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  “I could ask you the same thing, love. How was Jac?”

  “Good. Helped clear the air a bit. We had a nice time. He’s got much better at pool.”

  “Did he give you one of his letters, then?”

  Rubbing my eyes, I’m feeling a little ashamed of myself.

  “Don’t judge me, Mam. I had to read one.”

  “Annie! You helped yourself? You had no right.”

  “Why did you let him take them back?”

  “You had your chance.”

  She’s right. I stare at his handwritten words of love in front of me.

  “He won’t be happy when he finds out you’ve read them.”

  “It was just the one. The first one he wrote.”

  Maureen comes over and lays her hands on my shoulders. It feels so good. A simple touch. A touch that she’s denied me for so long. It’s like Dad’s death has melted her, brought us finally together.

  “I should never have left you alone with Dad.”

  “Shush, love. I wanted you to go. I did my best to make you leave. To get you away from here. Away from him.”

  “You did?”

  She hugs me close and I hold her tight. Making up for the times I was without a mother, even when she was there.

  “D’you want a cuppa?”

  “I’d say we both need something stronger.”

  She fetches out a bottle of brandy that’s been stashed behind the flour at the back of the cupboard and hands me a glass.

  “What if he notices the letter’s gone?”

  “I think what’ll be, will be.”

  She takes a sip.

  “Callista and me, we always laugh about you the two of you. You’re both as pig-headed as each other.”

  “Cal?”

  The detective mentioned that she’d called her.

  “Yes. Cal’s always been there. My rock, she is; bless her. Can’t tell you how many times she tried to get me to leave him. You know, when he was sober, he could be very loving too. And what with his illness, and all; he needed me, Annie. I couldn’t just up sticks, and go live with Cal. He’d never have coped.”

  This is all news to me.

  “Cal’s never told me you were still friends.”

  “I asked her to keep our little chats to herself. The stuff about your dad. Didn’t want the whole world clacking on about it. And she kept me up to date with what you were up to in London. I wanted to come out to New York to see you. But your dad wouldn't have it.”

  “Ah, Mam, that would’ve been fun.”

  Having said that, she’d hardly ever been down to London. There was always an excuse. Work. Dad. The farm. Perhaps, he'd stopped her from going?

  “And, what’s this she tells me, about a married man?”

  My mouth moves like a goldfish.

  “Annie! What were you thinking, love?”

  I’m stumped, and more than a little bit miffed with Callista for blabbing.

  “It’s over.”

  “Good.”

  She looks at me, her lips curving mischievously.

  “Jac used to ask after you.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up there.”

  I’m eager to scotch any matchmaking before she starts. I gesture to the letter in front of me.

  “That ship’s sailed, believe me.”

  His first letter was the heartfelt sentiment of young love, but over the two years of unanswered letters, things will no doubt change.

  He'll probably be bitter and twisted by the last one. Full of anger and hate for me. Betrayal, even, by then? I’m sure that there must have been many other women in Jac’s life.

  And again, I realise how little I know about him.

  ◆◆◆

  Sion rubbed his eyes. It was nine am and Jason was long gone; high in the skies over the Atlantic.

  Sitting on the leather sofa in the empty London flat, he opened the encrypted message on his laptop.

  Every job took meticulous preparation. That was why his clients and his handlers were satisfied. And, why no one had ever been suspicious.

  The jobs were coming in regularly, all through trusted recommendations. Then, contact was made; encrypted messaging and burner phones.

  He worked hard on being unremarkable. Someone you’d see in a bar and not look twice at. He didn’t consider himself especially good looking or ugly. He wasn’t especially tall or short, quiet or loud, obnoxious or charming. His forgettable features were his advantage.

  He lived with trusted friends. Friends who'd been with him through the fire of combat. His brothers in arms. And when he wasn’t with them, he moved around, staying in budget hotels.

  He told people he was in computers. It was perfect. No one ever took any interest in what that meant.

  When he wasn’t away working, he challenged himself with outdoor sports. Hiking, kayaking, climbing. He did odd jobs too. Painting, plumbing, joinery; mainly for friends. He’d helped Jac renovate the old cottage. He’d mended Maureen’s boiler and done work around the farmhouse for her.

  This job, and most of the others he’d done recently, had been for the main Liverpool outfit, the Scousers. His contact’s username was Irish. And from what he could determine, the gang were moving south and were starting to knock heads with some pretty nasty London firms.

  The Scousers were early innovators of county lines, a genius business model where drug dealers set up small user networks through provincial towns. They had their foot soldiers all across the North West. Using burner phones, they messaged customers and sent drugs out for delivery, usually via vulnerable kids on bikes.

  Kids like he’d once been. The kind of kids that hang around on the street all hours of the day and night, probably in local authority care, or neglected by their dysfunctional families.

  The army had saved him. And the street and children’s homes had given him the skills to survive. Even if his line of work now was a little unconventional.

  He opened the secure link from Irish and read through the information.

  His instincts had been right. This job that the Scousers wanted him to do was high risk.

