phone and flipped through it until he came to the name ‘Don Hunter’. Don was a Manchester DI he’d worked in conjunction with on several cases over the years. He dialled the number next to the name. ‘It’s Jim Monahan,’ he said, when Don picked up. ‘Sorry to bother you on a Sunday, Don, but I need a favour. What can you tell me about an ex-DI from your neck of the woods named Lance Brennan?’
‘The name doesn’t ring any bells. I’ll see what I can find out.’
Jim thanked Don and turned his attention to the kettle. He made two mugs of tea and took them to the living room. Lance pulled out a hip flask and poured a generous slug of something into his mug. He proffered the flask to Jim.
Shaking his head, Jim sank onto an armchair. Lance took a swig of tea, then raised his wily old detective’s eyes to Jim. ‘You hate Villiers, don’t you?’
Jim made no reply. Yes, he hated Villiers. He hated everyone in Herbert’s book, savagely, uncompromisingly. But he wasn’t ready to admit that to a stranger.
Lance nodded as though he’d read all he needed to know in Jim’s eyes. ‘I do too.’ His voice was thick with bitterness. ‘I hate that bastard worse than anything, and I don’t care who knows it. That’s one of the benefits of growing old – not having to lie about how you feel any more. And I’ll tell you something else, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about using that knife of mine on Villiers.’
Jim frowned. ‘You should be careful what you say to me, Mr Brennan. Regardless of my personal feelings, I’m still a copper.’
Lance dismissed his words with a disdainful grunt. ‘It’s not a crime to think about something. Not yet. And anyway, what you’ve done is almost as good as sticking a knife in Villiers.’
‘If you’re implying what I think you are, Mr Brennan—’
‘Please, let’s dispense with the Mr Brennan crap. And all the rest of the horseshit too. I’m not here to put one over on you. I’m here to shake your hand. You’ve done what I didn’t have the balls to do twenty-odd years ago.’
Jim’s voice quickened as curiosity overcame his caginess. ‘Are you saying you knew about the names on the list back then?’
‘No. But I knew about Villiers and…’ Lance’s voice faltered. A spasm of self-disgust passed over his face. ‘And I did nothing. Well, not quite nothing, but that’s what it amounted to.’ He looked at Jim with a kind of haunted appeal in his eyes. ‘You see, they gave me a choice: keep my gob shut or lose my pension. I couldn’t lose my pension. It was all I had left. They’d already taken the job away from me. I had a wife and kids to support. And I couldn’t even get work as a security guard because of all the lies they spouted to cover their arses. I tell you, for years I used to wake up every day thinking about suicide. Only one thing stopped me from doing it. Do you know what that thing was? It wasn’t my wife, God rest her soul, or even my kids. It was my allotment. That was my escape. The one place I could get away from thinking about how I let Villiers off the hook. There’s something about planting and growing that—’
‘So what exactly do you know about Villiers?’ interrupted Jim, eager to keep Lance on topic, but also uncomfortable with the talk of suicide – he’d entertained many dark thoughts of his own since Margaret’s death.
Slowly, as though arranging his thoughts, the ex-detective began, ‘Back in 1989 we arrested a sixteen-year-old boy named Dave Ward for—’
Lance broke off as a phone rang. Jim went into the kitchen to answer it. Don Hunter came on the line. ‘Lance Brennan served with the Greater Manchester Police from ’71 to ’90. He spent ten years in CID before taking release on health grounds. Is that enough for you, Jim? Or do you need me to do some more digging?’
‘No, that’s great, Don. I owe you one.’
When Jim returned to the living room, Lance eyed him knowingly. ‘Well, are you
‘The name doesn’t ring any bells. I’ll see what I can find out.’
Jim thanked Don and turned his attention to the kettle. He made two mugs of tea and took them to the living room. Lance pulled out a hip flask and poured a generous slug of something into his mug. He proffered the flask to Jim.
Shaking his head, Jim sank onto an armchair. Lance took a swig of tea, then raised his wily old detective’s eyes to Jim. ‘You hate Villiers, don’t you?’
Jim made no reply. Yes, he hated Villiers. He hated everyone in Herbert’s book, savagely, uncompromisingly. But he wasn’t ready to admit that to a stranger.
Lance nodded as though he’d read all he needed to know in Jim’s eyes. ‘I do too.’ His voice was thick with bitterness. ‘I hate that bastard worse than anything, and I don’t care who knows it. That’s one of the benefits of growing old – not having to lie about how you feel any more. And I’ll tell you something else, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about using that knife of mine on Villiers.’
Jim frowned. ‘You should be careful what you say to me, Mr Brennan. Regardless of my personal feelings, I’m still a copper.’
Lance dismissed his words with a disdainful grunt. ‘It’s not a crime to think about something. Not yet. And anyway, what you’ve done is almost as good as sticking a knife in Villiers.’
‘If you’re implying what I think you are, Mr Brennan—’
‘Please, let’s dispense with the Mr Brennan crap. And all the rest of the horseshit too. I’m not here to put one over on you. I’m here to shake your hand. You’ve done what I didn’t have the balls to do twenty-odd years ago.’
Jim’s voice quickened as curiosity overcame his caginess. ‘Are you saying you knew about the names on the list back then?’
‘No. But I knew about Villiers and…’ Lance’s voice faltered. A spasm of self-disgust passed over his face. ‘And I did nothing. Well, not quite nothing, but that’s what it amounted to.’ He looked at Jim with a kind of haunted appeal in his eyes. ‘You see, they gave me a choice: keep my gob shut or lose my pension. I couldn’t lose my pension. It was all I had left. They’d already taken the job away from me. I had a wife and kids to support. And I couldn’t even get work as a security guard because of all the lies they spouted to cover their arses. I tell you, for years I used to wake up every day thinking about suicide. Only one thing stopped me from doing it. Do you know what that thing was? It wasn’t my wife, God rest her soul, or even my kids. It was my allotment. That was my escape. The one place I could get away from thinking about how I let Villiers off the hook. There’s something about planting and growing that—’
‘So what exactly do you know about Villiers?’ interrupted Jim, eager to keep Lance on topic, but also uncomfortable with the talk of suicide – he’d entertained many dark thoughts of his own since Margaret’s death.
Slowly, as though arranging his thoughts, the ex-detective began, ‘Back in 1989 we arrested a sixteen-year-old boy named Dave Ward for—’
Lance broke off as a phone rang. Jim went into the kitchen to answer it. Don Hunter came on the line. ‘Lance Brennan served with the Greater Manchester Police from ’71 to ’90. He spent ten years in CID before taking release on health grounds. Is that enough for you, Jim? Or do you need me to do some more digging?’
‘No, that’s great, Don. I owe you one.’
When Jim returned to the living room, Lance eyed him knowingly. ‘Well, are you
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