He heard the photocopier firing up behind him and looked over his shoulder to see O’Neal waiting patiently beside the machine. He took a couple of steps further away and turned his back on him.

  ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘It’s just to flush you out so your bowels are nice and clean. No breakfast Thursday morning, all right?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘You just need to mix it into a glass of water. Tastes a bit yucky, I’m afraid,’ she continued. ‘Shall I have the prescription sent to the pharmacy at Ore Surgery?’

  ‘Great,’ muttered Boyd. ‘I mean, yes.’

  He heard the tapping of a keyboard down the line. ‘Right, that’s all booked in. You’ll receive a letter telling you how to find the colonoscopy theatre, as well as information about the procedure, and –’

  ‘Kath? It’s Kath, isn’t it?’ he interrupted her.

  ‘Uh… yes.’

  ‘Can you be blunt with me…? So I need to worry about this?’ He hated how that had come out sounding. A little desperate. ‘Is this a box-ticking exercise or is this colonoscopy more of a confirmation-of-diagnosis thing?’

  There was another hesitation. A long one. ‘We find it’s best to retain a positive frame of mind, William. We’ll see you on Thursday morning, all right?’

  ‘Yes, okay,’ he replied.

  ‘Take care.’ She ended the call.

  Positive frame of mind? Okaaay. So, no. Not good news, then.

  The rest of the afternoon spun out with little to distract him. Minter updated him to say that he’d managed to contact Westfield’s mother and set a time for himself and Okeke to visit her in the morning and O’Neal proudly announced that he’d found Meadows’ grammar school and spoken to the headmaster’s secretary. They were going to email him the registration list for the first-year students for a few years from 1986 onwards.

  Other than those welcome interruptions, Boyd spent the afternoon wondering how he was going to break the news to Charlotte. He wasn’t sure he’d get away with wry humour and macho stoicism.

  He’d managed to resist the urge to google ‘bowel cancer’ so far. He almost felt as if having the term in his search history would increase his chances of having it from ‘possible’ to ‘definite’.

  Another thought occurred to him. At some point, and pretty soon too, he was going to have to let Emma know.

  23

  Emma met Dan outside the Nelson pub, and then on a whim they decided to grab a takeaway coffee and wander among the tall net huts and beached, bleached hulls of Hastings’ small fishing fleet. For once there were no dogs in tow; it was just the two of them.

  ‘There was another way you could have handled all this,’ Emma said after the small talk had whittled away to nothing. ‘You know, better than throwing your toys out of the pram and running for the hills?’

  ‘I know,’ Dan replied. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting you to give everything up, get an office job and rot away at a desk so you could keep me in nappies and formula milk,’ she continued.

  He pushed a floppy tress of dark hair out of his eyes. It had grown much longer over the last few months and, she wasn’t sure, but it looked as though he was possibly having a stab at a goatee. All part of the band’s grungy image, no doubt.

  ‘But that’s how it goes, though, isn’t it?’ Dan replied. ‘You have a kid… you’ve got responsibilities, so you get a job.’ He shrugged. ‘And that’s your life over and done with.’

  ‘It doesn’t have to be,’ she replied.

  They paused by the old stone jetty that stretched out from the shingle beach and bordered Rock-a-Nore. She recalled her dad telling her about the yacht that had been tethered there on his very first day of work here in Hastings, complete with bloody mess in the cockpit. His first case with Sussex Police.

  ‘Thing is –’ Dan sipped his coffee – ‘you can’t be a just little bit parent-y… Like you can’t be just a little bit pregnant. It’s all in or all out.’

  Emma stroked her bump subconsciously as she shook her head. It was showing enough now that an oversized hoody wasn’t going to hide it for long. ‘It’s all in for me, but it doesn’t mean you have to be all in too. There’s room for the band as well as a baby.’ She came to a halt and leant on the wall. ‘I mean, Kurt Cobain had a baby, right?’

  Dan huffed dryly. ‘Didn’t end so well for him, did it?’

  ‘I’m pretty sure it wasn’t his baby that did it for him. More like the drugs. The fame.’

  He smiled and rested his cup on the wall. ‘Can’t say I object to the comparison, though.’

