good news for her, like the news was his responsibility or something. But today she just smiled in that old-person sad way and took the paper.
He rolled back down the cobbles and across the square. DCI Deepak had nothing of note to report. He headed up the main street towards the edge of the village, and as he turned into the lane past the allotments he hit a pothole and his chain came off.
Calling headquarters: request mechanical assistance. Would be cool if he could do that. He got off and started fixing the chain back on. He wondered what the police really meant by something unusual, or something suspicious. They said any detail could be vital, but how would you know? Would it be some piece of clothing, like a lost glove on a railing, or like a hairband in the gutter? Or would it be if you saw someone dodgy in a van? Or something really bad, like a tiny bloodstain, or a strand of hair?
It must be pretty hard being a detective.
It was pretty hard being a bike mechanic as well. The chain was wedged between the frame and the sprocket, and he couldn’t get it out. He took his gloves off to try and get a better grip. It was too cold for this kind of thing.
The front door of the house on the corner opened and a man came out. Deepak had seen him around, but he didn’t know him. The man asked if he needed a hand, and Deepak said no, thanks, he was fine. The man stood and watched. It was well awkward. The chain was totally jammed, and he couldn’t get it shifted. It was cutting into his hands when he pulled at it. The man was just watching. It was embarrassing. He was standing too close.
Deepak, lad, he said; I’d say that chain’s stuck. I’ll get some tools.
He went back into the house. Deepak wondered who he was. He pulled at the chain again. Time was getting on.
The man came back out with a toolbox, and budged Deepak out of the way. He said it wouldn’t take a minute. It was all about having the right tool for the job, he said, and gave Deepak a funny look as though he’d told a joke.
He asked if Deepak was surprised that he knew his name. When Deepak said yes, he said: well, I’ve seen you around. You stand out a bit round here.
He did something with a screwdriver and got the chain sorted. It took less than a minute. Deepak said thanks, and went to get back on his bike.
The man said: hang on there a minute, let’s just pop inside and get you cleaned up.
Calling headquarters again: request guidance. Request backup.
The guidance was obvious. Going into a stranger’s house was one of the things you weren’t supposed to do. But this man wasn’t exactly a stranger; he knew Deepak’s name, and Deepak had seen him around. But even so. He could basically hear his mum shouting at him as he walked towards the front door: you don’t even know this man, Dee Dee! It’s not safe, Dee Dee!
She worried too much, though. His dad always said that.
A real detective would take certain measures in this situation. There would be a colleague waiting in a car further down the road. A uniformed officer covering the back door. He would be wearing a wire. As it was, he took mental notes. Just in case. A description of the car parked outside, and the registration number. A description of the house. For example: there were piles of junk mail and free papers just inside the front door. The curtains in all the upstairs windows were closed. The man was wearing a waxed jacket, and trousers with lots of pockets. He was old. Sixty, at least.
Deepak knew he shouldn’t be going inside. But he didn’t want the man to think he was rude, or ungrateful. And anyway, what would he say? I don’t want to come inside in case you’re some kind of massive nonce? You couldn’t go around saying that.
He felt the man’s hand on his shoulder, steering him through the door.
Just head through to the back, he said. Kitchen’s straight ahead. Soap’s by the sink.
It was dark in the hallway, and he had to squeeze past a line of coats and jackets hanging along the wall. Everything smelt damp, and muddy.
This was definitely a bad idea.
He went straight to the sink and started washing his hands. The water was cold, and the bar of soap cracked in half as soon as he picked it up. The sink was full of old dishes. The oil wouldn’t come off. It was just making the two halves of soap filthy. He could hear the man doing something in the hallway. The water coming off his hands was black and going all over the dishes, but the oil wasn’t shifting. He was making a mess of the man’s kitchen. He wanted to leave now. He was going to be late.
He heard the man in the doorway behind him.
It felt like he was just standing there, watching.
The water was still cold. He turned the tap off and looked around for something to dry his hands with. The place was a mess. His mum would be horrified. Although his mum would be horrified just knowing he was in there. There were more dirty dishes spread along the worktop, and newspapers and magazines stacked up on chairs, and newspaper spread across the table, and on the table there was a gun.
He looked a second time, trying to make it look like he wasn’t looking.
It was definitely a gun.
He didn’t call headquarters in his head this time. There was no backup. He wasn’t a detective. There was a gun on the table. His chest felt very solid all of a sudden, and he more or less stopped breathing for a moment.
But, okay, there were cloths and brushes on the table next to the gun, and some kind of grease or cleaning fluid. There were boxes of cartridges. So it was sort of okay. Sort of normal, round here, more or less normal. He’d never seen a gun before but he knew people owned them. It was a shotgun, probably. It was for shooting rabbits or whatever. It was normal. He pretended he hadn’t seen anything.
The man was still standing in the doorway. He asked if the oil was coming off. Deepak looked. The soap was black with it, and there were oily smears all over the sink. He told the man it was all done, and he’d have to get going. He tried shaking his hands dry. Even if there had been a towel he would have wrecked it.
He needed to get a move on. He’d be late finishing the paper round. His mum would have kittens. The man was still talking. He wanted to look at Deepak’s hands. He told him to scrub them a bit harder. Deepak said it was fine, and he should probably be getting on. The man came and leant over him and turned the tap back on.
You just need to scrub a bit harder, he said.
Deepak let the water pour over his hands, and looked through the kitchen window. It was light outside, and in the small garden a blackbird was rooting around under a bush. The search party he’d heard people talking about would probably be setting out from the visitor centre around now. The girl would be found, if she was still up there on the hill. He wondered what it might have been like, spending the night up there. He wondered what she might have been hiding from. If that was what had happened.
He had met her, back in the summer. They all had. She’d been all right. He hadn’t told his parents this, before, but now he thought he probably should. The police had said any little detail might help.
He wanted to go home and tell them now.
The water poured over his hands, and he kept scrubbing, and the man said he was nearly done.
He hoped his bike would be
