round. ‘What do you want?’ she asked in a whisper, looking down at her daughter’s clutching hand as though it
was something dirty. But Petronella still clung on.
‘I’m going to tell the police about Charlie.’
Annette moved nearer so that they were face to face. Petronella could smell alcohol on her breath. As she hadn’t seen her
drinking, she must have done it secretly, slyly.
‘They should know what sort of a man he was.’
Annette stared at her for a few moments. ‘You’re lying.’
‘I’m not. Why do you think I left the first time?’
Annette raised her hand and gave her daughter a stinging slap across the face which echoed like a gunshot in the spacious
hallway. ‘Charlie wouldn’t have fancied you if you’d been lying naked in front of him with your legs wide open. If you know
what’s good for you, you’ll keep your mouth shut,’ she said before sweeping up the stairs.
A tear ran down Petronella’s stinging cheek and as she watched the woman who’d given birth to her disappear into the bathroom
off the landing, she felt a burning, frustrated rage welling up inside her.
‘Mum,’ she called out. But the word echoed back to her in the silence.
DC Steve Carstairs walked slowly down Tradmouth High Street looking in shop windows, killing time.
He’d never been suspended from duty before, even though he’d often sailed very close to the hostile wind. The truth was, he
didn’t know what to do with himself. He could look upon it as a holiday but somehow that didn’t seem right. Or maybe he should
think of it as sick leave … after all, the thought of Carl Pinney’s smug, smirking face made him want to vomit.
He stared into the window of a menswear shop, hardly registering the clothes on display, clenching his fist so tight that
his flesh began to hurt as the resentment welled upinside him. He had seen others bend the rules from time to time. Gerry Heffernan didn’t do things by the book if he thought
he could get away with it and even Peterson ignored procedure occasionally. Carl Pinney was scum. He thought nothing of using
violence on those he robbed of their wallets or mobile phones … but when he was given a dose of his own bitter medicine, he
whinged to the authorities.
He looked at his watch. Five o’clock – almost time for Burton’s Butties to close. He’d never given the shop a second thought
until he’d come face to face with his father there. Robbie Carstairs had vanished from his life seventeen years ago when he’d
abandoned him and his mother for some little typist at the car showroom where he’d worked. He’d gone up north somewhere but
it might as well have been the North Pole as far as Steve was concerned. For a few years there had been Christmas and birthday
cards with a fiver stuffed inside. Conscience money his mother had said. Then, from the time he’d reached sixteen or so, there
was nothing. Nothing until the phone call to his mother saying he was back.
When father and son met again, they’d managed to maintain a fragile façade of polite, laddish bonhomie. The thing that hung
between them like a whale in a fish tank was never mentioned and Steve was no wiser as to why his father had abandoned him
now than he was seventeen years ago. Over the years he’d fantasised about his father’s return – sometimes imagining some subtle
revenge for the pain he’d caused, sometimes thinking how they’d be reunited, his father full of tearful remorse, determined
to make up for the lost years. But the reality had been neither of these things. Just awkwardness and stiff embarrassment.
As Steve arrived outside Burton’s Butties he could see his father through the plate-glass window, standing in front of the
empty shelves, talking to one of the young female assistants. His body language signalled that the conversation wasn’tonly concerned with business matters and Steve watched him for a while, his heart numb. Then he
was something dirty. But Petronella still clung on.
‘I’m going to tell the police about Charlie.’
Annette moved nearer so that they were face to face. Petronella could smell alcohol on her breath. As she hadn’t seen her
drinking, she must have done it secretly, slyly.
‘They should know what sort of a man he was.’
Annette stared at her for a few moments. ‘You’re lying.’
‘I’m not. Why do you think I left the first time?’
Annette raised her hand and gave her daughter a stinging slap across the face which echoed like a gunshot in the spacious
hallway. ‘Charlie wouldn’t have fancied you if you’d been lying naked in front of him with your legs wide open. If you know
what’s good for you, you’ll keep your mouth shut,’ she said before sweeping up the stairs.
A tear ran down Petronella’s stinging cheek and as she watched the woman who’d given birth to her disappear into the bathroom
off the landing, she felt a burning, frustrated rage welling up inside her.
‘Mum,’ she called out. But the word echoed back to her in the silence.
DC Steve Carstairs walked slowly down Tradmouth High Street looking in shop windows, killing time.
He’d never been suspended from duty before, even though he’d often sailed very close to the hostile wind. The truth was, he
didn’t know what to do with himself. He could look upon it as a holiday but somehow that didn’t seem right. Or maybe he should
think of it as sick leave … after all, the thought of Carl Pinney’s smug, smirking face made him want to vomit.
He stared into the window of a menswear shop, hardly registering the clothes on display, clenching his fist so tight that
his flesh began to hurt as the resentment welled upinside him. He had seen others bend the rules from time to time. Gerry Heffernan didn’t do things by the book if he thought
he could get away with it and even Peterson ignored procedure occasionally. Carl Pinney was scum. He thought nothing of using
violence on those he robbed of their wallets or mobile phones … but when he was given a dose of his own bitter medicine, he
whinged to the authorities.
He looked at his watch. Five o’clock – almost time for Burton’s Butties to close. He’d never given the shop a second thought
until he’d come face to face with his father there. Robbie Carstairs had vanished from his life seventeen years ago when he’d
abandoned him and his mother for some little typist at the car showroom where he’d worked. He’d gone up north somewhere but
it might as well have been the North Pole as far as Steve was concerned. For a few years there had been Christmas and birthday
cards with a fiver stuffed inside. Conscience money his mother had said. Then, from the time he’d reached sixteen or so, there
was nothing. Nothing until the phone call to his mother saying he was back.
When father and son met again, they’d managed to maintain a fragile façade of polite, laddish bonhomie. The thing that hung
between them like a whale in a fish tank was never mentioned and Steve was no wiser as to why his father had abandoned him
now than he was seventeen years ago. Over the years he’d fantasised about his father’s return – sometimes imagining some subtle
revenge for the pain he’d caused, sometimes thinking how they’d be reunited, his father full of tearful remorse, determined
to make up for the lost years. But the reality had been neither of these things. Just awkwardness and stiff embarrassment.
As Steve arrived outside Burton’s Butties he could see his father through the plate-glass window, standing in front of the
empty shelves, talking to one of the young female assistants. His body language signalled that the conversation wasn’tonly concerned with business matters and Steve watched him for a while, his heart numb. Then he
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