Although Andy probably won’t… the useless twat.

  ‘We’re going to make new mates, find girlfriends, and this –’ he looked round at them all – ‘is gonna feel like a thing of the past.’

  ‘Oh, so you’re ditching us, Ricky?’ said Mark. ‘That’s nice.’

  Richard shrugged. ‘The point is… we’re all going our own ways and we’re gonna move on, right. Meet new people, make new friends that we trust…’

  Robin could see where he was going with this. ‘But the… Thing… stays right here.’

  Richard nodded. ‘Exactly, Robbie. We can’t tell anyone. Ever. Not in five years, not in ten years. Not on our deathbeds. Not to girlfriends. Not to wives.’

  ‘Yeah, right!’ Mark laughed. ‘Like I’m ever going to let myself get shackled.’

  ‘I’m being deadly fucking serious!’ snapped Richard. ‘We were all there. That means if this ever comes out, we’re all guilty.’

  ‘It won’t,’ said Robbie. ‘The police got nothing. They’ve given up.’

  ‘It won’t if we all keep our mouths tightly shut,’ continued Richard. ‘That means no “What’s the worst thing you ever done?” conversations. Even if you’re pissed or stoned, or with someone who’s sworn they’ll never blab. Never. Ever. Okay?’

  ‘Hey, Rick… it’s all cool,’ said Robin. ‘We’re solid. Right, lads?’

  Richard watched Mark and Andy – nodding donkeys the pair of them. Robin he trusted, well, semi-trusted, but these two were fucking morons.

  ‘I’m going to say this now. Just once. If I get even a whiff, from any of you, that you’ve had a heart-to-heart with someone about…’

  What to call it? The Thing was the name they’d given it all through school, but maybe it was time to call a spade, a spade – give their dirty little secret the gravity and weight it deserved.

  ‘… about what we did to that queer, I will fucking come for you.’

  His friends – his minions, truth be told – had come out on this sunny afternoon to celebrate the end of exams. To sink some beers and have fun. But now their stupid slack-jawed faces made them look like the Three Little Pigs cowering behind a splintering wooden door.

  ‘I will silence you,’ added Richard, clenching a fist. ‘And you know I’m capable of doing that.’

  Robbie was the first to break the long, uncomfortable silence. ‘And we won’t, mate. Chill. Okay?’

  Yes, maybe it was time to chill. He could see he’d scared them shitless. There was no way they’d tell now. He tipped his pint glass and took a long chug, nearly emptying it, then set it down on the table.

  He mustered a cool, disarming smile. ‘Right then, who’s forking out for the next round?’

  THE END

  DCI BOYD RETURNS IN

  THE ARCHIVE available to pre-order here

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This is going to be a very different note from me. During the writing of this book, two things happened. Firstly, I got bowel cancer. Secondly, I lost my dad to pneumonia. Both things blindsided me; both things hit me like a hammer. That’s why this book took much longer to come out. I have the usual people I want to thank for their help, but I’ll do that in a bit. First, I want to say something about those two events.

  My dad… had always been my first beta reader. He’d always be the guy who got first eyes on the initial, usually awful, draft. He was always honest and forthright, but tempered that with a genuine affection for my writing style, rightly or wrongly. ‘You may be my son, Al, but….’ was how he always began the praise bit, but it was important for him to start with that because he wanted me to know it wasn’t the usual ‘oh, that’s wonderful’ praise a parent gives their child. He wanted me to know he was a genuine fan, and, of all the books I’ve written, it was the Boyd series he loved the most.

  It’s hard for me to write this, to be honest with you; I’m a bit weepy as I type this. I lost him sixty-eight days ago and, while I can go through a couple of days now without having an emotional moment, writing this is… well, stirring it all up. But I want to have something immortalised in print, something out there forever that is me speaking to him.

  Dad, you helped me form Bill Boyd into a real person. And he’s going to be around for a while yet, I promise. Some of you is in him, some of me… He’s our guy, our buddy, right?

  The bowel cancer hit me six months or so before Dad passed. He was so worried about it. He’s never been religious. In fact, in all but name he was an atheist, but he did admit stopping by once or twice at our local church to have a quiet word with God. I’m not the religious type either, but every now and then, in quiet moments of reflection, I entertain the idea that Dad may have made the deal with God: ‘For fuck’s sake, take me, not my bloody son.’ Who knows? As a father, you would. I know I would.

