‘He was getting his supply in Batley. Every Monday. Whoever was threatening him must have known that. So why are they going after the guy on the street? Sending dog shit in the post, calling his mum? None of that makes sense.’

‘They must have thought he lived at his mum’s house.’

He turned this over in his mind. Tried to imagine drug dealers scooping dog poo into jiffy bags to send to a rival. Ringing his mum? Nah.

By now there was a trail of tears running all the way from the corner of her eye down to her neck. Her head was held slightly forwards, so that strands of her hair fell across her face.

‘You’re gonna get ’em?’ she said, her voice suddenly a faint croak, her words slow, measured, innocent.

‘We’ll need a lot more from you. Details, everything you can think of. There’ll be an interview team here in half an hour. They’ll do a full search of the flat as well. They’ll have a warrant with your name on it. You have to tell ’em everything, Lisa. Every last detail.’

She took her time. But finally she looked up at him, making eye contact for the first time. She nodded obediently. A small, frightened girl with big, imploring eyes.

She was still sitting on the beanbag when he let himself out.

A good performance, he told himself as he took the lift back down to the entrance. Good, but not great. There was a hint of calculation, the sense of a person already planning their next move, just seconds after hearing the bad news. With his phone pressed to his ear, he threw open the main door and headed back out into the cold air.

‘Gwyn? Change of tack on Lisa Cullen, the victim’s girlfriend? I’m outside her flat. The Tannery, it’s called. Warehouse conversion behind the station. I reckon she’ll be long gone by the time the interview team gets here. Send someone down in an unmarked car now. I’ll wait ’til they arrive. A black BMW’s gonna be leaving the building. She’ll be driving. Just see where she goes. Nothing else. Asap, eh? I’ve got brass to talk to.’

11

DCI Andy Mills was sitting behind a large desk, looking bored and stressed at the same time. His shirt was blindingly white, with sharp, pristine creases, gold cufflinks. But it only served to accentuate the large, flabby body of the man within.

‘One barbecued drug dealer!’ he said. ‘Congrats. You’re the Senior Investigating Officer. Wrap it up nice and quick, eh?’

Joe stood there and looked out beyond his boss. From the window you could see the back of Elland Road football stadium, the white East Stand towering over everything like a massive shrine to Marcelo Bielsa, the genius Argentine coach who’d led the sleeping giants back to the Premiership.