put its head down and started to crop the grass of the verge.
‘I know,’ he agreed. ‘Emily.’
‘I don’t like Emily. My friends call me Em.’
‘OK then.’ Steven nodded, but wasn’t sure whether she meant that
he
should call her Em.
‘What’s
your
name?’
‘Steven.’
She gave him a sly look. ‘And your friend with the red hair?’
Steven’s face fired up again, just as it had been cooling off. ‘Lewis,’ he said. ‘Sorry about that.’
She gave a pretty little shrug and a wave, which Steven interpreted as his having been absolved of responsibility for his best friend’s manners.
‘Do you want to come in and talk to my dad?’
‘What about?’
‘The newspaper thing?’
Of course. That was why he was here.
‘Oh, OK. Yes. Please.’
Em pointed a small remote control at the gates, which swung open silently, and tugged the horse’s head out of the grass.
They passed through the gateway together and started down the stony driveway to the unseen house in silence. Steven was grateful Em was being so nice to him, but he also couldn’t think of a single thing to say to her that didn’t sound strained and fawning to his inner ear.
I like your horse
.
Where did you live before coming here?
Where’s your green ribbon today?
All rubbish. He wondered how anyone
ever
started a conversation with a girl. Not a girl you had to talk to because she was your home-ec. partner, or a girl who looked at you and giggled and said stuff to her friends that made them giggle too. But a
proper
girl, and a normal conversation. In that regard, Steven was at a complete loss.
Behind them the gates clicked quietly shut and he glanced back over his shoulder. ‘Why do you have such fancy gates?’
‘Oh,’ said Em dismissively, ‘somebody stole our trailer.’
9
JOS REEVES AT THE lab in Portishead called to confirm that green wool fibres that had been found stuck to the gummed note at the Pete Knox scene nearly matched fibres found clinging to the door handle of John Took’s horsebox.
‘Nearly?’ Reynolds asked. He’d been about to get in the shower – or try to. He was not a stocky man, but he’d examined the cubicle with a mathematical eye and was dubious about every single dimension.
‘Well, the fibre itself is the same,’ said Reeves, ‘but the ones at the second scene have traces of butane on them.’
‘You mean lighter fuel?’
‘That’s the stuff.’
Reynolds thought of the old Zippo his father had used. Reynolds’s parents had been married for fifty-two years – a whole three of them harmonious – but his mother still had no idea her husband smoked. The smell of a Zippo always made Reynolds think of huddling behind a barrier of cobwebbed terracotta pots in the garden shed while his father lit up, and inevitably brought with it the medical tang of the Fisherman’s Friends he would then chew like Smarties to disguise the smell.
‘So he’s a smoker,’ said Reynolds.
‘Maybe,’ said Reeves. ‘Or a camper. Or just a man making bonfires.’
‘Hoodies use it to get high, right?’
Reeves laughed a bit too hard for Reynolds’s liking. ‘I don’t think it’s for the exclusive use of hoodies, but yeah – it’s a cheap high. For kids.’
‘Could it have been used to disable a victim?’
‘Sure. Wouldn’t knock them out, but it would make someone woozy, disorientated, you know?’
‘But it wasn’t at the first scene,’ Reynolds reiterated.
‘Nope.’
Reynolds sighed. That meant the butane could be significant or simply a red herring. It could mean the wool was deliberately impregnated with butane, or it had been accidentally spilt. But if it was deliberate, then why wasn’t it present at the first scene?
‘And you have no idea what the wool fibres might have come from?’
‘Not so far, but we’re still working on them, obviously.’
Reynolds thanked Reeves and hung up, more frustrated than before. The Jess Took scene had been a mess of tyre tracks and
‘I know,’ he agreed. ‘Emily.’
‘I don’t like Emily. My friends call me Em.’
‘OK then.’ Steven nodded, but wasn’t sure whether she meant that
he
should call her Em.
‘What’s
your
name?’
‘Steven.’
She gave him a sly look. ‘And your friend with the red hair?’
Steven’s face fired up again, just as it had been cooling off. ‘Lewis,’ he said. ‘Sorry about that.’
She gave a pretty little shrug and a wave, which Steven interpreted as his having been absolved of responsibility for his best friend’s manners.
‘Do you want to come in and talk to my dad?’
‘What about?’
‘The newspaper thing?’
Of course. That was why he was here.
‘Oh, OK. Yes. Please.’
Em pointed a small remote control at the gates, which swung open silently, and tugged the horse’s head out of the grass.
They passed through the gateway together and started down the stony driveway to the unseen house in silence. Steven was grateful Em was being so nice to him, but he also couldn’t think of a single thing to say to her that didn’t sound strained and fawning to his inner ear.
I like your horse
.
Where did you live before coming here?
Where’s your green ribbon today?
All rubbish. He wondered how anyone
ever
started a conversation with a girl. Not a girl you had to talk to because she was your home-ec. partner, or a girl who looked at you and giggled and said stuff to her friends that made them giggle too. But a
proper
girl, and a normal conversation. In that regard, Steven was at a complete loss.
Behind them the gates clicked quietly shut and he glanced back over his shoulder. ‘Why do you have such fancy gates?’
‘Oh,’ said Em dismissively, ‘somebody stole our trailer.’
9
JOS REEVES AT THE lab in Portishead called to confirm that green wool fibres that had been found stuck to the gummed note at the Pete Knox scene nearly matched fibres found clinging to the door handle of John Took’s horsebox.
‘Nearly?’ Reynolds asked. He’d been about to get in the shower – or try to. He was not a stocky man, but he’d examined the cubicle with a mathematical eye and was dubious about every single dimension.
‘Well, the fibre itself is the same,’ said Reeves, ‘but the ones at the second scene have traces of butane on them.’
‘You mean lighter fuel?’
‘That’s the stuff.’
Reynolds thought of the old Zippo his father had used. Reynolds’s parents had been married for fifty-two years – a whole three of them harmonious – but his mother still had no idea her husband smoked. The smell of a Zippo always made Reynolds think of huddling behind a barrier of cobwebbed terracotta pots in the garden shed while his father lit up, and inevitably brought with it the medical tang of the Fisherman’s Friends he would then chew like Smarties to disguise the smell.
‘So he’s a smoker,’ said Reynolds.
‘Maybe,’ said Reeves. ‘Or a camper. Or just a man making bonfires.’
‘Hoodies use it to get high, right?’
Reeves laughed a bit too hard for Reynolds’s liking. ‘I don’t think it’s for the exclusive use of hoodies, but yeah – it’s a cheap high. For kids.’
‘Could it have been used to disable a victim?’
‘Sure. Wouldn’t knock them out, but it would make someone woozy, disorientated, you know?’
‘But it wasn’t at the first scene,’ Reynolds reiterated.
‘Nope.’
Reynolds sighed. That meant the butane could be significant or simply a red herring. It could mean the wool was deliberately impregnated with butane, or it had been accidentally spilt. But if it was deliberate, then why wasn’t it present at the first scene?
‘And you have no idea what the wool fibres might have come from?’
‘Not so far, but we’re still working on them, obviously.’
Reynolds thanked Reeves and hung up, more frustrated than before. The Jess Took scene had been a mess of tyre tracks and
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