  She laughed gently. ‘How’s it all going, anyway?’

  ‘Good.’ He nodded. ‘Unsettlingly good. We hit fifty thousand downloads last month; we’re getting some decent bookings. There was an article on us on LADBible last week.’

  ‘Wow,’ she replied, even though she didn’t know the website. ‘You got a manager yet?’

  He shook his head. ‘We want to go as far as we can before we get some guy bossing us around.’ He sighed. ‘I keep wondering how long it’s going to last.’

  ‘It’ll last as long as you keep writing good songs, I suppose,’ Emma said.

  ‘Nah… it lasts until some other shiny new band comes along and takes the fans with them.’

  ‘Nothing lasts forever,’ she said quietly.

  He nodded. ‘I was thinking about that while I was waiting for you to turn up. You see these sad crinkly pop stars on reality shows, trying to rekindle the old magic. It must be, like, a lifelong nightmare… being famous, briefly, for you know, eighteen months, then fading into obscurity and spending the rest of your life trying to get it back.’

  ‘Looking at your old videos on YouTube? Listening to your old songs?’ she added.

  ‘Right. Seems to me you get two choices with success in this business: die young and become a tragic legend, or, you know, have your brief window of fame and then spend the rest of your life pining away for it.’

  Emma let out a deep breath. ‘You’re not really selling me on the idea of rock-star fame.’ She sipped her coffee. ‘You’re supposed to be making a strong case for running off to London or LA, or wherever it is that rock gods live, and leaving Hastings far behind you.’

  ‘And winding up twenty years from now,’ he continued, ‘on The Mask wearing a stupid feathery disguise and singing – badly – someone else’s song. Being that guy from that band that most of the audience won’t really remember anyway.’

  She nodded. ‘Or playing a walk-on part in EastEnders.’

  ‘If you can act.’

  ‘Oh, is that what they’re doing?’

  They both laughed.

  ‘But…’ Dan sighed. ‘… there’s a chance, right? A chance that we’ll amount to something, at least for a while…?’

  Emma looked at him. ‘Which is why you should go for it, Dan. See how far this thing will take you.’ She reached out for his hand and placed it gently on her belly. ‘And you can still be a part of this. I’m not going anywhere, nor is the bump. I’ve got Dad and Charlotte as my support network anyway.’

  ‘I can help with money?’ he offered. ‘There’s enough coming in that I can buy stuff you need.’

  ‘No need for subs, Dan. Just… I don’t know… drop by sometimes –’

  ‘What about your dad?’ he asked nervously.

  Emma laughed. ‘He isn’t going to arrest you and read your rights,’ she said. ‘For some bizarre reason, he seems to quite like you.’

  ‘Even though I cut and ran?’

  She nodded, then let his hand go. It lingered on her bump. ‘You can, in fact, do both things, you know? The band and be a part of my family.’

  Danny nodded. Grateful. ‘I miss you, Emma.’

  She put her hand on his. If this was a cheesy nineties rom-com with Jude Law and Renée Zellweger, there’d be a conveniently and timely kick that would melt his heart and deliver a hopeful denouement. But the bump remained still.

  ‘I miss you too… you doofus,’ she said.

  24

  Okeke resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose at the overpowering odour in Bridgette Westfield’s tiny flat. She shared it with four fat tan-coloured bulldogs, none of which looked as if they’d had a walk for some time. In the corner of the front room was a litter tray that was garnished with several recent turds and surrounded by over a dozen Febreze air fresheners, presumably run dry long ago.

  Minter was pulling a face behind the woman’s back and both Okeke and PS Gayle Brown shot him daggers in a bid to lock it down before Bridgette turned and glimpsed the look on his face.

  ‘I can make you all a cuppa and some sandwiches if you like?’ Bridgette wheezed as she sat down.

  All three officers politely declined her offer. ‘We’ve just eaten, thank you,’ replied Minter quickly.

  Okeke settled down on the sofa opposite her. PS Brown took a seat beside her and Minter remained standing – the only other chair was occupied by two of her bullies, both daring him to even think about trying to shoo them off.