  The man’s picture in front of him was one Leon Prifti, leader of London’s notorious Helbanianz gang. Though he didn’t know of Prifti, Sion had heard of the Helbanianz. They’d muscled into the East End of London around ten years back.

  Originally from Albania and with established bases in most of the big European capitals, they’d developed a reputation for being a set of serious psychos who you didn’t mess with.

  Prifti would be a hard man to get at. He carefully read through more background on his operations. It was sketchy stuff at this stage, but at least there was no condition to make it look like an accident.

  This job had to be a single clear shot. A sniper’s bullet.

  Information on the Helbanianz was easy to find. They didn’t seem to care about their online profile. With a quick search, Sion could see that they were prolific on social media. A gun-inspired logo worn like a badge of honour. Gang members paraded openly for selfies, flaunting flashy sports cars. They even made rap videos, for God's sake.

  It might be doable.

  But the background information described another side to the Albanians too. These guys were nimble multi-country poly-criminals. The gang culture was a distraction, a front. There were brains hiding behind the muscle, and it wouldn’t be easy to get at Prifti from the street.

  It was a far cry from the East-End gangs of old. The Krays. The Richardsons. The old firms were long gone.

  London today was a postcode battleground for the spoils, and the Scousers wanted to send a simple message to the Albanians to get off the patch. They wanted a cut and a sniff of London’s five billion pound cocaine trade too. It was bold, he gave them that. It had never been said, but Irish had to be the brains behind the Scouser outfit; he was sure of it.

  He got up and opened the cases to examine the kit he’d brought with him. He chose the Barrett M82 semi-automatic with the magni
fication scope. The sniper’s weapon of choice.

  Before he’d agree to anything, he would check out a suitable viewing point where he’d study the habits of Prifti, his mark.

  And if he couldn’t do it? He’d walk away.

  ◆◆◆

  “Need a hand? I could do with some fresh air.”

  Annie strolled over towards Jac and the quad bike.

  “You came.”

  He wasn’t sure if she’d show. He wasn’t sure why he’d asked her, either. When it came to Annie, his mouth and brain weren’t always connected.

  And last night, he’d felt an intensity between them that he was sure made her feel uncomfortable too. Afterwards, he’d lain in bed for ages thinking about it. About her.

  “Let’s go.”

  The day was fresh and cold. The best that January could offer before the first glimpses of spring arrived. The frost coated the grass, and the morning sun lit the verdant valley in a pale yoke-yellow light. The perfect day to show Annie what he’d done on the farm.

  It felt odd. It had always been the other way round. Her on the front, and him riding pillion.

  And now, the feeling of her behind him, her thighs brushing against his, it disturbed him. He’d extinguished all hopes, dreams about Annie long ago. Her return was reawakening something he hadn’t felt for years. And he didn’t like it at all.

  Thankfully, Jess hopped on between them, and they set off up the fields; the bags of feed on the back.

  “I’ve forgotten how much I love being out here.”

  She took a deep breath of the crisp air. Scanning the rolling fields, she pointed towards the new taut pig wire lining the perimeters.

  “You’ve done a lot of fencing.”

  “Jess was sick of fetching the sheep off the road all the time.”

  Jac grabbed a bag of sheep nuts off the back of the quad and she did the same, giving him a hand to fill the feeding troughs.

  “Have you reseeded those pastures too?”

  Jac put the bag down.

  “Yes. I have,” he said impressed, “And spent all last spring chain harrowing and liming the other fields. They’d gone real rough. The reeds had come back and they’d gotten boggy and wild.”

  “You’ve done a great job, Jac.”

  “Thanks.”

  He couldn’t help but feel a pang of pride as she noticed the results of all the hard work he’d put in.

  “Still much more to do, though,” he said, clearing his throat.

  Out in the fresh air, she’d more colour in her cheeks. Her skin was glowing. She’d always been outdoorsy. London and New York must have been a real culture shock for her.

  He told her about the stock he’d bought in the autumn sales and the new breed of rams he’d put in.

  “Bigger lambs will help raise profitability.”

  “But they’ll cost you more in feed. And they’ll be more tricky to lamb.”

  She was right. There was that.

  “How are those hands of yours?” she joked.

  Jac held them up for her.

  “Ah! Too big.”

  She playfully held up her own.

  “Now these… these hands here are perfect for lambing.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind when I need help with the night shifts in the lambing shed. Those glued on nails might not be so popular with the ewes.”

  “Uch! There’s mud and muck underneath them already.”

  She laughed at the sorry state of her hands.

  “Oh, and one’s snapped off.”

  It was nice talking farming. Bouncing around ideas. He didn’t have much opportunity to do that. And Sion didn’t know one end of a sheep from the other.

  They worked together filling up the creep feeders in the frosty fields and checking on the stock. Lambing was a couple of months away, but the ewes were getting heavier and needed a regular top-up of food.

  In her waterproofs and wellies, no one would ever guess that it was the same woman who’d got off the train.

  “Do you miss the army?” she asked as they got back onto the yard by the farmhouse.

  “Yeah. I was good at it. I miss the boys, more than anything else. Still see some of them from time to time. Sion stays with me a lot. They’re like brothers to me. But, I’m glad I left when I did. I always wanted to come back and farm.”

