‘Not on a Sunday, mate,’ a man walking past called out to him. Den was snapped out of the trance he’d been in, staring at the opening in the hoarding, wondering whether he should follow Marlon inside. What if Mina was there, still alive, being kept in a shed or a Portakabin or something?
‘Sorry?’
‘No buses here on a Sunday. If that’s what you’re waiting for. Oh—’ In that moment, Den knew he’d been recognised. ‘You’re that nonce. The one they arrested.’ He walked towards Den.
‘I wasn’t actually arrested. I was questioned.’ Den winced as he heard the word ‘actually’ come out of his mouth. Why had he said that? It had been as involuntary as his smile, which was back, twitching on and off.
‘Oh, pardon me.’ The guy’s faux politeness was as menacing as his direct aggression. ‘My mistake.’
Den tried smiling at him for real. ‘That’s okay. No problem.’
‘What you doing here then?’ The guy was advancing and Den started backing away.
‘I was …’ following someone. Yeah, that would help. ‘Just going for a walk.’
‘Looking for your next victim? People like you make me sick. Where is she? Where’s that little girl? What have you done with her?’
He was close now. He wasn’t a big guy but he was hard, you could tell and, looking down, Den could see that his right hand was balled into a fist.
‘Honestly, I haven’t done anything. I don’t know where she is.’
Den had backed into a wall now, his heels scraping against the brick. There was nowhere to go. The guy was so close Den could smell his breath – fag smoke and booze, fresh out of the pub for his Sunday pint.
He held his hands up in surrender.
‘Please, mate, just let me go. I haven’t done anything.’
The guy looked at him for what seemed like a long time, disgust etched into his face.
‘If it is you, you’d better hope you do get arrested. People round here will fucking end you.’ He turned to go. Just as Den was starting to relax, the guy twisted his head round and spat at Den. The glob of phlegm hit his cheek. He wiped his sleeve across his face, fighting the urge to gag, then stood there, taking in what had happened as the man carried on walking away. Den’s legs felt wobbly, like he’d just run a marathon. His breath was coming in fits and starts. He leaned forward and put his hands on his thighs, trying to calm down. At the end of the street, the door in the hoarding was open. Marlon was standing on the pavement, with the dog next to him, looking his way. Den had no idea how long he’d been there, but clearly his cover was blown.