  Anyway, as they often say to writers, write what you know. So, yes, Boyd is embarking on the same journey I have been on, and am still on. As the series catches up with real time, Bill and I will have gone through the same things, together. And if I make a full recovery, so will he. If I don’t… well, that arsy bugger will be coming along to keep me company.

  By the way, the prognosis for us both, right now, is quite promising. Not out of the woods yet, but watch this space…

  Now, to wrap up this indulgent missive, I want to thank a number of people. Firstly, my wife, Debbie, who as always, puts a shine on my best writing and an editorial filter on my worst. But more so for all the emotional support she’s given to me, my dad and my mum. During the crapfest of the last nine months of my life, she’s been my saviour.

  Also I want to thank my copy-editor, Wendy Shakespeare, who – as always – finds a way to save my bacon time and time again when it comes to continuity errors, incorrect character names and dumbass grammatical errors.

  Lastly, I want to thank the wonderful people who have cared for me medically – the NHS folks who do what they do because, unlike so many others, they actually give a damn. I am so very grateful to live in a country where a random illness won’t suddenly and completely bankrupt you. If you’ll allow me just a little politics here… let me just say that the NHS is the one thing this nation’s successive governments (sorry, not the current lot) have got right. If there’s only one basic job a government should do… surely, it’s to keep their people well, right?

  There done. No more politics. (Slapped wrist.)

  Finally, I want to thank you, dear reader, for following me through to this last page. I’d like to think that you and I and Boyd have a connection together. The Three Musketeers. The Three Amigos. And, as a result of reading this series, perhaps you have the faintest connection to a man you never met, but who has enjoyed the same thrills and spills as us… Anthony Scarrow.

  Until next time, dear reader.

  Alex Scarrow

  ALSO BY ALEX SCARROW

  DCI Boyd

  SILENT TIDE

  OLD BONES NEW BONES

  BURNING TRUTH

  THE LAST TRAIN

  THE SAFE SPACE

  GONE TO GROUND

  ARGYLE HOUSE

  THE LOCK-UP

  Thrillers

  LAST LIGHT

  AFTERLIGHT

  OCTOBER SKIES

  THE CANDLEMAN

  A THOUSAND SUNS

  The TimeRiders series (in reading order)

  TIMERIDERS

  TIMERIDERS: DAY OF THE PREDATOR

  TIMERIDERS: THE DOOMSDAY CODE

  TIMERIDERS: THE ETERNAL WAR

  TIMERIDERS: THE CITY OF SHADOWS

  TIMERIDERS: THE PIRATE KINGS

  TIMERIDERS: THE MAYAN PROPHECY

  TIMERIDERS: THE INFINITY CAGE

  The Plague Land series

  PLAGUE LAND

  PLAGUE NATION

  PLAGUE WORLD

  The Ellie Quin series

  THE LEGEND OF ELLIE QUIN

  THE WORLD ACCORDING TO ELLIE QUIN

  ELLIE QUIN BENEATH A NEON SKY

  ELLIE QUIN THROUGH THE GATEWAY

  ELLIE QUIN: A GIRL REBORN

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Over the last sixteen years, award-winning author Alex Scarrow has published seventeen novels with Penguin Random House, Orion and Pan Macmillan. A number of these have been optioned for film/TV development, including his bestselling Last Light.

  When he is not busy writing and painting, Alex spends most of his time trying to keep Ozzie away from the food bin. He lives in the wilds of East Anglia with his wife Deborah and five, permanently muddy, dogs.

  Ozzie came to live with him in January 2017. He was adopted from Spaniel Aid UK and was believed to be seven at the time. Ozzie loves food, his mum, food, his ball, food, walks and more food…

  He dreams of unrestricted access to the food bin.

  For up-to-date information on the DCI BOYD series, visit: www.alexscarrow.com

  To see what Ozzie is up to, click on the instagram link below…

 

 

  Alex Scarrow, THE LOCK UP (DCI BOYD CRIME SERIES Book 8)

 

 

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