You never expect your boys to die. They seem to be immortal. And even though it’s been twenty-odd years since Charlie Nutter was a boy, I can still see him in my mind: that pale and anxious little face, those skinny shoulder blades forever raised like hackles against adversity. And now here was his obituary—accident, or suicide?—on page 5 of a local paper, dated from over three weeks ago.

It hadn’t made the Examiner. Perhaps Nutter’s father had seen to that. But it had made the Sheffield Scout—a free paper, mostly given to advertising. What an obituary, I thought. A few lines in the free paper. His school reports were longer than that.

I know that bridge over Malbry Canal. The water there is three feet deep, four at most, if it has rained. The article suggests that he fell—or jumped. Depression, or alcohol? It’s not that I liked him, especially. But he was one of my boys, and he—a person Harry Clarke had loved—died in three feet of water and mud, on a night in lonesome October.

I looked at the date of the piece again. Nutter had died on a Saturday night, or in the early hours of Sunday morning. Which pub had he been drinking in? There are several in the Village, though the Scholar is the most popular. I tried to think back to the day I’d seen Johnny Harrington in the Scholar. What day was that? A Friday, perhaps? Damn my failing memory. But Harrington had been edgy that day; talking on his cell phone, then heading off through Malbry Park. Where had he gone after that call? Had he met Charlie Nutter?

“Why show me this now?” I said at last. “Why not tell me three weeks ago?”

Winter gave a rueful smile. “It’s complicated, sir,” he said. “There were some things I needed to check. Things I only suspected at first. But now I’m sure. All I need is proof.”

“Of what?”

“That Nutter was murdered.”

Chapter 4

4

November 2005

Dear Mousey,

The thing about lost dogs, Mousey, is that they will always come back in the end. They run free awhile, chase a couple of cats, maybe kill a lamb or two, then slink back home for dinner. And that’s why I wasn’t too surprised when Poodle turned up in September, wanting to talk to me again. I’d been expecting him for some time. Well, for fifteen years or so. And for him to come back, after all this time, could only really mean one thing. Harry Clarke was dead at last. That old business was over.

Of course, we hadn’t kept in touch. Things were too raw between us. But Poodle had followed my progress—my recovery years; Survivors—and finally, had followed me here, to Malbry, and a little red house in a cul-de-sac, not far from the Village.