was banged up in jail and would remain so for many years to come. How his mum continued with such courage and good humour was a source of constant inspiration to him. And then there was Hannah, his much younger sister, falling in love with a geography teacher when still in her teens, married, two kids, happy and settled. She rarely returned home.
Tallis idly looked out of the window. They were pulling into Solihull. A middle-aged man carrying a large suitcase was walking towards a woman of similar age, the look of delight on both their faces the most uplifting sight. As soon as they were within arm’s length of each other, the man put his case down in the same momentous way an explorer marks his triumph by sticking a flag in the ground, and took the woman in his arms. Tallis watched enchanted, glad that life continued joyously for the vast majority of people, while also feeling an overwhelming sense of something precious lost.
From Snow Hill, he took a cab to Quinton, getting out at the end of the avenue so that the driver couldn’t see where he lived, his motivation nothing to do with security, everything to do with embarrassment. Young, cool guys didn’t live in bungalows. Unless bequeathed. Although grateful for his Croatian grandmother’s generosity—it put a free roof over his head after all—it didn’t quite square with the image. He’d thought many times of selling and buying something more suitable, yet every time he got as far as phoning an estate agent he bottled it. The bungalow and what it represented was part of his history, something that couldn’t be overestimated. Without history, he felt sunk.
The sun was less intense, more cloud in the blue. As Tallis lowered his vision, he saw the familiar figure of his next-door neighbour’s son shambling along the pavement, sidestepping the dog shit. Jimmy, as Tallis insisted on calling him after the great guitarist Jimmy Page, seemed to have grown several inches in the past three weeks, legs absurdly sticking out of three-quarter-length trousers, manly hairs sticking out of his legs. He was wearing scuffed top-of-the-range trainers, no socks and a black T-shirt touting some group Tallis had never heard of. His thick fringe made him seem as if he was peeking out from a foxhole. Although studiously listening to an iPod, he gave Tallis a goofy grunt as he walked past. Relations had improved beyond recognition since Tallis’s computer had blown up one morning. Not fully realising how terminal things were, he’d gone round next door and appealed for help. Jimmy, for once not manacled to his electric guitar, loped round, fingers whizzing over the keyboard as though he were Elton John then bluntly announced that it was fucked.
‘What you need is an Apple Mac, a proper computer, not some crappy old PC,’ he told Tallis.
Whenever people offered that type of advice, Tallis knew it meant only one thing: forking out. ‘It’ll cost a bit,’ Jimmy said, shrewdly reading his expression, ‘but worth it. And you get ever such good back-up if things go wrong.’
‘You on commission, or what?’ Tallis grinned.
‘Nah, just got taste.’ To prove the point, Jimmy invited him round to examine his own machine.
‘Your mum in?’ Tallis said warily. Jimmy’s mum had a bit of thing for him. Well, a bit of thing for any man with a pulse, if he was honest.
‘Nah, gone to the social club.’
Twenty minutes on, Tallis was sold. Two days later, he was the proud owner of a flat-screen seventeen-inch iMac with web cam and full Internet connection.
The bungalow looked the same: elderly. In the carport, his Rover stood mute and accusing. He presumed nobody thought it worth nicking.
Inside there was a musty and neglected smell. After dumping his stuff in the bedroom, he set about opening all the windows and, ignoring the phone winking with messages, stepped out into the garden. Since losing interest in home DIY, he spent more time outdoors. Not that his efforts proved much of an improvement. The grass had grown with a speed that was only rivalled by weeds, his half-hearted attempts to nurture some plants whose names escaped him a resounding failure. Still, there were always the birds. He had a bit of a theory about them. In the criminal sphere, he reckoned the sparrows and robins were bobbies on the beat, wagtails private investigators, rooks and crows hit men, buzzards and sparrow hawks the Mr Bigs. The blackbirds, clever little bastards, were CID on account of setting up their own early warning cat alarm. Every time next door’s moggy appeared in his garden, there would be the most terrific racket, giving him enough time to turn the hose on the feline intruder. He thought the bloody thing would have got the message by now, but it kept coming back, strutting its stuff as only cats could. Maybe they were the real Mr Bigs, he thought idly, his thoughts turning to Garry Morello once more, and the potential people he’d crossed.
Back inside, Tallis made himself a cup of coffee, black, with sugar to make up for not having any milk. Finding a pen and a piece of paper, he steeled himself to play back his messages. Only one message was urgent. It was from his mother. His father had died.
‘Where have you been? We’ve been trying to get hold of you.’ It was Hannah, his sister.
‘I’ve been away.’
‘Well, we know that,’ she said accusingly. ‘Why didn’t you tell anyone?’
‘It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. Look, when did he pass away?’
‘Over a week ago.’
Tallis closed his eyes. Perhaps they’d already buried him. Please.
‘We’ve been waiting for you to get back so we can have the funeral.’
Oh, God. He muttered apologies, his sister admonitions. ‘How’s Mum?’ he said.
At the mention of their mother, some of the heat went out of Hannah’s voice. ‘A little better than she was. Hard to say.’ She paused. ‘Look, I know you and Dad never got on, but now he’s dead, you might feel…’
Nothing, he thought coldly. ‘Hannah, let’s concentrate on Mum, make sure she’s looked after.’
‘Of course, but—’
‘Mum must come first,’ he said firmly. This was not the time for an examination of his feelings towards the man who’d done his best to break him. And yet the man had been his father and, as his son, Tallis felt it wrong to harbour such animosity towards him. He’d often wondered what it would feel like when his dad died. If he was honest, there had been times in his life when he’d wished for it. Now that his father was dead, his emotions were less easy to pin down.
The silence throbbed with hurt and disappointment. Then he heard his mother saying something in the background.
‘Hold on,’ Hannah said, strained. ‘Mum wants to talk to you.’
‘Hello, Paul.’
‘Mum, how are you?’ Stupid bloody question. And then she took him completely by surprise.
‘You of all my children know how I feel.’
It was the first time she’d openly acknowledged his grief for Belle. She must be feeling pretty dreadful, he thought. ‘Mum, what do you want me to do?’
‘Come home.’
‘I’ll be right there.’
She waited a beat. ‘But could you to do something for me first?’
‘Anything.’
‘I want you to get Dan out
