‘Lisa, you should know this. When Craig’s car was found, there was coke, fentanyl, e and ket in it. That’s what he was carrying when he was killed. Wrapped and ready to sell. Your mum was trying to protect you. I’d’ve done the same.’ He took a long breath, as a wave of emotion threatened to subsume him. ‘A parent’ll do almost anything to protect their kid. I hope you know that. It’s… it’s difficult to put into words.’

Lisa looked right at him.

‘What do we do now? For Daz and Ranksy?’

He wrote Rita’s details on a page from his notebook, tore it out, handed it over.

‘You drive over to Wakefield now, both of you. Make full statements. And I mean full. They’re expecting you. Lisa? You need to tell them everything you know.’

Mother and daughter glanced at each other, and then, without a word, they got up.

‘Meanwhile,’ he told himself as he watched them leave, ‘I have another appointment.’

He raised an arm and scratched the back of his head as he sniffed his armpit.

‘Shower first.’

30

The Greyhound pub sat a little way back from the single road that ran through Tong village. Its uneven stone walls were painted white, its windows were small and leaded, and the slate roof rose and sank very slightly, like the graceful droop of an elderly gentleman’s shoulders. The tarmacked car parks on either side were a little less than idyllic, yet the larger of these backed onto a cricket field, complete with a small clubhouse worthy of its own chocolate box, and a pitch roller bearing a velvety patina of rust. The addition of a hay wain might have been excessive. But only just.

‘Don’t talk about the case,’ he told himself as he got out of the taxi. ‘Don’t talk about your divorce. Don’t talk about how much you’re missing your bloody son.’

Repeating these notes-to-self a few times, he walked towards the pub. Then it struck him: what on earth was he going to talk about?

The main bar had a stone floor, and a collection of Toby jugs hanging above the counter. There were various hand-pulled ales on offer, horse brasses on the walls, a large bell to call time… In fact, it had everything that made a pub worth drinking in. It also had Sky Sports, high up in the far corner on a screen the size of a small bed, but even that seemed fitting, Mr Murdoch having now taken his rightful place in the most cherished of English shrines.