‘Oh God, Steve, I’m sorry. I’ve always hated cases like that. Give me a murder any day, but hit and run smacks of cowardice doesn’t it? How old was she?’
‘She was, or rather is, fourteen. Despite leaving her on the grass verge like road-kill, somebody found her pretty soon after it happened, it seems. She’s in a coma - but she’s alive. Barely. The doctors don’t hold out much hope, I’m sorry to say. The trouble with the back road is that there are no cameras at all, and although we’ve picked up what we can from the ones in the village, it’s going to be hard to prove anything.’
Steve filled Tom in on some of the background and the two men discussed all the usual routes to evidence. As he listened to the details of the investigation and everything that the police had found – or failed to find - Tom had to admit that it didn’t sound too promising. It was easy to see that Steve was feeling a sense of hopelessness, and Tom felt bad that he had no words of wisdom to offer.
Steve looked regretfully at his watch.
‘I need to make a move, I’m afraid. Sorry it was such a short visit, but I’ve been working silly hours recently and I was supposed to be home hours ago.’
He pushed himself up from the sofa and made his way to the door, keeping his head bent low as he went.
‘If you hear any gossip, Tom - being as how you’re so well in with the neighbours - give me a call, would you? You know how it is. The locals in a place like this always know everything that’s going on. There’s no such thing as a secret in a village.’
Tom smiled. ‘I know what you mean. Go into any shop around here, and you can hear them talking - usually about the person who walked out thirty seconds previously, although to be fair it’s usually without malice. God knows what they say about me.’
Steve gave Tom a knowing smile, a final wink, and lifted his hand in a farewell gesture.
Tom closed the door and walked through to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. He didn’t think there’d be any shortage of alcohol at tonight’s dinner with the neighbours, but tomorrow was going to be a special day for him and Lucy, and a hangover wouldn’t be ideal.
He was looking forward to the evening ahead. When he’d bought this cottage, he hadn’t realised how it would feel to spend long days without speaking to anybody. He’d always been happy with his own company, but nowadays he sometimes felt as if his vocal cords had seized up.
The other problem with spending long hours alone was that it gave Tom too much time to think. He’d always had such a clearly defined concept of right and wrong, but in the last couple of years he’d been forced to question his own values. He had thought that taking a break from the police might sort out his muddled mind, but instead he’d discovered that too much introspection confused him even more.
Now he just wanted to get back to work. Especially when he heard stories like the one Steve had just told him. Tom felt his scalp prickle, a familiar sensation when something about a crime didn’t seem quite right, and he wanted to be there, on the front line, working out just what it was that didn’t fit.
7
A radio was playing quietly in the kitchen. Nobody was listening - it was there for background noise and to drown out the silence that pervaded the house.
A half empty glass of warm vodka sat on the table. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t cold - it was fulfilling its purpose. It was numbing the pain without leaving any trace.
The music stopped, and the six o’clock news began. More of the same, of course. The economy, the Middle East, back to the economy. The same as every other day. Who cared, really?
“And in local news, we have a report on a hit and run accident in the quiet village of Little Melham. A young girl was knocked down on the B522 and the driver failed to stop. This road - locally known as the back road - connects the A564 and the A5194 but according to the police is normally only used by locals. The girl, who has not been named yet, is