it.’
‘You know why. They’re not willing to spend money around here. Reckon it’d just get wrecked, so they won’t bother.’
‘I suppose.’
Rossi slowed the car, looking for the right house number. ‘It’s bollocks though. That argument, I mean.’
‘You think?’
‘Course I do. If you put people in places like this, where everything is left to go to shit, what do you expect them to do? Everything’s grey, dark. That’s how your life is going to feel like. It’s the Broken Windows theory.’
‘The what?’
‘The theory that if the area you live in looks like shite, then the people who live there will act like shite as well.’
Murphy smirked. ‘And that’s how it’s put in the books, I imagine.’
Rossi snorted. ‘More or less.’
Murphy thought she had a point, but didn’t have chance to say so as she slowed the car and parked up.
‘I really wish we could have phoned ahead,’ Rossi said, unbuckling her seatbelt. ‘I hate just turning up with no warning. Makes it worse.’
‘Home number we had for them was out of use. Everyone has mobiles these days.’
The house they’d stopped outside of didn’t scream ‘house of a tearaway’. A sort of mid-terrace, with light brown stone brickwork. An archway separated the house from next door, but it was still connected on the top level. There were three wheelie bins on the small driveway, a few crisp packets lifting slightly in the breeze before settling back down against the fence. It was May, but Murphy shook his head as he noticed the house next door still had Christmas decorations hanging from the guttering – the clear icicles he’d noticed on market stalls in town, the previous December.
‘You ready?’ Murphy said as he pushed open the metal gate, the screeching sound as it slid across the ground making his hairs stand on end. It needed lifting, fixing or replacing.
‘Are you?’ Rossi replied, walking ahead of him and knocking on the door. Four short raps – the rent man’s knock, as his mum used to say.
They stood waiting for a few seconds before Rossi knocked again, pulling back as they heard the barking.
‘ Porca vacca ,’ Rossi said under her breath.
‘You don’t like dogs, Laura?’ Murphy said from behind a smile.
‘Not ones that bark.’
A few more seconds passed before they heard shuffling from behind the door. A mortice lock turning on the old-style door, the house not being adorned with one of the newer double-glazed models. It opened inwards a few inches, a face appearing in the gap.
‘Yeah?’
‘Sally Hughes?’ Murphy said, bending over so he wasn’t towering over the small-statured mother of Dean Hughes.
‘What’s he done now?’
Murphy raised his eyebrows at the instant recognition of them as police, even though they were in plain clothes. ‘Who?’
‘Our Jack. What’s he done? You’re either police or bailiffs. So he either owes someone or you’re trying to pin something on him.’
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Laura Rossi, this is DI David Murphy …’
‘Jack was here last night …’
Rossi held her hands out. ‘It’s not about Jack, Mrs Hughes. It’s about Dean.’
Sally opened the door wider, a look of resignation flashing across her face before she swiped her hand across her forehead, moving damp, lifeless hair away from her face. ‘Right. Well you better come in then.’
Sally walked away from them, locking the still-barking dog in another room before going through to what Murphy guessed was the living room on the left. He went in first, wiping his feet on a non-existent doormat without thinking and following her inside. He took the few steps into the living room, some American talk show snapping into silence as he walked into the room, the clattering of the remote control on a wooden coffee table.
‘Scuse the mess. Haven’t had chance to tidy up yet.’ Sally lifted a cigarette box and in a couple of smooth movements lit a Silk Cut and took a drag.
Murphy savoured the
‘You know why. They’re not willing to spend money around here. Reckon it’d just get wrecked, so they won’t bother.’
‘I suppose.’
Rossi slowed the car, looking for the right house number. ‘It’s bollocks though. That argument, I mean.’
‘You think?’
‘Course I do. If you put people in places like this, where everything is left to go to shit, what do you expect them to do? Everything’s grey, dark. That’s how your life is going to feel like. It’s the Broken Windows theory.’
‘The what?’
‘The theory that if the area you live in looks like shite, then the people who live there will act like shite as well.’
Murphy smirked. ‘And that’s how it’s put in the books, I imagine.’
Rossi snorted. ‘More or less.’
Murphy thought she had a point, but didn’t have chance to say so as she slowed the car and parked up.
‘I really wish we could have phoned ahead,’ Rossi said, unbuckling her seatbelt. ‘I hate just turning up with no warning. Makes it worse.’
‘Home number we had for them was out of use. Everyone has mobiles these days.’
The house they’d stopped outside of didn’t scream ‘house of a tearaway’. A sort of mid-terrace, with light brown stone brickwork. An archway separated the house from next door, but it was still connected on the top level. There were three wheelie bins on the small driveway, a few crisp packets lifting slightly in the breeze before settling back down against the fence. It was May, but Murphy shook his head as he noticed the house next door still had Christmas decorations hanging from the guttering – the clear icicles he’d noticed on market stalls in town, the previous December.
‘You ready?’ Murphy said as he pushed open the metal gate, the screeching sound as it slid across the ground making his hairs stand on end. It needed lifting, fixing or replacing.
‘Are you?’ Rossi replied, walking ahead of him and knocking on the door. Four short raps – the rent man’s knock, as his mum used to say.
They stood waiting for a few seconds before Rossi knocked again, pulling back as they heard the barking.
‘ Porca vacca ,’ Rossi said under her breath.
‘You don’t like dogs, Laura?’ Murphy said from behind a smile.
‘Not ones that bark.’
A few more seconds passed before they heard shuffling from behind the door. A mortice lock turning on the old-style door, the house not being adorned with one of the newer double-glazed models. It opened inwards a few inches, a face appearing in the gap.
‘Yeah?’
‘Sally Hughes?’ Murphy said, bending over so he wasn’t towering over the small-statured mother of Dean Hughes.
‘What’s he done now?’
Murphy raised his eyebrows at the instant recognition of them as police, even though they were in plain clothes. ‘Who?’
‘Our Jack. What’s he done? You’re either police or bailiffs. So he either owes someone or you’re trying to pin something on him.’
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Laura Rossi, this is DI David Murphy …’
‘Jack was here last night …’
Rossi held her hands out. ‘It’s not about Jack, Mrs Hughes. It’s about Dean.’
Sally opened the door wider, a look of resignation flashing across her face before she swiped her hand across her forehead, moving damp, lifeless hair away from her face. ‘Right. Well you better come in then.’
Sally walked away from them, locking the still-barking dog in another room before going through to what Murphy guessed was the living room on the left. He went in first, wiping his feet on a non-existent doormat without thinking and following her inside. He took the few steps into the living room, some American talk show snapping into silence as he walked into the room, the clattering of the remote control on a wooden coffee table.
‘Scuse the mess. Haven’t had chance to tidy up yet.’ Sally lifted a cigarette box and in a couple of smooth movements lit a Silk Cut and took a drag.
Murphy savoured the
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