Blue Murder by Cath Staincliffe

like they weren’t speaking to each other.
    Douggie giggled. ‘This way.’
    They parked themselves on a bench by some trees at the edge of a playing field. A crowd of Asian lads were playing footie, kicking a lightweight ball about using carrier bags and coats for goal posts. Dean leaned back, hands behind his head, looked up at the trees, watched the branches frame the sky.
    ‘If you had two grand,’ Douggie said, ‘and you had to buy one thing …’
    It was a game they’d played inside. If you had … ? A way of spinning fantasies, of daydreaming. They would add more and more conditions: it had to be red and only made in the US … it had to fit in a drawer, it had to make music. They became increasingly surreal until the game transformed to a puzzle. Trying to figure out what on earth could possibly fit the list of qualities the other guy had come up with.
    ‘A suit,’ said Dean.
    ‘A suit?’ Douggie looked at Dean. ‘What the hell do you need a suit for?’
    ‘Don’t need,’ said Dean. ‘Want. Some of us have style, could have style.’
    ‘Oh, aye?’ Douggie laughed. The kids’ football smacked him full on the back of his head. ‘Oy,’ he jumped to his feet.
    ‘Sorry mister,’ one of the lads yelled. Douggie kicked the ball back.
    ‘D’you wanna game?’ another lad shouted.
    ‘Yeah,’ Douggie stood up. ‘We’ll slaughter you.’
    They raced about for half-an-hour. Douggie was a dream with a ball, bouncing it from knee to knee and then flipping it over his shoulder and onto his heel. Scoring goals from ridiculous angles. He’d clown about in-between bowing to imaginary audiences, pretending to weep with joy. It creased Dean up. The kids obviously thought he was a total nutter but allowed it because of his skill.
    Dean was fast but couldn’t do much to control the ball. When the umpteenth goal had been scored, Dean held his hands up. Enough. He was covered in sweat, his hair limp from it, his windpipe was burning from rushing about, his knees felt weak. The lads protested but Dean and Douggie quit. They went back to the bench. Douggie lit one of the joints. Dean took a hit. Man that was strong. Made him cough. Then he went dizzy, lovely and dizzy and he felt lazy, hazy, like his blood was full of sherbet.
    ‘If you could change one thing, just one, in the last year …’ Douggie began.
    Yesterday . Dean’s mood shrivelled and soured. Stupid bloody question. Yesterday. Oh, man, yesterday would never have happened.
     
     

CHAPTER NINE
     
    Janine got a text message, from Michael: pls gt donuts ck chocsprd chili cola pudn. She read it aloud.
    Richard looked bemused.
    ‘Michael, he doesn’t speak anymore – just texts us.’ Janine told him.
    She started the car and took the road back towards the station. She noticed her petrol gauge was on red, reminded herself to top up soon.
    Richard broke open a pack of Eccles Cakes and started munching.
    She stared at him for a moment. ‘Where d’you put it all?’
    ‘Big brain. What was that diet you all went on – the grapefruit one?’
    ‘Grapefruit and eggs. Dire. Only thing that produced was methane,’ she giggled. ‘About later – have you booked somewhere?’
    ‘No, but if you think I …’
    ‘No, no. Play it by ear. Have to get the kids.’
    ‘Yeah.’
    She patted her mobile. ‘Do some shopping.’ The kids would go bananas if they had to go another day without the essentials.
    ‘Right. Rain check?’ He asked her.
    ‘Hope not,’ she said quickly.
    Richard grinned. ‘What d’you fancy?’
    Janine raised her eyebrows and he rolled his eyes in response. Mucking about. She laughed, enjoying the flirtation, and hit the indicator – only it was the wrong lever and the windscreen wipers clattered noisily across the screen making her feel completely foolish.
     
    The bevy of reporters surged forward hurling questions and taking photographs as Richard and Janine got out of the car.
    ‘Any news, Chief Inspector?’
    ‘Any