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his family and his job, but couldn’t bear the thought of betraying Sarah. As always, Dan had no answers; he was there to listen and keep Adam plied with beer until he fell into a dark sleep. It had become a familiar supporting role.
    An excited yelp signalled that Rutherford had found a stick. Good timing, Dan was glad of the respite it offered from the run. The beer was still a heavy weight in his stomach and head. But first they had to go through their familiar routine. He wrestled the dog for it, and faced with growling, jaw-locked determination he pretended to give up, looked around and found a better stick under a lime tree. Rutherford immediately dropped his and galloped towards the new prize, giving Dan a chance to grab the original and hurl it off through the trees. The dog sprinted happily after it.
    So what about Kerry? Should he give it a try with her? He liked her, but that was about it. Was liked enough to justify continuing a relationship? He couldn’t see himself ever falling in love with her and wanting to spend years together, probably not even months if he was honest. He knew she felt very differently. Those hints about two flats being far more expensive to keep than one were hard to ignore, but he’d set his face and managed it.
    Talking to Adam last night had put him off any real desire to get involved with her anyway. Better to be alone than live like he did. But life could get lonely, it was only human to need someone to cuddle after a dark day, and the sex was good too. Perhaps he’d call, or text her later? Another runner passed him, moving fast, purposefully, a young man carrying a backpack, probably training for the navy. Leave it for now, there were other things to think about besides Kerry. The Death Pictures. A fascinating story, he had to admit.
    He began another lap of the park, picking up the pace to stretch his legs. That other runner had shamed him. A pigeon flapped fussily from a hedge as he passed. So what do I say to a famous and apparently cantankerous artist who’s probably got a month to live? The classic cliché of the journalist’s question – ‘so how do you feel?’ – wouldn’t be a good idea for someone as spiky as Joseph McCluskey, would it? How do you think a dying man feels?
    He’d been given this job like a presidential order, because Lizzie expected McCluskey to open up to him. Well, that might be a problem. He couldn’t think of anything to ask the man at the moment. Maybe some hint about the solution to his riddle? That’d certainly get the viewers interested, and Lizzie would love it. But he couldn’t see McCluskey going for it. He’d kept silent on any clues so far.
    Something would come to him, it always did. Sometimes he just needed the adrenaline rush and panic of a deadline to focus his mind. And then there was the interview with Rachel, the rape victim, later in the week too. He didn’t even want to start thinking about what to ask her. He’d certainly have to prepare that well, didn’t want to hurt her more.
    Dan wiped his forehead with a sleeve and checked his ever-unreliable watch. Five to eight it said, so it was probably about five past. The Rolex had never kept accurate time, but at least it looked good.
    ‘Come on dog,’ he shouted to Rutherford, whose head was buried in a hedge, tail a wagging blur of grey and black fur. ‘That pigeon’s long gone. They can fly off, you know, just like I wish I sometimes could. It’s time to get back. I’ve got lots on.’
    Dan grabbed a quick coffee from the canteen, scanned the newspapers, avoided the prowling Lizzie and logged in to a computer in the safety of the library to check his emails.
    None were particularly interesting, although one was irritating. It quibbled about his pronunciation of schedule in a recent report, that making the ch sound like a k was the American way. He found his standard response and pasted it in.
    ‘We apologise, but the mail server is experiencing technical