David leaned in closer. Tom’s eyes flickered for one millisecond away from his screen and towards his friend and, in that moment, he missed the mace spinning towards him from a great height. It smashed into the side of his head, the spikes embedding themselves in his face. He squealed at the pain, as if it were real and then, just like that, his character had gone, crumbling until only a pile of dust remained, the game rushing on, unsympathetically, without him.

  ‘Agh!’ Tom banged his fist down onto his desk and his empty glass rolled over, off the table and on to the floor. David stooped to retrieve it.

  Tom sat back in his chair, then leaped up, bolted out of the room and down the corridor to the bathroom. He returned with wet hair, grabbed the glass and filled it with water from the wash basin in the corner, then poured it down his throat. Then, finally, he looked at David.

  ‘Are you OK?’ David asked, his face serious.

  ‘I just got a bit excited,’ Tom replied. ‘But I did pretty good. Did you see?’

  David nodded. Tom sat down on his bed and smiled at him.

  ‘You won’t tell Mr Jenkins, will you?’

  David shook his head.

  ‘Thanks,’ Tom said. ‘I know you help me, talking to me and stuff. You’re awesome, but this helps me too. It helps me forget. If you tell Mr Jenkins, he’ll take it away from me and I couldn’t bear it. Right now, more than anything else, this is what I need.’

  12

  At Hackney police station, Constance was on her way in to pick up some papers for a case she was appearing in later that day, when Dawson called her into his office.

  ‘Two things you should know about your client, Dodds,’ he said, pointing his finger at her. She noticed he looked better today, a healthier complexion, less saggy around the eyes too. Maybe he’d had a heavy night last time she’d been in.

  ‘Go ahead,’ she said, waiting in the doorway.

  ‘We’ve found Liz Sullivan’s handbag.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In a park, other side of London. Someone handed it in, after our appeal.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It was empty, nothing left inside.’

  ‘How do you even know it was hers, then? Surely, there’s more than one out there.’

  ‘We’re checking, but it’s hers.’

  ‘And the other thing?’

  ‘One of the recent purchases on her credit card was for “Adidas Yeezys Boost, V2, size 11.”’ He read from a Post-it note stuck to the side of his PC. ‘Before you ask, they’re trainers.’

  ‘So?’ Even as Constance asked the question, she knew what was coming.

  ‘Dr Sullivan’s feet were a size 6,’ Dawson said.

  ‘She has a teenage son.’

  ‘Good try.’ He reached into a bag at his feet and placed a pair of soft-top black trainers, with red lettering down the side, on the desk. ‘Look what we found at your client’s flat, at the back of the cupboard under the kitchen sink. Unworn. And, in case you’re not as familiar as I am with branded footwear, these match that description.’

  ‘They must produce hundreds of those trainers every day.’

  ‘I’ve never believed in fairy tales. Don’t pretend you do. We’ll be charging him now, just so you know. And then you can go for bail, but you won’t get it.’

  Constance was halfway out of the door. She wanted all the information on the credit card statement, but she could ask for it later. And she wanted to see Jaden, to put the latest revelation to him, to listen to and assess his response, but there was no time. She had to be in court in only an hour.

  ‘This is a straightforward case, cut and dried,’ Dawson called from his chair. ‘I don’t want you and Judith trying your tricks in court. I know about his background, that he hasn’t had a lot of breaks, but he’s a bad ’un. Not worth breaking your balls over, if you excuse the expression.’

  Constance bit her lip and hurried back along the corridor towards the exit and the papers she needed. It seemed that, with each day that passed, another piece of evidence emerged, linking Jaden to the crime. She had felt so positive after the session with Nathaniel, that it was all circumstantial. Now, here was something tangible, really tangible; black and red and in a hefty size 11.

  And she knew Dawson wasn’t deliberately trying to irritate her, that he was doing his job, and he was friendlier than many of the other officers she dealt with, but she also knew his ‘advice’ wasn’t objective. He didn’t have the best track record for convictions where she and Judith were concerned and that must be a factor influencing him, even if he didn’t appreciate it himself.

