‘What’s Angel been up to then?’ asked Tom, hearing the tail end of their conversation as he came into the kitchen and sat down at the table.

‘She’s been out. All night. With that copper, Farmer.’

Tom poured himself a cup of tea. ‘Well bloody good for her,’ he said, with a smile.

162

Angel had decided what she was going to do. She would make it official, and do it, quick and clean. She didn’t want to talk to Farmer about this, she didn’t want to weaken or to see the horror in his eyes when he realized what she was really like. It was all coming to a head, she could see that, and so she had decided that this was the way to do it; take matters into her own hands.

She couldn’t stand to go home first – not to Tom’s flat, because it just made her think of rotten Baxter Graves trashing the place on Frank Pargeter’s instructions. And she didn’t want to go over to Aunt Lil and June’s place, either, because she might start to confide in them and they might try to talk her out of what she had to do, and she couldn’t have that.

No, this was the way to do it. So she walked up the steps to the police station and over to the desk. No drunks in here today, no druggies, nobody. The place looked deserted, except for the same desk sergeant who was on duty. He looked up at her like he’d seen it all and heard it all before, which he probably had.

But this was something different. Angel was sure he didn’t get to hear a murder confession every day of the week. Tonight, he would tell his old lady about it over dinner – while she, Angel, would be sitting in a cell.

Which was only right.

Wasn’t it?

Confession is good for the soul, they say. And maybe it is.

‘Can I help you, miss?’ he asked, boot-faced.

Angel smiled. Help her? It was too fucking late for that.

‘Yes, I’m going to—’ she started, then stopped dead. Cory Farmer was there beside her, grabbing her arm.

‘Angel! You’re looking for me, right?’ Farmer smiled brightly at the man behind the desk. ‘Thanks, Doug, I’ll take it from here.’

Instead of taking her into the back of the station to his office, Farmer kept a tight grip on her arm and took her outside, down the steps. He kept walking and Angel was forced to keep up. He crossed the road with her, went into the park. Found a bench. They sat down.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he asked her, eyes glaring.

‘Confessing,’ said Angel.

‘To what?’ he snapped.

‘You know to what. Do I really have to spell it out to you?’ Angel was gasping with emotion, trying to maintain control but she’d been so frightened, going into the station. And now this was it. She had to say it, admit to it, or it was going to eat her alive. She remembered Annie Carter’s words: You are never to say that, ever again – not even to a priest. But she had to.