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the digging reference was subtle too.’
    ‘You reckon?’ I said.
    ‘There’s nothing new, you know that, don’t you?’ Tony said. ‘We rehashed everything for the anniversary, so I know the
Post
won’t be interested.’
    I looked towards the
Post
building. ‘Is that place still surviving?’
    Tony pulled a face. ‘Not really. The internet is killing us. There are rumours that we’re going to be taken over by oneof the big groups, and we’ll just turn out the free papers from there.’
    ‘You deserve better than that,’ I said. ‘You’re a proper journalist. You taught me my trade.’
    ‘And I’ve done everything,’ he replied, ‘and so it’s hard to get excited any more. I’m just looking forward to retirement.’
    ‘How’s Eleanor?’
    ‘Not
looking forward to my retirement,’ he answered with a chuckle, and then he reached for the door handle. ‘If you need any help, Jack, call me. Maybe there’s time for one last crack at being a proper journo, but I won’t hold my breath.’
    I smiled. ‘Will do. Take care.’
    I looked down at the piece of paper with Bill Hunter’s details on, and then looked up to see Tony disappear into the
Post
building. I smiled to myself. Would the Claude Gilbert case stop me from ending up like Tony, churning out fillers for the local paper?
    I was whistling to myself as I turned the engine over and pointed the Stag towards Blackley.

Chapter Five
    Mike Dobson faltered as the customer leant towards him to place a cup of coffee on the table. It was the scent of Chanel No. 5, an air of sweet flowers that took him by surprise, rushed him back to more than twenty years earlier, to
her
smell, the faded Chanel, and those moments together, her hair over her face, her eyes closed, her nails dug deep into his chest. Then he grimaced as the images changed, became slashed with red, over her face, in her hair, splashed onto his hand.
    He closed his eyes. He could train himself not to think about it, to live a normal life, but then a perfume would suddenly send him back, or the scent of lavender in bloom, heady and filled with summer.
    ‘Excuse me,’ said a distant voice, breaking into his thoughts.
    Mike opened his eyes quickly and saw his customer. She looked concerned.
    ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
    He forced an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry. Just a spot of toothache, that’s all,’ and he gestured towards his cheek and laughed nervously.
    She winced. ‘That’s not nice. We can do this another time, if you don’t feel right.’
    He shook his head. ‘No, it’s fine,’ he said. He took a deep breath.
Switch on
, he told himself. ‘Like my manager said, we can go half-price if you sign up today. It’s a special offer that ends tonight, so you really need to make a decision today.’
    ‘But I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It seems such a lot of money for something so…’ She searched for the right word as she nodded towards the sample next to him, a cross-section of white PVC fascia to replace the wooden boards that lined the roof edges.
    ‘Unglamorous?’ he offered, and when she smiled, he added, ‘There’s nothing glamorous about damp getting into your house, about the smell of mould in your bedroom.’ He banged the sample with his hand and tried another smile. ‘It might be just guttering, but it’s like saying that your roof is just tiles.’ He leant forward, and she leant in with him. ‘And it will stop your house being the one the neighbours talk about, the one that lets the street down, because you’ve got paint peeling off your wooden boards. You’ll never need to paint them again if you’ve got these.’
    She sighed and sat back on the sofa, the movement wafting more perfume towards him. He felt nauseous, wanting to turn away, to get away from the memories, but the customer was nearly at the point of buying, he could sense it. She was falling for the sales tricks, the limited discount, the call to the manager. But something stopped him