‘His name was Parsons,’ said Gwilym. ‘Look under P for Parsons.’
They were in the psychology department’s offices at the university. Gwilym had phoned Joy Henry, described the youth and been given a name and told where to look for the file he was seeking.
Gwilym had dressed in an old jumper and jeans and pulled on a woollen beanie to hide the congealed blood on his head. He looked, thought Phil, one step above a homeless person. And I hope, he thought, with understandable venom, that when I’ve finished with him, that’s what he’ll be.
‘Something wrong with your arms?’ said Phil. ‘You look.’
Gwilym, opening the nearest filing cabinet, did so.
‘Here,’ he said eventually. He held out a file to Phil. Photo clipped to the top. ‘This is him.’
Phil took the file. ‘Grant Parsons. That’s our boy.’ He scanned it briefly, closed it. He was about to speak to Anni, plan their next move, when his phone rang. He took it out, checked the display. Looked at Anni.
‘It’s Marina.’
‘Well, what are you waiting for? Answer it,’ she said.