  13

  Luke had almost finished his presentation to the whole Valiant team. He knew he looked a wreck, his hair was matted close to his head, his left eyelid was twitching with various degrees of intensity and he sported a prominent, pus-filled spot immediately to the side of the bulb of his nose, which he had squeezed dry last night, but which had filled up with green-tinged liquid again by the morning.

  Normally, he wouldn’t have been quite so nervous but, after he had been chewed up and spat out by Eric only seven days before, and Eric had insisted on going straight to this semi-public demonstration, rather than allow him another private audience, the pressure was really on. Luke could count on the fingers of one hand the hours of sleep he had had over the past three days.

  On the screen, the last player stood, arms out, victorious, in the centre of the rainforest, sweat pouring down his face, an armadillo-like creature yapping at his heels. Luke turned up the lights.

  ‘So, that’s the idea for the new game. I’d be happy to answer questions, now,’ he said, struggling to control his breathing.

  Eric was stalking him, around the perimeter of the room. Now he eased his way forwards through his team, parting them like a herd of zebras, looking over each of their shoulders as he moved, to view the scores they had awarded for features of Luke’s latest efforts.

  ‘There is only one thing I can say to that,’ Eric said, his face inscrutable, his eyes suddenly jumping to fix themselves, limpet-like, on Luke.

  Luke gulped. If Eric didn’t like it, that was it. He would be out on his ear and in front of all his colleagues. He might never work in the industry again. ‘No nos’, ‘burrows’, ‘shadows’.

  Eric hesitated, still giving nothing away. Then his mouth broke into a broad smile, which gradually took over the rest of his face.

  ‘Unbe-fucking-lievable,’ he pronounced, clapping his hands wildly, until the rest of the room followed suit. Reaching the front, he grabbed Luke by the shoulders and kissed him on the top of the head. Everyone cheered. Luke’s knees just managed to keep him upright.

  ‘What can I say?’ Eric began. ‘The onboarding mock-up was a masterclass in holding players’ interest; teasing them with tasters of things to come, while developing their skills one step at a time. I love what you’ve done with the HUD – just the right combination of information – and your sketches – I know Bill helped but they’re your ideas – so polished, so clear; the weapons, the ammo, the health score. Like Peppa Pig on acid.

  ‘The music you brought in to accompany the harvesting; superlative. Of course, we’ll have to ask if we can use it, but it’s perfect. No player will ever want to stop hacking away at that rockface, while that anthem is blaring out. I love the animation. You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that. K9 and PikNik are pushing towards lifelike, but I go with your caricatures every time. Human enough for the kids to engage, cartoonish enough to stop the parents – and the authorities – complaining we’re encouraging real-life violence when they’re splattered across the screen.

  ‘And use of colour, so clever – sometimes subtle, sometimes sharp. You’ve kept the red for danger, as ever, but the combinations are masterful. As long as Pete can reproduce it in the game.’ He spun around and pointed both index fingers, pistol-style at Pete, Valiant’s developer, who returned the gesture. ‘Of course, we may need a bit of adjustment for those colour-challenged individuals among us.’ He spun through 360 degrees on one foot and pointed at his FD’s t-shirt and short combination and everyone laughed, ‘but it’s still brilliant. I’m not totally sure about the pangolin, but, hey, they are the most trafficked animals ever, so why not?

  ‘Let’s talk numbers for a second. Mikey, what do you think?’ Eric settled himself at the front now and sought out Valiant’s researcher and numbers man.

  ‘The game itself has to be free. That’s what everyone’s doing now and there’s no going back.’

  ‘Agreed, go on.’

  ‘The way I see it, after the initial launch, we issue regular updates and we have a cycle of eight to ten weeks, to keep the players interested. At the end of each cycle, points get re-set, but we can give the highest scorers something; not a boost next time, we have to keep a level playing field, but maybe a certificate. Or, how about a hall of fame?’