  ‘Now, Mrs Westfield,’ began Okeke, ‘if you recall, my colleague DS Minter mentioned yesterday afternoon that we found a body that we believe may be that of your son.’

  Bridgette nodded. Her thinning white hair was rucked up on one side and her eyes were puffy and red from crying. On the coffee table beside her, Okeke could see that she had pulled out a dozen photos of her boy. Okeke suspected she’d spent the night on the sofa, leaking tears onto the faded cushions, going through old photo albums and pondering the many different – better – paths her son’s life might have taken.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Okeke added.

  Bridgette nodded. She’d had the night to start to come to terms with the news. ‘How did he die?’

  ‘We suspect he was murdered, Bridgette. Again, I’m so sorry,’ Okeke said.

  ‘No need to keep apologising, love.’ Bridgette sighed. ‘It’s actually a bit of a relief, truth be told. To know, I mean. I always thought he’d come to an unfortunate end. That he’d die of a drugs overdose or drink. He was an alkie-holic, you know?’

  ‘Yes. We have heard that,’ Okeke replied.

  ‘Did he get in a fight with someone? Is that what happened?’ Bridgette asked.

  ‘We’re still trying to work out exactly what happened,’ Okeke told her. ‘Whatever it was, we think it took place about twelve years ago.’

  Bridgette laughed humourlessly. ‘And there’s me waiting all this time like an idiot. Waiting for him to knock on my door and ask for another tenner.’ Her face crumpled.

  Okeke picked up one of the photos on the coffee table – a school portrait of Andrew Westfield, kept in a dog-eared cardboard frame with the school’s logo embossed at the top.

  ‘That’s from his school, that is,’ Bridgette said, wiping her eyes. ‘When he was at Harsham Grammar. He was a clever boy, Andrew. He passed the exam that got him in, instead of going to the local comprehensive.’

  Okeke smiled. ‘You must have been very proud of him.’

  ‘I was. He was a good boy…’ Bridgette shook her head. ‘I was convinced that school would set him up for life, you know? Get him some decent grades… Give him a chance to do well.’

  ‘How did he get on there?’

  Her smile was tight-lipped and spare. ‘Good, for the first year. Then he started hanging around with a gang of boys.’

  ‘What gang?’ asked Minter.

  ‘There were four of them, I think. Thick as thieves, they were.’ Bridgette shook her head and scowled. ‘They went everywhere together. I didn’t like them. I made supper for them all once… I could hear them sniggering and whispering behind my back.’

  ‘Can you remember their names?’ pressed Minter.

  ‘There was…’ She frowned with concentration. ‘There was Mark. Another boy – can’t remember what his name was. And then the fourth… I really didn’t like him at all.’ Her eyes glazed over and she bit her lip. ‘I think his name was Richard. He bossed them around. He was the ringleader, all right. A right little shit, but Andrew thought the sun shone out of his behind. “Richard says this, Richard does that.” On and on.’

  ‘Can you remember this Richard’s surname?’ Minter asked her.

  Bridgette shook her head again. ‘They spent most of their time around his place.’ She looked up at Minter. ‘It was because he was rich. They had a proper snooker table. Andrew was always saying how big and fancy his house was. They had a hot tub, don’t you know?’

  ‘And the boys were friends for some time, were they?’ prompted Okeke. ‘Sometimes friendship groups change or break up completely during the school years.’

  ‘No. They stuck together all the way through school,’ Bridgette replied. ‘I think Andrew only stayed on for A levels because he wanted to keep hanging around with them.’ She sighed. ‘He struggled with those exams, though. He should have gone for an apprenticeship instead. He could have made something of himself if he had.’

  ‘What about after school?’ asked Minter. ‘Did they remain close as adults?’

  ‘Not really,’ Bridgette replied. ‘I don’t think so. I mean, Andrew stayed friends with Mark for a while, I think. The other two… Richard… Oh…’ The distant look on her face cleared. ‘Robin. That was the other one’s name. Richard and Robin, that’s it. Those two went on to better things. Well, that’s what Andrew always said.’

  ‘Better things?’ Okeke echoed.

  ‘You know, she replied, ‘where the smart ones go. University. Nice jobs…’

  Okeke made a few notes and looked up. ‘And you say Andrew and Mark remained in touch?’ she said.

