‘But you pleaded guilty!’

‘Yes, because there was little choice and that’s what I was advised to do. But I didn’t do it, so I couldn’t tell the police where Jonie was. I didn’t know then and I still don’t. But I have had a very long time to think about it all. And now I’ve got some debts to repay.’

‘What do you mean, debts to repay?’

‘I owe a few people.’ His smile was menacing, unnatural. ‘Not money. No. I owe them justice.’

Lizzie sucked in a breath. That didn’t sound like a debt that could easily be paid back. It sounded like Billy wanted to dish out his own kind of justice. Maybe revenge.

‘Like what, and how?’

‘Sorry, Eliza. You’ve asked enough questions for today. And there are some answers you really don’t want to hear, trust me.’

Chapter Fifty-Seven

1989

Mapledon

Saturday 17th June – 32 days before

‘Come on, come on! Enough of that, kids.’ Officer Pat Vern walked purposefully towards the group of boys hanging around the entrance to Blackstone Close.

‘What you talking about, mister? We done nothing wrong,’ one of the boys on the bike shouted across to him. ‘We’re riding our bikes. That illegal now, is it?’ He was a confident, bolshie lad. As Pat got closer, he recognised him as Adam Furlong. Pat guessed his confidence came from the knowledge his dad was local councillor, Eddie – an equally bolshie adult who believed he ran the village. Pat’s lip curled involuntarily. Nothing he loathed more than self-appointed, pompous know-it-alls who were, essentially, just bullies with a wish to control others.

‘Nope, but trespassing is. And it’s Officer Vern to you!’ Pat was standing on the pavement adjacent to the group now. There were only eight of them, mostly on bikes, but he noted two bikes were lying on their sides, abandoned. He walked further into the cul-de-sac until he could see the last bungalow in the row – Billy Cawley’s – and then he caught sight of the missing riders. They appeared to have just exited Billy’s driveway. They were awkwardly running towards the rest of the group, bent over, laughing. ‘And what’ve you two been up to?’

‘Nothing, Officer Vern,’ they sang, before doubling over with laughter again.

‘Come on, we’re going,’ Adam shouted to them, shooting Pat a smug look. They mounted their bikes, smirking the whole time, and started to pedal.

‘If I catch any of you on private property, harassing Mr Cawley, there’ll be trouble, you hear?’

The bikes whizzed past Pat, the riders cackling like a bunch of witches. Pat watched them disappear up the road, waiting until he could no longer hear their voices. Then he walked back in the direction of Billy’s bungalow, just to check no damage had been done. As he approached the walled garden, he heard other voices, hushed, urgent. They weren’t coming from Billy’s; they seemed to be from the direction of the thicket of bushes at the end of the cul-de-sac. He crossed over, and edged towards the sounds, hoping he’d not been seen. Had the lads cycled around to avoid his detection – come to finish their stupid game? They must’ve pedalled damned quick.