  ‘Yep. that would work, some kind of recognition for all that hard work. Keep them hooked. What else?’

  ‘Entry to a live event?’

  ‘Bingo, yes. The top twenty players, every, say, ten cycles, get a wildcard entry to our live event, where they can compete with the top teams, have a chance to get picked themselves and we can do a feature on each of them; kinda giving something back to loyal followers. I love it. But we need stuff to keep all of them playing in the short term – even the losers.’

  ‘Daily challenges.’

  ‘Great. Work with Luke to put those in. PikNik gives double points at weekends. We could do that too. But where do we make our money?’

  ‘I’m still working on the shop,’ Luke’s chin sagged down into his neck. ‘It’s not quite ready yet and I want it to be perfect before I show you.’

  Eric smiled again. ‘No worries, if this is what you can do with the game, the shop will be awesome. We customise everything?’

  ‘Pretty much; costumes, skins. I found these amazing Native American Indian designs we can use on the boots and some brilliant masks too; keep things current.’

  Eric laughed aloud and beat his chest. ‘Bravo! What do I pay you?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh man.’ At this point, Luke’s legs really did fail him and he slumped down into the nearest chair. ‘It works out around £3K a month, after tax.’

  ‘Is that all? That’s not enough for this creative genius. Come by my office tomorrow and we’ll talk pay rise.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m so pleased you like it.’

  ‘Go get some sleep till then. Take the rest of the day off. You look like shit.’

  Luke thought he really should collect up his things and make a deliberate and triumphant exit, but, now the adrenalin had stopped pumping, he could not be certain he would manage, without one or other part of his body giving way again. He was saved by his colleagues, filing out one by one, most of them preceding their departure with shaking his hand, high-fiving him or slapping some exposed part of his upper torso. Eric had called the meeting at lunchtime and they were all hungry or keen not to lose more of their break than was absolutely necessary. Eric was last to go, throwing Luke an all-encompassing smile, which warmed his body from top to toe. ‘Bravo,’ Eric had said. Luke wouldn’t forget that. Not ever. ‘Bravo’, ‘virtuoso’, ‘superhero’.

  14

  Constance and Judith rode the northern line to Mill Hill and took a short taxi ride to The Wilberforce School, where Thomas Sullivan was a pupil. Judith had expressly asked to be included in this visit. Constance wasn’t sure if it was nostalgia for their first case together, in which they had represented a boy on trial for murdering his teacher, or whether she had a particular interest in Tom or what he might volunteer. Although now she thought about it, she was amazed that Judith allowed her to conduct any enquiries herself. It wasn’t that Judith was a control freak, or that Judith didn’t trust her; more that Judith had an endless thirst for knowledge, which she preferred to consume first-hand.

  ‘I’d like to see some of Dr Sullivan’s research papers,’ Judith spoke, as she paid the taxi driver and they hovered outside the impressive building. ‘Has Dr Williams sent them over to you yet?’

  ‘A few, and I’ve found some online, but I’m still waiting for the book they wrote together. I’ll send you on the best ones.’

  ‘All right, but can you still catalogue them all? Then, if there’s something interesting I don’t have, I’ll still know it exists.’

  ‘Sure,’ Constance smiled to herself. True to form, Judith didn’t want to miss out on anything. ‘You saw the email I sent you, from the post-mortem, about the tablets she was taking, anti-depressants?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. You said Dr Williams said she was great fun.’

  ‘He did, although he also called her happy-go-lucky, which isn’t quite the same.’

  ‘No, it certainly isn’t. Hm. Let’s see what Tom says about his mother, although, he’s unlikely to be objective, is he?’

  ***

  ‘Thomas. These ladies are both lawyers and they are here to ask you a few questions about your mum. You don’t have to see them, as I explained. It’s up to you.’ Mr Jenkins introduced them to Tom in his office, an airy double-aspect room with a leafy outlook and a portrait of its namesake, William Wilberforce, hanging behind the desk. Constance thought that a rather unhelpful introduction, but she couldn’t see Judith giving up easily, if Tom tried to turn them away now.

