That one little word is like a triple espresso straight into my veins.

The twins.

I thought Simon’s ramblings were just a part of his psychosis. I never thought he could be trying to give me a clue.

Dave keeps talking. “Robbie Craig used to work at that tattoo place in town and, according to a couple of the boys at work, Robbie’s the type who thinks getting tattoos is some kind of hobby.” Dave stabs the photo of Robbie with his forefinger again. “I’ve never met him, but apparently he’s the one we need to keep our eye on. A couple of them even reckon it was Robbie, not Tony, who beat up that bloke, but, for whatever reason, it was Tony who took the flak.”

It must be them. I take a gulp of my pint to try to hide my excitement.

“So they’re from Ashford, are they?”

Dave shakes his head. “Couple of hours north, near Rainstead. Their folks used to work in tourism, a hostel or something, before their mum died of cancer when the boys were still nippers. The dad couldn’t cope, ran the business into the ground, got into debt, and moved to Spain when the boys weren’t even ten years old. They were in and out of the care system after that, which is when they started getting into trouble.”

Was Simon in touch with these Craig twins all along? Maybe it was through them that Grace communicated with her dad—asked him to try to call her. I take another gulp of beer to try to hide the smile I feel creeping across my face. But it’s too late. Dave’s eyes narrow at me and he looks guilty, like he’s just told someone else’s secret.

“What’s this about, then, Jon? Nothing we should be involved in, I hope?”

I shake my head like Dave’s being crazy. In my pocket my phone starts vibrating again. Again I ignore it.

“Just about old Mr. Leeson up at Franton Farm. He reckons he saw a skinny bloke with tattoos out with a couple of big dogs in one of his fields. He thinks they could be the ones killing his sheep.”

Dave chuckles, amused I’m wasting my time on Mr. Leeson. He shakes his head at me and says through his laughter, “Rather you than me, mate. Rather you than me.”

“So is this Robbie still working at the tattoo place?”

Dave wipes an invisible tear of laughter from his eye and shakes his head. “Apparently not. One of the boys reckons Robbie’s been trying his luck with long-distance truck driving, says he got his license sometime last year. I had a quick look and it turns out he’s registered with some place out near Rainstead, up on the north coast. JPH Haulage, or something like that. Why all this trouble for old Leeson anyway, Jon?”

I shrug, trying to make myself seem casual as my mind cartwheels with the new information. “Someone had to start taking him seriously.”