was once more asking for his help. But now, when it came down to it, I found myself unable to say the words out loud. ‘I keep thinking about that boy,’ I said, getting straight to the point. ‘The one I told you about. From the off-licence.’
‘I remember.’ His voice was low and steady. It gave me the confidence to continue.
‘I’ve changed my mind. I want you to investigate.’
‘And Jason?’ he asked gently. ‘Does he know about this change of heart?’
‘Not yet.’
He paused and for a moment I had a terrible fear he was going to tell me that he couldn’t help.
‘I’ll need you to come in.’
‘I know.’ I thought of the leasehold sign above the shop. ‘How long do you think it will take before the team can start looking into it?’
‘Once you’ve made a statement? Not long.’ I heard a rustling noise, like paper being moved across a desk. ‘We can start the background and sex-offender checks immediately and we should be able to get someone out to the off-licence in the next few days.’ He stopped and I heard the sound of footsteps and a door opening and shutting. When he spoke again his voice had dropped to a whisper. ‘We can hold off on getting Jason to make a statement for a day or so, but we will need to talk to him eventually. Do you understand?’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll make sure I’m the first he hears from.’
We arranged that I’d come down to the station later that day and then we were done. Giddy with relief, I headed out of the stairwell and back through the corridor, towards the office. The wheels had been set in motion. Whether my suspicions turned out to be right or wrong, at least I’d done everything I could.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
It didn’t take long to give my statement. Sitting across from the senior investigating officer, I recounted the first time I’d seen the boy, when he appeared behind the shop’s metal cage, and then detailed the subsequent two occasions on which I’d managed to get a look at him. I also told him about the search I’d done on my work database and the name of the school I thought the boy attended. The whole process was surprisingly simple. The officer took notes and then, once I’d checked and signed the document, I was done.
I returned home smiling. The burden was gone. As soon as the police started asking questions it wouldn’t matter what Keith said to try and put them off the scent. If anything was amiss, if the child was Barney, they’d soon smell a rat.
I spent the rest of the weekend trying to find a good moment to tell Jason, but it never seemed like the right time. While I sat at the dining table, tapping at my laptop and frowning at dense, numbered printouts, Jason lay mute on the sofa, drifting in and out of sleep. I knew I was delaying the inevitable, but seeing him like this continued to unnerve me, and every time I tried to broach the topic he feigned tiredness or found a way to leave the room. Then, late on Saturday, he took himself off to Vicky’s. It was almost her turn with Barney’s fire engine and, even though I remembered the truck as being his for another few days at least, I didn’t say anything. Instead, I let his need to be near her flicker and flap at the edge of my vision, like a bird I knew was there but couldn’t quite see.
Monday morning rolled around all too soon and, even though the Griffiths pitch wasn’t until three, I made sure to be at my desk by seven. Armoured for the day in my metal-heeled stilettos, a red jersey dress and fitted black jacket, I was thinking about making the first of many coffees when an email popped up in the corner of the screen. Planning to read it and the rest of my inbox once I’d loaded up on caffeine, I gave it a quick glance and was heading for the kitchen when something about the sender made me look again. Sharon Hannah. The name was familiar, but why?
Intrigued, I clicked on the envelope icon. The message was written in a turquoise copperplate font I realised I’d seen once before. I dropped my gaze to the bottom of the page. And there it was, her email signature: Mrs Sharon Walsh (née Hannah). Sharon Hannah. The Tyneside rep I’d contacted the