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Authors: Maureen Carter
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me out my
misery here. Boss man says he’s slinging his hook – what’s your next line?” The tone was glib, but Bev wasn’t so squiffy she couldn’t read the concern in her
mate’s dark eyes. She’d confided only in Frankie about her on-off relationship with the guv. Frankie was well aware it had a darn sight more ups and downs than in and outs; also knew
just how much Byford meant to her.
“Got on my knees. Begged him. Don’t do it, guv. Stay here, I...”
“Yeah yeah yeah. And you said?”
“Tricky saying anything when your jaw’s on the floor, Frankie.” Bev’s sigh lifted her fringe.
She nodded. “Needs trimming, that.”
“I know.”
Few seconds’ silence then: “Musta said something, Bevy?”
Got that right. Start a collection shall, I? Bev closed her eyes, pictured him storming off, driving away without a backward glance. Start a sodding collection. Foot. Herself. Shot. Talk
about kneejerk reaction. But the shock announcement had felt like a slap in the face. And she’d lashed back without thinking. Even now she didn’t know how the guv’s news would
affect a future they might or might not have. Either way, the subject was too raw, she could live without Frankie’s two penn’orth, however well-meaning. “Nah, mate. Not a dickie.
By the time I’d got my head round it...”
“Hey, Bev.” Frankie knew her too well, didn’t buy it. “When you’re ready. Tell me.”
“Sure.” Reckoned she’d have three months to work on it. That’s how much notice he’d have to serve. She knew he loved the Lakes, had a son up there. He’d joked
once about retiring there. At least she’d thought it a joke.
What she didn’t know was this: when the time came, would Byford take off up north? And would he leave behind more than the job?
Start a collection, shall I? Byford shook his head, gave a wry smile. Bev’s comeback was almost funny. Or it was by the time he’d driven home, picked at the
leftovers of a shepherd’s pie and downed a dram or two of malt in front of Newsnight. Relaxing now in his beloved recliner, Byford took in the city nightscape from an upstairs window,
his mind’s eye still on the exchange in the car park. The stroppy posture, the pithy putdown were archetypal Morriss: mouth in gear, blue eyes flashing, toe tapping. Prickly? Oh yes.
Infuriating, exasperating, stubborn as a mule farm. You got it. But underneath? He still wasn’t sure. Maybe that’s why his smile was tinged with sadness this time.
The news had caught her on the hop, of course. If there’d been more time to think, he could probably have predicted her reaction. But then he’d not long put his resignation in
writing. The decision when to go had rested on finding Josh Banks’s killer. Based on what he’d heard at the brief Byford thought: job done. Haines hadn’t been charged, and even
though Byford had jumped the gun, it had only been by a few hours.
Either way, it was time to move on. The letter would be waiting on personnel’s desk first thing. The big man drained the tumbler, ran the malt round his tongue. Regrets? Sure. After thirty
odd years, he’d miss the job, miss Birmingham, miss one or two old friends. And he’d miss Bev even more.
If he couldn’t persuade her to go with him.
The man with the scrapbook studied the photograph first, held a magnifying glass over the face. Unwittingly, he caught his breath at the likeness. The
little boy so resembled Scott they could have been twins. The lookalike wore identical clothes, carried a similar satchel, and had been captured mid-stride, one sock half-mast, walking through the
gates of Scott’s school. The man took in the brick walls, high railings and a barely discernible chalked hopscotch grid.
His hand no longer shaking, he moved the glass back to the little boy’s image. He wondered if the substitute Scott also had a gap-tooth. The child took his walk-on role too seriously to
tell, cognisant of why he was there, and who
misery here. Boss man says he’s slinging his hook – what’s your next line?” The tone was glib, but Bev wasn’t so squiffy she couldn’t read the concern in her
mate’s dark eyes. She’d confided only in Frankie about her on-off relationship with the guv. Frankie was well aware it had a darn sight more ups and downs than in and outs; also knew
just how much Byford meant to her.
“Got on my knees. Begged him. Don’t do it, guv. Stay here, I...”
“Yeah yeah yeah. And you said?”
“Tricky saying anything when your jaw’s on the floor, Frankie.” Bev’s sigh lifted her fringe.
She nodded. “Needs trimming, that.”
“I know.”
Few seconds’ silence then: “Musta said something, Bevy?”
Got that right. Start a collection shall, I? Bev closed her eyes, pictured him storming off, driving away without a backward glance. Start a sodding collection. Foot. Herself. Shot. Talk
about kneejerk reaction. But the shock announcement had felt like a slap in the face. And she’d lashed back without thinking. Even now she didn’t know how the guv’s news would
affect a future they might or might not have. Either way, the subject was too raw, she could live without Frankie’s two penn’orth, however well-meaning. “Nah, mate. Not a dickie.
By the time I’d got my head round it...”
“Hey, Bev.” Frankie knew her too well, didn’t buy it. “When you’re ready. Tell me.”
“Sure.” Reckoned she’d have three months to work on it. That’s how much notice he’d have to serve. She knew he loved the Lakes, had a son up there. He’d joked
once about retiring there. At least she’d thought it a joke.
What she didn’t know was this: when the time came, would Byford take off up north? And would he leave behind more than the job?
Start a collection, shall I? Byford shook his head, gave a wry smile. Bev’s comeback was almost funny. Or it was by the time he’d driven home, picked at the
leftovers of a shepherd’s pie and downed a dram or two of malt in front of Newsnight. Relaxing now in his beloved recliner, Byford took in the city nightscape from an upstairs window,
his mind’s eye still on the exchange in the car park. The stroppy posture, the pithy putdown were archetypal Morriss: mouth in gear, blue eyes flashing, toe tapping. Prickly? Oh yes.
Infuriating, exasperating, stubborn as a mule farm. You got it. But underneath? He still wasn’t sure. Maybe that’s why his smile was tinged with sadness this time.
The news had caught her on the hop, of course. If there’d been more time to think, he could probably have predicted her reaction. But then he’d not long put his resignation in
writing. The decision when to go had rested on finding Josh Banks’s killer. Based on what he’d heard at the brief Byford thought: job done. Haines hadn’t been charged, and even
though Byford had jumped the gun, it had only been by a few hours.
Either way, it was time to move on. The letter would be waiting on personnel’s desk first thing. The big man drained the tumbler, ran the malt round his tongue. Regrets? Sure. After thirty
odd years, he’d miss the job, miss Birmingham, miss one or two old friends. And he’d miss Bev even more.
If he couldn’t persuade her to go with him.
The man with the scrapbook studied the photograph first, held a magnifying glass over the face. Unwittingly, he caught his breath at the likeness. The
little boy so resembled Scott they could have been twins. The lookalike wore identical clothes, carried a similar satchel, and had been captured mid-stride, one sock half-mast, walking through the
gates of Scott’s school. The man took in the brick walls, high railings and a barely discernible chalked hopscotch grid.
His hand no longer shaking, he moved the glass back to the little boy’s image. He wondered if the substitute Scott also had a gap-tooth. The child took his walk-on role too seriously to
tell, cognisant of why he was there, and who
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