BooksBarbecue
Back The Game
Chapters (68)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. NOW
  4. One
  5. BEFORE
  6. Two
  7. Three
  8. Four
  9. Five
  10. Six
  11. Seven
  12. Eight
  13. Nine
  14. Ten
  15. Eleven
  16. Twelve
  17. Thirteen
  18. Fourteen
  19. Fifteen
  20. Sixteen
  21. Seventeen
  22. Eighteen
  23. Nineteen
  24. Twenty
  25. NOW
  26. Twenty-One
  27. BEFORE
  28. Twenty-Two
  29. Twenty-Three
  30. Twenty-Four
  31. Twenty-Five
  32. Twenty-Six
  33. Twenty-Seven
  34. Twenty-Eight
  35. Twenty-Nine
  36. Thirty
  37. Thirty-One
  38. Thirty-Two
  39. Thirty-three
  40. Thirty-Four
  41. Thirty-Five
  42. Thirty-Six
  43. Thirty-Seven
  44. Thirty-Eight
  45. NOW
  46. Thirty-Nine
  47. BEFORE
  48. Forty
  49. Forty-One
  50. Forty-Two
  51. Forty-three
  52. Forty-Four
  53. Forty-Five
  54. Forty-Six
  55. Forty-Seven
  56. Forty-Eight
  57. Forty-Nine
  58. Fifty
  59. Fifty-One
  60. NOW
  61. Fifty-Two
  62. Fifty-Three
  63. Fifty-Four
  64. Fifty-Five
  65. AFTER
  66. Fifty-Six
  67. Acknowledgements
  68. About the Author

He clicked on the name of the person who’d left the comment, knowing what was probably going to be the result.

‘Bastard.’

There were no details to be seen; all hidden from non-friends. He sent a friend request anyway, hoping it would be accepted without thinking. Then he looked at the name, expecting it to be as fake as the picture.

The picture…

He clicked on the pictures that were on the profile, a vast array of different anonymous and cartoony characters coming on screen. Even on private profiles, the pictures were available. A history of profile photos switched over a number of years. He swiped through them, eventually finding one that he thought might be the real person.

He was young. Around fourteen or fifteen, he guessed. He looked at the date of the profile picture, realised it was around three years old.

The name could be real then, he thought.

Mark dialled another number. ‘Cav, it’s Mark,’ he said, and heard an intake of breath over the phone.

‘Didn’t think you’d be calling me this quick,’ DS Cavanagh replied, trying to act cool and calm, he thought. People listening to his conversation possibly.

‘Yeah, something has just come to me,’ Mark replied, keeping his voice straight, trying to sound as normal as possible. ‘I need an address…’

All he’d needed was a name and an area. That was enough to get an address for the lad. It sometimes worried him how easy it was to find people, but at that moment he was glad it was that way. DS Cavanagh had been almost entirely silent on the call, before texting him the address he’d needed.

That was two of them in the shit if he didn’t get a result now.

He’d tried calling Natasha again on the drive there, but it was still ringing out and going to voicemail. He considered leaving a message, but thought better of it. It would only end up sounding garbled and desperate. He needed to wait until this was over.

The house was in a nice area to the north of the city, bordering the posh bit of Formby and beyond. It was situated in a small cul-de-sac of detached houses, all with their own driveways and manicured lawns. A world away from the council estates a mile or so down the road. He stood back on the doorstep and waited for an answer. Knocked again when a few more seconds went by.

A woman in her forties answered the door, a teatowel in her hands, soap bubbles running up her forearms. She was in full make-up and dress, as if she were about to go for a nice meal. It was almost lunchtime, Mark thought. How the other half live…