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company logo and strapline. “Helping you to tell your story”. It was bullshit. I didn’t know what to make of it. The table in the middle of the room had trade magazines and brochures casually arranged on it. I leafed through them until a middle aged man appeared in front of me. He was casually dressed, yet smart enough to make it clear he was at work. Tricky to pull off the look, but he’d done it. It was something which eluded me.
    ‘Can I help you?’ he said.
    I put the magazine down. ‘I’m looking for Milo.’
    ‘Milo?’
    I nodded.
    He smiled at me, understanding. ‘You mean Miles? I can never get used to my son being called that.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘It’s usually only his friends who call him Milo.’
    ‘I’m more a friend of a friend.’
    ‘I see.’
    He was uncomfortable with the situation, but I was standing my ground. I was banking on the fact he didn’t want a man dressed in jeans and an old jumper fouling up his reception area in front of clients. He eventually called out his son’s name. Milo walked in, chewing gum, hands in his pockets. He was a clone of Connor with the same haircut, studded earring and tattoos creeping out from under his shirt sleeves. The smile on his face soon disappeared when he saw me. He was definitely scared of me. He told his dad he could handle it. We waited for him to leave.
    ‘Take a walk with me,’ I said.
    ‘Can’t we do it in here?’
    I shook my head. ‘No we can’t, Miles.’ It was a cheap shot, but I wanted to bring him down a peg or two by using his proper name. He reluctantly followed me outside. The Humber Bridge stood behind us, simultaneously beautiful and brutal looking. I walked until we were out of sight. He needed to know I wasn’t messing about. I grabbed him by the shirt and pinned him against the nearest wall. I told him who I was.
    ‘Connor’s uncle?’
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘It was a laugh that got out of hand, that’s all. We didn’t mean any harm by it.’
    ‘How can you not mean harm by it? You stole the cigarettes.’
    The cockiness I’d seen when he’d sauntered into the reception area to meet me returned to his eyes now he knew I wasn’t a direct threat to him.
    He smiled at me. ‘You can hardly claim the moral high ground, can you? Whose cigarettes are they, really?’
    I released my grip and walked away. He was right. I wasn’t really in a position to judge. I had to deal with the consequences of what had happened. It was as simple as that.
     
    I switched the SIM cards and called Carl Palmer’s number.
    He answered immediately. ‘I don’t like being fucked about.’
    ‘Calm down, Carl.’ I was willing to bet only a handful of people used the number and all their numbers were likely to be stored in the mobile’s memory. My number would have stood out like a sore thumb to him. Silence. I let him chew over the fact I knew his name.
    He laughed. ‘You’re good. How did you get this number?’
    I ignored the question.
    ‘I want them back,’ he said.
    ‘They’re yours?’
    ‘I want them back.’
    ‘I want to speak to their real owner.’
    ‘Have you got them to return?’
    ‘Not yet. That’s what I want to speak to their owner about.’
    Silence for a few moments. I waited for him to come back on the line. ‘That can be arranged,’ he said.
    I wanted to do it in public. ‘There’s a Starbucks in St Stephens. I’ll be there at mid-day.’ I hung up.
     
    I headed for Don’s house. It wasn’t much of a detour before heading to Starbucks. I had no master plan for the meeting with Palmer and his boss, so the sooner I got it over and done with, the better. I knocked on the door of Don’s neighbour. A woman in her sixties answered.
    ‘How is Don?’ she asked. She didn’t ask me in.
    ‘He’s on the mend.’
    ‘Pleased to hear it.’
    I told her that I used to work with Don.
    Her eyes narrowed. ‘In the police?’
    ‘His more recent job.’ It was clearly the wrong answer, as she took a step