‘Your Universal Credit standard allowance will be reduced by thirteen pounds ten pence per day for ninety-one days, effective immediately.’

  Graham’s fevered brain did the maths again, though he knew the answer: £1,192.10. More than three months’ full payment.

  Twenty years he worked for the NHS. Twenty years making sure people got their appointments, their treatment. Without people like him, the whole system would have collapsed. And now they wanted to take away what little he had left.

  A violent coughing fit seized him. He doubled over, spitting phlegm onto the cobbles. In the distance, police sirens wailed – they were still hunting him. He pulled the stolen hoodie tighter.

  ‘This means your payment due on February twenty-eighth will be reduced from £334.91 to £144.91.’

  The bastard was enjoying this – calculating it from different angles like twisting a knife.

  ‘You have the right to request a Mandatory Reconsideration of this decision. You must apply within one calendar month. The form can be downloaded from your Universal Credit journal or collected from your local Jobcentre.’

  Mandatory Reconsideration: four to six weeks if you’re lucky. Then tribunal: another six months minimum. Lucy didn’t have six months.

  ‘Please note that benefit payments will remain reduced during any appeal process.’

  Of course they will.

  I’ll either be dead or in prison by then, Dennis. Is that what you’re hoping for? But who’ll help my daughter then? Samantha’s pension won’t stretch that far.

  He heard office chatter in the background, someone laughing, mundane workplace banter while they destroyed his life.

  ‘If you’re experiencing financial hardship…’ Hartley continued.

  You think?

  ‘…you may be eligible for a hardship payment. This is a recoverable advance that must be repaid from future Universal Credit payments at a rate of up to 40 per cent. You can apply through your online journal or by telephoning⁠—’

  A loan. The cruellest joke yet. Borrowing from his future self to survive today, at 40 per cent interest from benefits already cut to nothing.

  Then, he heard again what he’d picked up on the third and fourth listen! Clearer now. A female voice in the background: ‘Henry VII at three, Dennis. Say goodbye to Steve.’

  Henry VII, a pub on Micklegate.

  Three – it must be an early finish for them.

  Micklegate was close enough to walk from the government buildings, far enough from tourists. Ironically, they’d held Graham’s own leaving do there three years ago, everyone buying him pints and pretending to be sorry about the redundancies while secretly relieved it wasn’t them.

  He checked his watch through blurred vision. Twenty-five to three. The Henry VII was maybe seven minutes’ walk, straight down from Coney Street to Micklegate.

  ‘If you have any questions about this decision, you can contact us through your online journal or call 0800⁠—’

  He stopped the message, though Hartley’s voice continued echoing in his skull like sandpaper on exposed nerves.

  Graham stumbled out of the alley onto Coney Street. Tourists everywhere, clutching Viking Festival programmes and overpriced coffees. A busker was murdering ‘Wonderwall’ near the Jorvik Centre entrance. Normal people living normal lives while his world burned down around him. A police officer stood at the corner – Graham shuffled past, head down, invisible in his homeless disguise.

  Your Universal Credit standard allowance will be reduced by thirteen pounds ten pence per day for ninety-one days.

  Ninety-one days. Spring would come. Summer maybe.

  And Lucy? Would Lucy still be alive?

  The crows watched from the medieval rooftops, three of them in a row. Waiting.

  But don’t you worry yourself, Dennis. Have your pint. Laugh with your colleagues about the desperate people you’ve sanctioned today. Swap stories about the excuses you’ve heard. It’s not you left outside in the cold with the crows, is it?

  Graham’s hand found the empty space in his pocket where the knife should have been.

  He needed another way.

  Don’t worry, Dennis. I won’t be late to this appointment.

  31

  Back in the car, Frost managed to get them free of the crowds and drive them to Tang Hall with purpose.

  The medical centre had delivered the clearest camera footage yet, and facial recognition software had identified Graham Blanks. He had no previous record, and most information had come from a hit on his passport, so information was still rather limited. But they knew he was forty-three and they had his home address. He was claiming Universal Credit and was currently living alone with one dependent. Lucy Blanks.