  “Did you do any tours of duty?”

  “Afghanistan twice.”

  He didn’t want to elaborate. There was the good, the bad and the very ugly in his memories of that place.

  “Best deployments were Cyprus and Belize.”

  “Wow. They must have been wonderful experiences.”

  “Definitely. Especially Belize. I learned to dive out there. The sea's incredible. Different shades of turquoise. So clear. And, marine life… I can’t even begin to describe it. Shoals and shoals of fish, all shapes and colours. And turtles. I’ve got some sketches, if you wanna see?”

  He clammed up. He'd gotten carried away.

  “I’d like that.”

  She grinned at him and his gut twisted.

  “Bring them over and I’ll make you some supper tonight. As a thank you for the lift from the station.”

  “Annie, you don’t need to.”

  “Don’t be daft, I want to.”

  “Okay. I'll see you later, then."

  She was still standing there, like she was reluctant to go.

  His pulse was racing, in spite of himself.

  “Jac, you apologised last night for leaving me.”

  He heard her voice faltering as she struggled to find her words.

  “I’m sorry too. Sorry, that I never read your letters and that I didn’t keep in touch. I know it’s no excuse, but I was angry with you.”

  His throat felt raspy and dry, his heart in his mouth.

  “It was a long time ago. Things have changed since then.”

  The way she’d looked back at him, like she was a little hurt, puzzled him after.

  Until he went back to the cottage for lunch. He needed to go to the agricultural merchants, and it was only as he was changing out of his farm clothes, that he noticed.

  The letters had been moved.

  Not by much, but they weren’t stacked as neatly as he’d left them. And upon closer inspection, he realised that there was one letter missing. The one on top. The first.

  She’d been there, and she’d helped herself when he’d been out tending to Jess.

  All those years when she could have opened them, and yet, she chose to do it now. The day he’d taken them away from her. That was so Annie.

  Picking up the pile, he took them downstairs and fed them one by one into the woodburner’s fire. Angrily pushing them with the poker, until all his words were eaten up by the flames.

  There was only one letter left now. The last one he wrote.

  He printed his bitterness onto the back of the envelope.

  This thing between them had to end. Now. Before it messed anymore with his head. And his heart.

  Slipping it into his coat, he made his way up to the farmhouse and silently posted the final letter through the letterbox. It landed on the hall floor, joining the pile of sympathy cards that had been delivered by the postman.

  CHAPTER 8

  ---------✸---------

  Sitting alone in his unmarked police car, Detective Ellis Roberts considered his morning and his lunch as he peeled back the cellophane. Two limp-looking triangles. They didn’t quite hold the promise of the label; mature cheddar cheese ploughman’s on malted granary bread.

  He’d been to all the shops in town that sold climbing rope and none of them stocked it in black. It wasn’t an uncommon item, apparently. Just that most climbers used the more colourful ropes. They were easier to see, and sell.

  If he had the time to trawl through Glyn Evans’ bank accounts, would he find any details of a payment to an outdoor shop? As the farmhouse didn’t have any internet, he could hardly have ordered it online.

 
He could have bought it anywhere. And there’d be no chance of getting the time or manpower he needed to sift through Glyn Evans’ farm receipts. Farmers used cash. It could have been bought off the back of a van in the market? Or from a stall in an agricultural show? There were too many possibilities.

  And all farmers around here liked a deal. A length of rope on special would be appealing to some. Even if it wasn’t to be used for its intended purpose, it’d still be a useful item on the farm.

  His daughter hadn’t been surprised about it. As she’d said, he was a farmer, he was resourceful.

  It wasn’t worth spending more time on the rope, he decided, as he took another bite of his soggy sandwich.

  Plus, his boss had already told him in no uncertain terms to wrap this one up quickly. The coroner was going with a suicide verdict. The pathologist had confirmed death by hanging. The toxicology reports had come back clear, and Glyn Evans had a long record of medically diagnosed mental illness. His liver was sclerotic, and he had undiagnosed diabetes too. Not uncommon in long-term alcoholics, the pathologist had confirmed when he’d called about the results.

  Plus, he was a domestic abuser, by all accounts.

  There was no more digging to be done.

  Loose ends, like the rope and the slippers, they always bothered him. But not everything in real life could be tidily explained away.

  ◆◆◆

  I’m making food in the kitchen when I hear the familiar click of the letterbox.

  Wiping my hands, I go into the hall to pick up the post off the floor.

  Mam’s in the lounge with Auntie Pat. It’s been another full-on day of visitors.

  I can see a couple of bank letters addressed to Dad, but mostly it’s sympathy cards.

  And then my heart sinks.

  In the middle of the envelopes, there’s another one of Jac’s letters.

  Picking it up, I read the neat writing on the back.

  ‘You took what didn’t belong to you. But, seeing as you’ve finally started reading my letters, here’s the last one. The others are burned.’

  His curt tone is a slap in the face. But, unable to curb my curiosity either, I take it to my bedroom to read.

  June 2010