, isn’t that nice of them?” Hannah said, grabbing Brian by his hands and dragging him inside. “Come on. You can give me a lift getting that printer out of the attic. Been meaning to do it all day but I figured you’d do a much better job of, y’know, manual labour.”
    Brian was in something of a daze as he entered his house. Everything seemed like it was on pause. “Sure,” he said. He walked towards the downstairs toilet, being sure to keep his jacket on. “I’ll just…‌Toilet. Yeah.”
    “You sure you’re okay, hun?” Hannah asked. “You look a little bit dazed.”
    Brian cleared his throat. He could tell Hannah about his suspension. About the contents of the card and what David Wallson wanted him to do. He could just be honest.
    “I’m okay. Just a bit of a bad stomach, that’s all. I’ll be out in a moment.”
    Hannah half-smiled. “Well, okay. I’ll get the kettle on. Don’t be too long in there.”
    Brian nodded in acknowledgement.
    Then, he headed inside the downstairs bathroom. Locked the door. The room was tiny and narrow, to the point that he had to crouch if he wanted to take a piss.
    Sitting on the peach-coloured loo, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the envelope as the kettle started to boil in the kitchen.
    He opened the card. Stared at the words.
    Brian,
    You can reach prime witness Darren Anderson at Carnel House,