  Yorke’s update on Gardner, and his insistence that he stayed put, still had Riddick rattled, but fortunately, he now had something to distract him. He was currently updating armed response.

  Tang Hall was one of York’s less picturesque neighbourhoods, and a world away from the area that Graham had spent the morning rampaging around.

  After the call to response, Riddick turned to Frost. ‘They’re still twenty minutes out from the centre. I’ve requested they divert some units to his home to meet us, but that’ll take a touch longer. You think he could head home?’ he asked.

  ‘Possible, I suppose.’

  Riddick nodded. ‘Still, if he’s in his car, he’ll be spotted.’ There was now an APB out on his vehicle. ‘Maybe a taxi? Be a tricky one for him if he’s low on funds.’

  ‘We’ll be at his house in fifteen minutes,’ Frost replied. ‘Ten minutes before response. We should probably wait them out in case Blanks is back.’

  ‘Safer, yes.’

  Riddick received some more information. Blanks had worked in IT support for the NHS until three years ago when he was made redundant in a restructure. He’d mentioned this fact to Clive and at the medical centre, but it was good to clarify. Another call indicated that Graham’s registered vehicle was clamped at the NCP car park near Exhibition Square. Looking at the time, Riddick reasoned that it must have happened while he was in the shop. ‘So, that’s how he ended up on foot.’

  They were still waiting on information from the NHS on Lucy Blanks.

  ‘Five minutes,’ Frost said, then hesitated. ‘So, what was that call about before?’

  The late afternoon sun caught the precise edges of her blonde ponytail, highlighting the tension in her shoulders. She clearly hadn’t wanted to ask but it had been eating at her – it would have eaten at him too. He owed her some explanation. ‘Someone I know may or may not be in trouble.’

  Frost nodded. ‘Okay… How so?’

  Riddick sighed. ‘It’s a long story. I’m not being rude, but we just don’t have time for it now.’

  ‘You’re not going to disappear at the drop of a hat, are you?’

  ‘Wasn’t planning to,’ he said, thinking, I was talked out of that. Or rather warned out of it. ‘We’re having too much fun, aren’t we?’

  She guffawed. ‘Is that what you call it?’

  Compared to the last three months working behind a desk and speaking to a single, scatty informant – very much so, yes, he thought. ‘In a fashion… I was just starting to get used to you.’

  She laughed. ‘That easy to figure out, eh? Wish you were!’

  ‘Well, I’m quite easy to figure out, I suspect. It’s just the getting used to me that’s proved the stumbling block. Most people don’t succeed there.’

  She winked. ‘Maybe we’re more similar than you think?’

  ‘Elaborate. I don’t have a file on you.’

  ‘You’re not the only one who’s had problems with top brass.’

  ‘Well, I’m assuming it’s not substance abuse. How about maverick, off-the-rails behaviour?’

  She shrugged. ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Okay, so what were the problems?’

  ‘Swearing at management.’

  ‘Tame.’

  ‘Hmm… I threw coffee over the chief constable.’

  ‘Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. Hot?’

  ‘Not hot enough.’

  ‘Shame, you should make them all count.’

  She laughed again.

  ‘Why did you do that?’

  She grinned. ‘Long story. Don’t mean to be rude.’

  Riddick laughed. ‘I see what you did there.’

  His phone beeped with an update that the doctor remained stable.

  ‘He’s a lucky boy if he makes it. Blanks could have easily killed either Ron or Milo.’ He regarded her out of the corner of his eye again. ‘Okay… hot coffee over a chief constable… that’s literally all I know about you. Yet my bones have been practically picked clean.’

  She shrugged.

  ‘What happened with the marriage?’ he asked.

  ‘Bit personal.’

  ‘So is that bloody file you studied! Go on…’

  Pain flickered across her face. A pain he recognised intimately.

