DCI Warren Jones. Paul Gitsham

of PTSD. Was that why he was being overprotective towards Moray Ruskin? It wasn’t hard to see the parallels between Gary and Ruskin, his direct replacement. Was he letting his guilt towards what had happened to Gary Hastings colour his interactions with Ruskin?

      It was hardly fair; so far, the man had impressed Warren and everybody else with his competence. He still had plenty to learn, as his sometimes naïve questions indicated, but did he require the level of direct supervision that he’d been receiving? Particularly, did he need the second most senior officer in the building breathing down his neck? Worse, was it compromising the effectiveness of the team? He and Ruskin could have visited all those bookmakers in half the time if they’d split up; that sort of routine enquiry was far more suited to a constable – detective or otherwise – than the Senior Investigating Officer.

      When Warren emerged from his office, the rest of the team were busy. He spied Ruskin sitting next to Rachel Pymm, discussing something on her screen.

      ‘Moray?’

      The bearded Scotsman looked up.

      ‘Something’s come up. Are you OK to go visit the Middlesbury Outreach Centre on your own?’

      ‘Sure, no problem.’

      The eagerness with which the young detective jumped to his feet confirmed everything that Sutton had said. Warren looked over and caught the man’s eye. He gave a small nod. After a pause, Sutton nodded back.

      Enough said.

       Chapter 17

      Moray Ruskin pulled himself out of the tiny Fiat 500, the car lifting slightly as he removed his eighteen-stone bulk. Alex had bought the car before meeting Ruskin and it was definitely not suited for someone of his size. Unfortunately, Ruskin’s own car was having its service and MOT, so he was stuck with his partner’s for the next couple of days.

      The Middlesbury Outreach Centre, known also as the Phoenix Centre, had been in its current location for over thirty years, according to the plaque outside. Sandwiched like an ugly duckling between newly completed luxury apartment blocks and prime office space, Ruskin wondered how much money they’d turned down from developers for the land it stood on. He and Alex had looked at buying a so-called ‘affordable’ one-bedroom flat in the new complex and decided to hold off until one of them won the lottery.

      Ruskin’s parents never failed to mention how cheap houses were back in Scotland whenever he rang home. However, despite the pair meeting at Dundee University, Alex had always planned to move back to England to take advantage of the increased job opportunities near London. As living in the capital was a complete non-starter financially, they’d compromised on Middlesbury, barely thirty minutes by fast train from central London, and where Ruskin had – in the words of his parents – turned his back on his university education and joined the police. His parents still didn’t believe that these days the police was a largely graduate profession.

      The inside of the outreach centre was painted a soothing blue, the walls covered in pin boards advertising services ranging from substance abuse counselling to HIV testing, free adult education classes, and support groups for victims of abusive relationships.

      The reception desk was behind reinforced glass, a bank of monitors showing alternating views from cameras situated inside and outside. A sternly worded sign warned that verbal or physical abuse of staff, volunteers or other users would not be tolerated, with the police called if necessary. The caution was repeated in a half-dozen languages. The ubiquitous red and white No Smoking signs had been supplemented with similar prohibitions on alcohol, drugs and weapons.

      Despite all this, the door to the reception desk had been propped open with a wastepaper basket and the place had a relaxed, pleasant vibe to it. Music came from a nearby open door, along with the clack of pool balls.

      ‘Hello officer, how can I help you?’

      The young woman behind the reception desk wore a dark-blue headscarf and a badge identifying her as ‘Nadia – counsellor’.

      ‘That obvious, eh?’

      ‘Practice. We haven’t reported anything, and there’s only one of you, so I’m guessing you aren’t here to arrest anyone?’

      ‘No, just a chat about one of your clients, if you don’t mind.’

      ‘We’re quite strict about what we say without a warrant,’ she warned. ‘We need to be otherwise our clients won’t trust us.’ She paused. ‘I’m due a break. Let’s go somewhere a bit more discreet.’

      The staffroom was locked with a mechanical keypad, so Ruskin had to hold both plastic cups of coffee as Nadia let them in.

      ‘Who can I help you with?’

      ‘Lucas Furber.’

      She frowned slightly. ‘We don’t always know our clients’ full names. Do you have a photo?’

      Ruskin passed over a copy.

      ‘Oh yes, I know him.’

      ‘He was arrested by Middlesbury Police for being drunk and disorderly back in January. The arresting officers were concerned that there may be mental health issues.’

      ‘Well, before we go any further, you should know that I’m not prepared to discuss Lucas’ mental or physical health without a court order.’

      ‘That’s fair enough, I just want to talk to him. Do you know where I can find him?’

      ‘To be honest, I haven’t seen him for a while.’

      ‘It’s really important that I speak to him. Can you think of any places that he might be?’

      She pulled her lip. ‘The last time I saw him was before Christmas. He said he’d got a room in Purbury Hostel. I’ve no idea if he is still there, they are quite strict about behaviour and have zero tolerance for drugs and alcohol.’

      ‘And you think that might have been a problem for him?’

      ‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ she sighed. ‘Like I said, the last time he visited it was at the end of December, and he was clearly full of the Christmas spirit if you get my drift. We don’t allow drinking or drug-taking on site, but we’re realists, especially that time of year, we know that they may have been drinking or using before they arrive here. We usually have a quiet word and if that fails tell them to go home and sleep it off. As long as they aren’t violent or abusive, all is forgiven next time they turn up. It normally works; one of our regulars gets sent home about once a month. He always comes back the next day to apologise. Usually with a bunch of flowers he’s pinched from somebody’s front garden.’

      ‘But Lucas didn’t come back?’

      ‘No. To be honest, it wasn’t a big deal at first. He was apparently a bit noisy and kept on trying to start a sing-song, which was annoying everyone. Reverend Billy was upstairs and he came down to have a word and Lucas called him a … well, I’m not going to use that word. It all got a bit heated and in the end we threatened to call the police if he didn’t leave. He hasn’t been here since.’

      ‘I assume Reverend Billy is a priest?’

      ‘Baptist minister, actually. I’m told that’s a bit different.’

      ‘Would I be able to speak to him?’

      ‘I don’t see why not, I think he’s doing a literacy class.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘Wait here, he’ll probably be down in a few minutes.’

      * * *

      Reverend Billy was a short man in his fifties with a firm handshake and a ready smile. His sweater, a bright red and green affair, was almost literally eye-watering and clashed horribly with his purple shirt. He wore a white dog collar.

      ‘I lost a bet with a parishioner, and I have to wear this