  Bridgette nodded. ‘I think so. I’m pretty sure I remember Andrew telling me once that that they met up every now and then for a pint of beer… That was after Andrew moved out.’ She dabbed at her puffy eyes. ‘He couldn’t wait to get away from me,’ she mumbled.

  ‘What makes you think that?’ asked Okeke.

  Bridgette looked up at her. ‘I think he was embarrassed by me.’ She sighed. ‘I think he thought he could do better. Having seen how rich people lived.’

  ‘But he visited, didn’t he?’ Okeke asked.

  She huffed. ‘When he needed a bit of money, yes. To buy his drink.’

  Minter caught PS Gale Brown’s eye. She nodded – they probably weren’t going to get much more from Bridgette this morning.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Mrs Westfield. You’ve been extremely helpful.’

  ‘Oh, I doubt that.’ She reached for a crinkled tissue from the box next to her. ‘I’m a bit of a mess at the moment.’

  ‘Actually, I do have one more question,’ said Okeke. ‘Was there ever an incident between the boys? Or an incident involving them?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Bridgette asked.

  ‘Trouble with the police maybe? Trouble at school? Were any of them disciplined?’

  ‘Andrew got a few detentions, but nothing more serious.’

  ‘Did he mention any disagreements between them? Any arguments? Fights?’

  Bridgette shook her head. ‘Like I said, they were a tight-knit bunch.’ She looked at Okeke. ‘Too tight, I sometimes thought.’

  ‘In what way?’ Okeke said.

  ‘Richard, the rich one, was very controlling. Manipulative. He had those other three wrapped around his little finger.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘He had a sly look about him. I can imagine he could have done it.’

  ‘Done what?’ Okeke asked.

  ‘Murdered him. Some children are born evil. Born rotten. They grow up, but they don’t change; they just get smarter at hiding it.’ She began to sob. ‘And they always end up getting away with everything.’

  ‘We’re going to try to find these friends of Andrew’s. And talk to them,’ Okeke assured her. Particularly this Richard, if he wasn’t one of the three bodies.

  Minter caught her eye. We’re probably done here.

  Okeke rested over and placed a hand gently on Bridgette’s arm, then she reached into her bag. ‘One more thing. Do you mind if we take a DNA swab?’

  She pulled out a small glass pot with a cotton bud inside.

  ‘Like a Covid test?’

  Okeke nodded. ‘But not so it’ll make you gag. I just need to swipe your gums. It’s so that we can ID the body. To be sure whether we really have found Andrew.’

  The old woman nodded and Okeke made quick work of it.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Okeke as she dropped the bud in and screwed the cap onto the pot. ‘You’ve been really helpful, Bridgette.’

  ‘You make sure you find that boy, Richard.’ Bridgette narrowed her eyes. ‘He was a nasty one.’

  25

  O’Neal had Harsham Grammar’s first-year registration list from 1986 printed out in front of him. It spread across four sheets of paper.

  ‘How many students are there?’ asked Minter.

  ‘The year’s intake was two hundred and fifty-four. The school secretary said it was a larger year group than normal.’

  ‘Of course it was,’ Minter muttered dryly.

  ‘So what names are we looking for?’ O’Neal asked.

  ‘Mark Meadows and Andrew Westfield are on there. So, we’re looking for a Richard and a Robin.’ Minter pointed to a page. ‘Richard Edward Daley.’ He clapped O’Neal on the back. ‘There you go – I’ve got you off to a grand start.’

  ‘You’re not helping me?’

  ‘It’s an easy one, O’Neal. A five-minute job,’ Minter replied. ‘I’m off to update the boss.’

  Boyd was relieved to have Minter and Okeke for company up in the canteen. He’d spent way too much time this morning googling ‘bowel cancer’ and the fun and games to be had with colostomy bags.

  Okeke brought a tray of coffees over. ‘Are you sure you don’t want a pastry, guv?’ she asked him as she handed out the cups.

  ‘I’m not hungry,’ he replied.

  She sat down. ‘That’s not like you.’ She checked her watch. ‘It’s three. You’re normally on a carb binge round about now.’