  ‘Kids?’ he said.

  The satnav announced a left turn.

  She took a breath. ‘One. A daughter. Sophie.’

  She took the corner with mechanical precision. The houses were getting smaller now, post-war council builds with pebble-dashed walls and UPVC windows. Some had attempted cheerfulness – garden gnomes, hanging baskets – but February had leached most of the colour away.

  ‘And?’

  Silence stretched between them and her shoulders tensed again. He recognised these responses.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Laura.’

  She glanced at him, then refocused on the road. ‘That obvious?’

  ‘Probably not to most. Again, I’m sorry.’

  She nodded. ‘Thank you. I guess your sympathy carries weight. Most of the time people don’t get it.’ She broke off.

  ‘Yes. Isn’t that the truth? You could use this opportunity then?’

  Frost slowed the car as they entered a cul-de-sac. Number 47 was at the end, a tired-looking semi with an overgrown hedge. She pulled up three houses short of their target, engine still running. ‘When Sophie was twelve, she was diagnosed with leukaemia…’ Frost’s voice remained steady, professional. No tears, just that steely determination she’d shown all day.

  ‘Christ. Horrible illness. I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, Paul.’ She turned to face him properly. ‘She beat the leukaemia. Took her three years, but she beat it.’

  ‘I… Really, so what⁠—’

  ‘It was a nineteen-year-old drunk driver that killed her.’

  Riddick felt his blood run cold.

  ‘Imagine… beating cancer, only for some bastard to come along and do that.’

  Riddick took a deep breath, giving her space to either continue or stop.

  ‘August twenty-ninth, four years ago. Sophie had been at her friend’s house. They were celebrating their GCSE results. I was supposed to pick her up, but I got caught up at work.’ Her knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. ‘She decided to walk. It was only a mile, broad daylight, busy road.’

  She paused, gathering herself. ‘She was on the pavement when it happened. Driver tried to overtake at the wrong moment, clipped an oncoming car, mounted the kerb. Three times over the limit. Middle of the afternoon, absolutely steaming. Nineteen years old.’ Her voice hardened. ‘Nathan Pierce.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘He was out after only three years. Good behaviour, showed remorse, attended all the programmes. Turns out his dad used to beat him. He had a good solicitor who reeled out every excuse.’ She stared straight ahead. ‘You ready for the kicker?’

  He gulped. He really wasn’t.

  ‘Started an app development company two months after release. They just got bought out by some Silicon Valley firm. Eight figures.’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘I know. Great start to his new life. Meanwhile, mine had been obliterated.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Marriage couldn’t survive it. We blamed each other, blamed ourselves. I should have picked her up. He should have insisted she wait. Round and round, eating each other alive with guilt and rage. He wanted to move on, said we needed to accept what happened and heal.’ A cold look crept into her eyes. ‘Sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to hold a knife to Nathan’s throat.’

  Riddick averted his gaze. He thought of Lucy and Molly, of the bomb that had taken them, of Ronnie Haller dying in a prison cell because Riddick had made sure of it. Different grief, same rage. Maybe they were more alike than he’d realised.

  She killed the engine. ‘Her ambition was to be a doctor. Paediatric oncology, specifically. Said she wanted to help children like those she’d met during treatment.’

  Riddick reached over and squeezed her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, and thank you for telling me.’

  Her eyes glistened. ‘Tell me… Is there anything, anything at all, that can fill the space?’

  For Riddick, it had been alcohol and self-destruction. Then arranging a murder. ‘I wish I knew.’

  Some tears finally broke free. She wiped them away and looked down the street. Number 47 looked empty – no lights on, no car in the drive.

  ‘So, what’s the plan?’

  He knew what he wanted to do. But it wasn’t always about what he wanted. The last couple of years had taught him that much.

  He opted for the right response, rather than the natural one. ‘I say we wait.’

  She studied him for a moment, then shook her head. ‘Nah.’