  Tom was seated on one of two sofas. He was wearing his school uniform – white shirt, grey trousers, burgundy blazer – and there was a pot of tea on the table in front of him, next to a plate of shortbread biscuits. His fair hair was sticking up on one side and his neat, compact face was riven with worry lines.

  ‘You’re defending him, aren’t you? The boy they say killed mum.’ He looked from Constance to Judith and back to Constance.

  ‘Yes,’ Judith began. ‘I expect the police have already asked you some questions. But we don’t believe he killed your mum and we want to help the police find the real killer.’

  ‘I don’t know anything. I’m not going to be much help.’

  ‘There might be something you know, something that seems really unimportant, but ends up being just what we’re looking for. Sometimes it happens that way.’

  Judith sat down opposite and Constance settled herself next to Tom. Mr Jenkins leaned back against the window ledge.

  ‘Who were your mum’s friends? Can you tell us that?’ Constance took over.

  ‘She has a good friend called Sandy; her real name’s Cassandra Bell. They’ve known each other since university and, I suppose, Bev, another doctor. Bev Reed. They’re her best friends.’

  ‘What about male friends?’

  The corner of Tom’s top lip curled up and then uncurled.

  ‘Other doctors I suppose.’

  ‘Do you know Dr Williams?’

  ‘Tony Williams. Mum wrote a book with him. That’s all I know.’

  ‘She didn’t have a boyfriend?’

  Tom shrugged.

  ‘What about hobbies?’

  ‘You mean like going to the gym?’

  ‘Yes, like that.’

  ‘She was always working. She tried to take days off in the holidays, or if I was back for a weekend, but her patients were always doing stupid things; “unreliable” she called them. She’d get a call and she’d have to go and section them or else calm them down. She talked someone off a roof only last month, over the phone, while we were making pasta. He called her, said he was going to jump off a multi-storey car park in Wembley.’

  ‘I think you’re saying she had little time for hobbies,’ Judith chipped in.

  Tom nodded.

  ‘But she must have had some time for relaxation. Did she go to the cinema, out for dinner or drinks, listen to music?’ Constance continued.

  ‘We did stuff like that together. I don’t know what she does…did when I’m here. Work mostly.’

  ‘The post-mortem, it showed that your mum had a problem with her heart.’

  ‘I know. The policeman said.’

  ‘Did you know about that?’

  ‘No, but Mum always liked to protect me from things. Which is stupid, isn’t it? ’Cos she also said, it’s good to know what’s around the corner.’

  ‘I agree, it’s always good to be prepared,’ Judith interrupted again and gestured to Constance to allow her to take over the interview. ‘But sometimes that just isn’t possible, whatever our intentions.’

  ‘Yeah. If you say so.’

  Judith’s eyes flickered up to the wall portrait for a moment and Constance knew she was gearing herself up for a difficult question, weighing up the harm it might do to ask it, versus the possibility of something useful being gleaned by way of an answer. It was funny how they knew each other’s body language now, the non-verbal cues which ruled them. If she told Judith she could read her though, she could imagine the curt response.

  ‘Was your mum a happy person, do you think?’ Judith began gently.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Tom fidgeted on his cushion.

  ‘I mean that some things might have made her feel unhappy.’

  ‘You mean, like when Dad died.’

  Judith took a breath. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Like that.’

  Tom’s body tensed and he chewed at his bottom lip. He didn’t respond.

  Judith tried again. ‘Do you know what depression is?’ she asked.

  Tom nodded. ‘I think so.’

  ‘I’m not talking about being a bit sad, when something doesn’t go exactly to plan. That’s very understandable. I mean more than that. Being sad for days or even weeks and nothing really cheers you up.’

  ‘OK?’ Tom’s eyes were narrow now. Was he scared of what was coming next?