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from forcing it. She distracted him, casually dressed, wearing those low-cut jeans that show off the hipbones, a sea horse tattoo visible just below her beltline.
    He closed his eyes again, just for a moment, and filled his nose with the Chanel. The sale was over, he had to get away, before the other images drifted into his head. Blood. Smile. Hair. Still. Dirt.
    ‘Okay,’ he said, his voice faint. ‘It is a lot to pay.’ He passed over his card. ‘If you change your mind, call me.’
    He felt her fingers brush his as she took the card from him and his cheeks flushed. She tapped it against her chin. ‘I will, thank you.’
    He collected his samples, his breathing heavier now, and then he rushed for the door. He needed to be outdoors, where the breeze would take her scent away.
    He climbed into his car, the samples thrown quickly into the boot, and took some deep breaths. Mike could sense her still watching him as he turned the key in the ignition.

Chapter Six
    I followed Tony’s hint and headed for the allotments behind my old school, a collection of vegetable patches and ramshackle sheds that brought back memories of bent old men in flat caps. The allotments were mostly empty, but a man leaning on a spade pointed me towards Hunter’s plot. It was at the end of a line of bramble bushes and cane supports and, as I walked towards it, I got a close-up of my old school, two large prefabricated blocks, glass and panelling that looked out over sloping football fields, really just scrappy grass and wavy white lines. It was halfway up one of the slopes that surround Turners Fold, and I remembered how the wind used to howl across the fields, making my teenage legs raw during PE lessons.
    As I got closer, I heard mumbles of conversation, and then laughter, and as the allotment came into view I saw three men on deckchairs, a bottle of single malt passing between them.
    I realised I had been spotted, because the smiles disappeared and the bottle was put on the floor.
    ‘I’m looking for Bill Hunter,’ I said.
    The three men looked at each other, and then one asked, ‘Who are you?’ He was a tall man, with a beaky nose and a shiny scalp, grey hair cropped short around the ears.
    ‘My name is Jack Garrett, and I’m a reporter.’
    He looked at me, and his eyes narrowed. I thought that I was suddenly unwelcome, but then he asked, ‘Bob Garrett’s lad?’
    ‘Yes,’ I said, my voice quieter now, caught by surprise.
    He turned to his companions and winked. ‘I’ll speak to you boys later,’ he said, prompting them to struggle to their feet and make their way towards the rickety mesh gate. I could smell the whisky as they went past. Once they’d gone, he turned to me and said, ‘I’m Bill Hunter.’ He held out his hand to shake.
    His grip was strong and he kept hold of my hand as he said, ‘I remember your father,’ his voice softer than before, some sadness in his eyes. ‘He was a good copper, and he shouldn’t have died like that.’
    ‘Did you work with him?’ I asked.
    ‘Not much,’ he said, ‘but I remember when he was killed. How many years ago is it now? Two?’
    ‘Three,’ I replied.
    He shook his head. ‘Time goes too quickly, but I remember it. When I first started out, people didn’t carry guns like they do now. They did in the cities, I suppose, but they never brought their trouble this way.’
    ‘They came this way eventually though,’ I said, taking a deep breath, the memory bringing a tremble to my voice.
    Hunter nodded to himself and patted me on the arm. ‘I’m glad I’m out of it. Everything is so different now, much more dangerous.’ He leant forward and whispered, ‘Ask any of the new ones, and they all say that the job isn’t how they thought it would be, that it’s all about chasing targets, ticking boxes. And when they get a new problem?’ Hunter chuckled. ‘They just invent a new target. But those who are in can’t get out. They’ve got kids and mortgages.’ He