  She exited the car and leaned down to look at him through the window. ‘You coming, Paul? Maybe this is what we both fill the space with.’

  32

  ‘Are you okay?’

  Graham’s eyes shot open.

  A middle-aged woman was leaning over him, proffering a bottle of water.

  Thoughts swirled in his head: What’s happening? Where am I?

  He’d been on his way somewhere important.

  Why?

  His throat was swollen and dry. He took the water. ‘Thank you.’

  The kind woman said something about how horrendous it was that people in this day and age could still be allowed to suffer without a home. She offered him a ten-pound note. He clutched it with his clammy hand as she walked away.

  Reference number YRK-3847-GDB.

  Everything came flooding back. Dennis Hartley… Henry VII… Micklegate…

  Shit, he must have been out for almost ten minutes.

  He stood, reached into his pocket for the flu capsules, popped two out and swallowed one dry. The water followed, stinging his swollen throat. The world swayed slightly, but he couldn’t stop now. Carrying on might kill him… but stopping meant a rendezvous with the police anyway – which was probably even less appealing.

  Collecting himself, he bought a caffeine-laced energy drink from a newsagent with the ten pounds, pocketing the change.

  When he reached Micklegate, the ancient bar towered above him – a massive stone gatehouse straddling the road. Three storeys of limestone and red sandstone rose up, punctuated by narrow arrow slits that gazed down. The central archway yawned dark beneath, still forcing modern traffic to squeeze through its medieval throat one vehicle at a time.

  Graham tilted his head back, vertigo swimming through his fever, suddenly seeing the spikes that were once thrust between the merlons.

  Heads. Row upon row of them, mouths agape in silent screams. There were Jacobites, skulls glimmering in the sunlight, warning all who entered that this was what happened to traitors.

  And Richard Duke of York’s head, rotted, crowned with paper in mockery. He saw the three crows again – the same trinity that had haunted him since childhood, since his grandmother whispered of the Morrigan’s sisters. They’d watched him at the Minster, perched near St Sampson’s Square, and now here they were again, picking at the duke’s noble features, rendering them clean.

  Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and felt the first hit of the caffeine and flu remedy. When he opened them again, the empty spikes were gone, replaced by health-and-safety-approved railings.

  Graham stumbled through the archway onto a street lined with gastropubs and wine bars, disguising a street built on bones and suffering. People used to gather here, swilling ale, watching the executions.

  The stone heads carved into the gateway’s walls watched with blind eyes, their features worn smooth by centuries but still witnessing. Craft beer menus couldn’t hide the truth. The veneer was transparent to those eyes. York had always been hungry for spectacle and suffering.

  The Henry VII pub stood halfway down Micklegate, its mock-Tudor frontage a Victorian attempt at medieval authenticity. Black beams crossed white plaster, bottle-glass windows distorting the warm light within. Unlike the gastropubs that had colonised most of the street, the Henry VII remained stubbornly traditional – a government workers’ haunt where civil servants could drink away the decisions they’d made that day.

  He crossed to the opposite side of the street, finding shadows in the doorway of a closed shop. His legs trembled. The medication was helping his fever, so this had to be adrenaline – anticipation of what he was about to do.

  What’s the plan, Graham? Lou asked him.

  Only then did he realise he didn’t have one.

  Hartley’s eyes never left that computer screen when I met him. He reduced my Universal Credit despite knowing about my daughter.

  Lou began to mimic Hartley: I understand your situation is difficult, Mr Blanks… but the rules apply equally to everyone.

  On the other side, a group of office workers approached Henry VII.

  Graham shrank deeper into the shadows.

  He saw Dennis Hartley was among them – striped shirt stretched across his stomach, just as Graham remembered.

  He knows about Lucy, Graham thought. He knows she could die. How could he know something like that and still do what he did?

  It’s his job, Lou said.

  It’s wrong.

  When they turned towards the pub entrance, Graham started to cross over.

  Are you just going to march up to him in a pub? Lou asked.

  Why not?