“Bourbon?”

Even mumbling through a half-eaten biscuit, Laura thought his mouth looked lovely.

Tea and biscuits were put on hold when Ridley called Jack’s mobile and instructed them both to go and search Mike’s place of work. There was a search warrant waiting for them to collect at the court building.

Withey Security was nothing more than a run-down modular office trailer in the middle of a gated lot. Fourteen such trailers occupied the space, overseen by an ancient warden who was keyholder to them all. The warden stepped into his own trailer to find the keys to Mike’s. This trailer was more like a caravan, complete with a small TV, a tatty armchair that looked as if it had been re-covered several times, a three-shelf bookcase, and a selection of yachting magazines to pander to the warden’s daydreams. A half-eaten packed lunch sat on top of a miniature fridge and there was a bowl of children’s sweets on a salvaged coffee table. The bowl of sweets was momentarily confusing, until Jack saw the photos pinned to a wooden noticeboard. The warden had a football team of grandkids.

While the warden searched for the key that unlocked the box of keys bolted to the wall, Jack couldn’t help but focus on a large hole in the top of the right arm of the tatty armchair. He quickly decided that this hole had been made by hundreds of beer bottles sitting in exactly the same spot, over decades of TV watching. Through the uppermost, flowery cover on the armchair, Jack could see snippets of all of the previous coverings—a couple of velour patterns, fake suede, tartan, monochrome stripes, solid black—years of wear and tear that mapped this man’s life. Jack swore he could actually guess the moment that the warden started living with the woman he loved; that move from fake suede to velour was a declaration of his life-long commitment to her.

Laura watched Jack as he longingly stared, all gooey-eyed, into the trailer.

“That’s what separates men from women,” Laura whispered. “You see a man cave—I see a shithole.”

As the warden led the way to Mike’s trailer, Jack could see he had something seriously wrong with his lower back. He stooped almost in half and paused every now and then to look up and see exactly where he was heading. Jack had offered to just take the key and unlock it himself, but the warden had insisted on escorting them to the door because he took his job very seriously and refused to allow any keys out of his sight. As they progressed at a snail’s pace, Jack got some background information.

“How long’s Mike Withey had this office?”

“Since 2003.” The warden had a surprisingly high voice with a North London accent. “Business took a serious dip in the 2008 recession and I hardly saw any of these businesses for almost a year. Mike still kept his partner on, mind—didn’t lay him off or anything like that. I think they go way back.” Jack was just about to ask about Mike’s partner when the warden continued, unable to see Jack’s expression because his eyes were turned down toward the ground. “Barry Cooper, his name is. Nice and easy to remember, ’cos of the legend that is Gary Cooper. Barry’s been with Mike from the beginning. They’re not partners, strictly speaking. Mike employs Barry, but they’re clearly friends on account of the number of empty bottles I clear out of their bin. Proper boozers, both of them. Whisky’s their go-to drink, and cheap crap it is an’ all.”