Jim Airey watched with narrowed eyes as the tall crime scene technician left the waiting area. She was still holding her arm, he saw, as if he’d done her any damage. But if she wanted to make trouble for him… Airey spun to his daughter.
“Just what have you been saying?” he hissed, voice low. “If you’ve been making up your stories again, Edith, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” Edith said, sullen.
Then she looked up at him and for the first time, Airey saw real defiance in his daughter’s face. More than just childish rebellion; true contempt. And he knew instantly that she realised he’d seen it.
“I—”
Airey felt the ground shift beneath his feet. It was like she was a block of wood he’d been working on in his cellar, sculpting, whittling away in odd moments, forgetting for weeks on end because he’d always thought he’d have time later. There always seemed to be something more important, more interesting to be getting on with.
Only now he’d been told that his creation was finished, ready or not. And whatever knowledge or values Airey had once hoped to pass on to his only child had either taken or they hadn’t. Out in the cold light of day, he was suddenly aware of how much more could have been achieved in the time he’d been given. She seemed such a poor effort for his labours.
Too late.
“You just tell the inspector what you told me,” he said. It should have been an order with a hint of threat to it, but somewhere along the line it became a plea. “About the bloke you saw on Orton Scar, yeah? The day you—” He stopped, reddening. “The day that dog was killed.”
The door opened behind them and a uniformed sergeant stuck his head round. “All right, Jim. Mr Pollock will see you now. But I warn you—he’s in a right foul mood.”
There was a long pause, then Edith got to her feet. She passed him the cold assessing stare of a stranger. “You want to be careful,” she said in a whisper only he could hear. “That kind of slip is going to get us both into trouble…”