Next to Die by Neil White

him.
    ‘I’ll see you tomorrow in court,’ Joe said. ‘All I can say is keep your head down.’
    A guard appeared in the corridor that ran between the glass booths. Ronnie got slowly to his feet. A tear ran down his cheek. It was either guilt or grief, and it would be some time before Joe knew which one.
    Just as Ronnie left the booth, he turned to Joe and said, ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’
    That made Joe pause. ‘No, I don’t. Should I?’
    Ronnie shrugged. ‘I suppose not.’ And then he was gone.

Eleven
     
    Sam Parker found himself driving past the station where he worked, more modern than the one used by the Murder Squad: a long brick building that shouted its police credentials with bright blue window frames and fencing, high and spiked to keep out those who fancied some revenge. It was on one of the routes out of Manchester, opposite an open patch of grass dominated by a grey stone church, although the view was spoiled by tower blocks that popped up on the horizon. He decided to call in. The visit to the Murder Squad had put him in work mode, but as he went inside he knew his mood wasn’t right, still angry and embarrassed that he had been wanted for just one reason: his brother.
    Sam worked from a small office along the middle floor, sandwiched between two report-writing rooms, with a view over the car park at the rear. The road outside was quiet as he climbed the stairs, where he could see through the windows that went to the height of the stairwell, so that it felt exposed and vulnerable. The view would be much different in an hour, when it would be just a nose to tail drag for those who lived on the east of Manchester.
    The window was open in his office, to let out some of the heat, and so the vertical white blinds knocked against the glass in the light breeze. He tapped on the open door with his fingernails. Helen, one of the financial investigators, looked up. She had been poring over spreadsheets, her wire-framed glasses falling down her nose, as always, so that her reading became a constant twitch of her glasses being pushed back. As Sam looked in, he saw it for what it was: a nerd’s refuge.
    Helen was surprised. ‘I thought you were on a rest day.’
    ‘I am,’ he said, and was about to tell her about his meeting with DI Evans, but then decided against it. It had amounted to nothing. ‘I was passing, that’s all, and I remembered that there was something about the bus case that was bothering me.’
    ‘Wouldn’t it have waited?’
    ‘Probably,’ he said, and then went to his desk. He looked at what was there. A cup filled with pens. A photograph of his wife and two daughters in a frame. Everything was safe, ordered and neat.
    ‘And how is your bus case?’ Helen asked.
    ‘As dull as yesterday,’ he said.
    He didn’t turn round to look at the files, lined up neatly on the shelf behind him. He had come into the office to remind himself of the career he had ended up with. He was good at it, he knew that, but he got the cases no one else wanted. No blood, no interest, that’s the mantra for most cops, and so anything that involved accounts and forms and paper trails landed on his desk. His bus case was like that – a dreary case involving fraudulent claims of fuel duty rebates, where the owners of a bus company overstated the route mileage to claim more fuel duty than they were due. It was a collection of forms and accounts, and then a pursuit of the money so that it could be claimed back if convicted.
    The only positive side was that he had his own desk, a space for his things, but he hadn’t joined the police to pursue money trails.
    He looked at Helen, and for a moment saw himself how others saw him: bookish and quiet. The longer he stayed where he was, the more he would end up like Helen. That wasn’t what he wanted.
    He felt his resolve grow. That was why he had gone to the office, to check whether he preferred this, the paperwork, the dullness, or whether he wanted more,