The Bad Things: A gripping crime thriller full of twists and turns. Mary-Jane Riley

It helped he was amusing, too, and made her forget herself.

      And she told him about Sasha and her babies and how her marriage fell apart and how her sister needed her. She’d told him all that, but she hadn’t told him what really kept her awake at night.

      ‘Tea?’ He picked up the kettle.

      ‘Yes please,’ she said.

      ‘So what about Sasha?’

      Alex shook her head, amused. It was what she liked about Malone. He might have thwarted terrorists and saved the world, but he had no interest in the news of the moment.

      ‘Jackie Wood got out on appeal.’ Alex thought if she just said the words in a matter-of-fact way it would be easier. She was wrong. There was a familiar stinging behind her eyes.

      ‘Ah,’ he said again. He put down the kettle and put his arms round her, holding her tight.

      ‘Sasha was in a bad way.’ Her voice was muffled by his jumper. ‘I tried to get Jez to go and stay the night, but I don’t know if he will.’

      ‘He’ll go.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘I’m sure he’ll go.’

      ‘I hope so. Though there’s no reason why he should. Although sometimes I wonder—’

      ‘What?’

      ‘I don’t know. Yes I do. I wonder if he still loves her in some way.’

      ‘Well, you can go back in the morning and see how she is, or later, if you want to. I can stay here with Gus.’

      She pushed herself gently out of his arms, dashing the tears off her cheeks. ‘Thank you. Now I know why I like you.’

      ‘And it explains why the telephone wouldn’t stop ringing.’

      ‘How do you know it was ringing?’

      ‘I could hear it during the long and lonely wait for you outside the door.’

      ‘Bugger.’

      And on cue, it rang.

      ‘Alex Devlin?’

      ‘Yes,’ she said. She could try and protect her sister but when it came to herself it wasn’t so easy.

      ‘Hi, I’m Ed Killingback from The Post and I wondered if I could have a few minutes of your time to talk about Jackie Wood and her winning her appeal today?’

      ‘Do you know what, Ed, I really am not up to it.’ She made her voice as cold as she could.

      ‘It won’t take long, and if you give me your story as an exclusive then you won’t have to worry about the others, will you?’ His young, eager tone wearied her. ‘We could put you up in a hotel so you’re not bothered by any of the red tops and—’

      ‘Look,’ she cut in, ‘I know how it goes and I’m not interested. Please leave me alone.’ She put down the phone with a satisfying clunk.

      Her mobile began to belt out some grungy piece of music she didn’t know, but it had been set by Gus as her ringtone. She looked at the screen. Unknown number. She sighed and turned it off.

      Malone switched on the kettle.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘This is exactly what you don’t want.’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      She gave what she thought was a wry smile but probably looked more like a grimace. ‘You’re trying to avoid publicity now you’ve done your bit, and here I am, bringing it right back to your door.’

      ‘Hmm,’ he said, the kettle starting to boil. ‘I reckon I’m used to the parasites knocking on the door, don’t you think?’

      ‘I guess. But I don’t want you bothered by it.’ What she meant was she didn’t want him so spooked that he would leave her just as she was getting used to him in her life.

      ‘I won’t be.’ He poured water onto the two teabags. ‘How’s Gus?’

      Bringing her into the real world. She looked at the clock. Football practice tonight. ‘He’s okay, I think.’ And yes, Malone knew about Gus’s patchy history. ‘Wants to go skiing with the school.’

      Malone raised his eyebrows. ‘Expensive stuff.’

      ‘Hmm.’

      ‘And?’

      ‘And what?’ Alex knew she sounded defensive, and it was none of his business anyway.

      Malone drummed his fingers on the kitchen unit. ‘And are you able to pay for it?’

      ‘That, Malone,’ she said, ‘is nothing to do with you.’ He handed her a cup of tea: dark brown builders’; just how she liked it. ‘I’m going up to my study to see if Liz likes you.’

      ‘I hope you gave me a good write-up.’

      Alex stopped, her hand on the doorknob. ‘Sympathetic, I think you’ll find.’

      ‘And anonymous?’

      ‘Malone. What do you take me for? It’s an “all names have been changed to protect their identities” article. As you well know.’

      He grinned. ‘Just checking.’

      She gave a wry smile. ‘I’ll be back in a minute, help yourself to a biscuit or something. Read the paper. Do relaxing things.’ Then a thought struck her. ‘What are you doing here, Malone? Shouldn’t you be going deep undercover into a brothel or something? Saving people, being a hero?’

      He gave a slow, gentle smile. ‘Don’t be flippant. It’s important stuff. Anyway, I’ve told you already, I’ve done my bit. Rescued all I can. Thought I’d come and say hallo.’

      ‘And see if my piece about you is going to be published in the Saturday Magazine. Egotist.’

      Malone shrugged his shoulders.

      Alex sat down in her study, switched on the computer and waited for it to go through its warm-up routine. She thought about Malone, lounging on the sofa downstairs, reading the paper, all relaxed and smelling of his organic soap, and she thought of Sasha alone in her flat with only the television and a razor blade for company, and she knew where she would rather be. She couldn’t say she felt guilty. How could she when guilt was so much a part of her life? There is only so much of it one can feel.

      She and Malone had hit it off as soon as they met. And meeting had been an exhausting task involving clandestine calls to men and women who she was sure wore balaclavas just to answer the phone. Eventually she was deemed worthy of meeting the Man Who Saved The World From Harm, and she presumed they’d also checked out her credentials and whether or not she really was a journalist and not an undercover member of the Russian mafia or a gangland boss. Anyway, they met in a spit and sawdust pub south of the River Wensum. It was down an alleyway in an unprepossessing part of Norwich, and she’d had to muster all her reserves to walk into it without feeling intimidated.

      She didn’t know what she’d been expecting – someone in a beanie hat and Jesus sandals she thought was most likely – but sitting at the table in the corner underneath the portrait of the Queen (yes, they still exist in pubs, and yes, that’s where she’d been told he would be sitting) was a man in his early forties – dark jeans, light blue shirt with white polka dots, trainers – nursing a pint.

      She held out her hand. ‘Hi, I’m Alex Devlin. You must be Malone.’ Another conceit: last name only. She had resisted the temptation to introduce herself as Devlin.

      To his credit he stood up, shook her hand, and offered her a drink. She was impressed, and it only got better from then on. And when they finally got round to it, the interview went well too. He told her what motivated him, the chances he’d taken, like befriending one of the women who was the girlfriend of the leader of the group he was supposed to be a part of. By ‘befriending’ Alex understood