‘I just don't want you getting wrapped up in anything stupid, that's all,’ said Laura.
‘I know, I heard you,’ I replied. ‘Our lives are on hold, just so we don't upset your ex-fucking-husband.’ The words came out harsher than I intended.
‘Do you think I'm enjoying it?’ she snapped back at me. ‘Waiting for someone else to decide who my son can live with? Is that what I had in mind when I moved up here?’
I paused and took a deep breath. ‘I'm sorry,’ I said, putting the kettle down and holding my arms out to her, trying to pull her towards me. ‘I wasn't having a go. I know it's harder for you.’
Laura shrugged me off. ‘No, you don't know how it is for me,’ she said angrily. ‘I'm the one who has made the sacrifices. I moved north with you, with my son, made a new life for us. No, hang on, that's wrong. I moved north for you, and sometimes I just wonder whether I did the right thing or whether we should have stayed in London, where I wouldn't get the fucking martyr treatment every time the situation gets a bit inconvenient.’
I looked to the ceiling. We'd had the same row too many times now, but I knew it wasn't us. We were good together, in those quiet moments we shared, when the custody battle for Bobby was forgotten for a few hours and we got the chance to relax – but those moments were getting further apart.
‘Look, it's okay,’ I said. ‘Sam just said he had a story for me.’ When Laura didn't look convinced, I added, ‘It will be nothing. Some tip, an overnight case or something.’
‘So why didn't you just say that?’ she said, before she turned and walked away.
I sighed heavily, all the pleasure from the walk now evaporated. How had we got to this? And so quickly.
I went back into the living room and saw that Laura was getting Bobby's school bag ready. Bobby was silent, eating his breakfast slowly. He had been here before with his father – Laura's ex-husband – and he deserved more than that. He was the sweetest boy, just six years old, with Laura's brightness and Geoff's height, but how did you stop a child getting hurt?
It wasn't us, though, I knew that. It was the situation, Laura's ex-husband fighting to take him back south, to her native London. He claimed that it was for Bobby's benefit, that Laura's police work made his home life chaotic, but it had never been about Bobby. It was all about me, Laura's new man, stranger in the nest, the one who made her happy, who had made her give up her London career and settle instead in a small northern town, a detective job in nearby Blackley replacing the London Met. So now we had the fortnightly trip to some motorway services near Birmingham for Bobby's handover, Laura quiet all the way home, only really happy again when he was collected two days later.
Laura looked up at me, Bobby's bag in her hand. I tried a smile.
‘C'mon Bobby,’ she said, turning away from me. ‘Finish your breakfast. We need to go.’
Inspector Rod Lucas dusted down his tatty brown corduroys, slammed the door on his battered old Land Rover, and looked at the scene.
The cottage was just as he expected it. Like most houses in the shadow of Pendle Hill, it was set back from the road, dark grey stone against the sweep of green fields stretching away behind it, the slate roof low and overhanging.
He looked up at the hill, the exposed, barren summit making him feel cold. He pulled on an old waxed jacket and turned away, thought about Abigail Hobbs instead, still in hospital, burns on her face and stitches in her head from when she'd hit the stone floor. He knew that it wasn't the physical injuries that would hurt her the most. It would be the emotional scars that would last.
The two constables by the door straightened as he approached, both young women, their hands thrust into the pockets of their luminous green coats, their hips made to look big by the large belts around their waists. He glanced down at his own clothes. He lived in a barn conversion, access gained by a mud track overhung by branches, and he had been pruning a tree when he'd got the call. His hands were still covered in dirt and he hadn't changed into his uniform. He would oversee the scene, and then go back to his garden.
‘How bad is it?’ he asked, his voice quiet, a slow Pennine drawl.
The two officers exchanged glances. ‘It's not nice, sir,’ said the older of the two.
‘Are Scenes of Crime on their way?’ he asked.
‘As soon as they can,’ came the reply.
Lucas knew what that meant: that this was a rural area, a few miles from the nearest town. Scenes of Crime would be busy with more urban crimes: burglaries, glassings. They'd come out here when the day warmed up and they fancied a drive in the country.
He looked around. Brambles overhung the path and the paint on the windows looked flaky and old. The windows didn't give away many secrets though.
‘Third time in two weeks,’ he said to himself.
‘Is that why you're here, sir?’ asked the other constable. ‘An inspector, I mean. Is it more serious now?’
‘Someone has been hurt,’ Rod replied. ‘It's gone beyond routine vandalism.’
‘So what do you think?’ she asked. ‘Kids?’
He looked around, noticed the small track that meandered down to the cottage from the main road, grass grown over the stones so that it was sinking back into the land as the years passed. ‘No,’ said Rod. ‘It's too far from everywhere else, so getting away would take too long. It would increase the chance of getting caught. This is something else, some kind of a message.’
‘But why her?’
Lucas's lips twitched. ‘I don't know. Why any of them?’ He straightened himself, and when he asked where it had happened he was pointed towards an old outhouse along the path. As he set off walking, he felt his trousers become damp from the trailing grasses. He swept back his thinning hair, his head golden with freckles, grey sideburns reaching down to his jaw-line.
He slowed down as he got near to the outhouse. The remains of the cat were still scattered over the path, the tiny severed head by the door, its mouth open, the sharp little teeth set in a final grimace.
He pushed at the door with a pen, careful not to leave any forensic traces, and saw the wire hanging from the latch. Just like the others, the wire led to a small metal pipe, filled with gunpowder. Once the door opened, it pulled at the wire, which set off a small blasting cap and exploded the pipe. In the other attacks, the pipe had been left on the floor. This time it had been strapped to Abigail's cat and suspended from the top of the door by a clothes line. This was more than just kids, he knew that.
He let the door close slowly as he turned away, the rusted hinges creaking, and walked back to the house, deep in thought. The constables by the door stepped aside as he went to go into the house, curious to find out more about Abigail, but he caught their exchange of glances, the raised eyebrows.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
They both looked at each other again, unsure what to say,
