Chapter 47

There was a knock on Terry's door. He looked up from the latest overtime report he was struggling to write and saw a smiling Kyra Willis on the other side of the glass. He signalled for her to come in.

‘Hello, stranger,' he said. Since Anthony Griffiths' death, the investigation into who had killed Dominic had stalled. The forensics hadn't turned up anything useful, they had no leads on the origin of the synthetic hair and their follow-up interviews with Dominic's co-workers hadn't led anywhere. Kyra had been reassigned, and Terry had been told not to spend all his time on it. Another week or so, and the case would be shelved. It would then be down to the cold case squad to review it every eighteen months or so.

‘Why is it every time I see you, you look paler and thinner?' Kyra said as she came into the small office and sat down.

‘Did you want something?' Terry was well aware of his weight loss, as he'd had to bore another hole in his belt. Some cases made a home for themselves in his mind and wouldn't leave until they were solved. Dominic Griffiths' murder was such a case. It was a constant headache that neither paracetamol nor alcohol would evict. He spent his free time either with his father or sitting in his dark living room, mind whirling over how clever Dawn Shepherd had been at covering her tracks. That's if she was the murderer. Maybe he was too close to this case to accept that Harry and Barbara White were the culprits. It caused Terry sleepless nights, loss of appetite and a yearning to get in his car and drive to a new life. If only he could leave his head behind.

‘First of all, I'd like you to sign my holiday form,' Kyra said, placing it on his keyboard in front of him.

‘Going anywhere nice?' he asked. He signed without even reading it.

‘Matthew's taking me to Niagara Falls in July. I've always wanted to go.'

He looked up and saw she had a beaming smile on her face. He wondered if he'd ever been that happy. Probably not. He'd never had a relationship that lasted longer than a month. He'd never been on a romantic holiday with a girlfriend. In fact, he'd never been on a holiday. What was the point if he didn't have anyone to go with?

‘I'm sure you'll have a lovely time,' he said, as he handed back the form.

‘Also, I've had a call from forensics. They've finally got the DNA back on those hairs from the jacket found in Dominic Griffiths' living room.'

‘It took them long enough.'

‘They have a backlog. This was labelled as priority. We could have put a rush on it, but we'd get charged extra for that.'

‘I'm aware of costings, Kyra, thank you,' he said, as he glanced at the next report he was having to write, justifying the budget for his department. It wasn't even his department. DI Sheffield should have been writing the report, but he was on long-term sick leave due to burn-out.

‘Anyway, they've managed to extract DNA from the hairs, but whoever they're from is not on the database.'

‘How did I know you were going to say that? Anything else?'

‘No. That's about it.' She stood to leave. She reached the door then stopped. ‘Erm, there is something, but it's not work-related. It's personal.'

Terry sat up and folded his arms. ‘Are you wanting to report someone?'

She smiled. ‘No. It's nothing like that.' She retook her seat. ‘Look, speaking as a friend, you let cases get to you, and you shouldn't. I know this isn't a regular job that you can switch off from at the end of the day, but you don't just take the work everywhere you go, you absorb it. It's obvious you're not looking after yourself.'

Terry could feel a wave of emotion burn inside him. He knew Kyra was right but hearing it out loud was upsetting. He couldn't tell her to leave, because he couldn't be sure what would come out of his mouth if he opened it.

‘Now, do you know Sergeant Morton in uniform?'

He shook his head.

‘Yes, you do. About my height, dark red hair, slim, Yorkshire accent. You wrote that character report for her when she thumped that rapist last year.'

He nodded and smiled. ‘I remember her, yes.'

‘Well, she's always had a bit of a soft spot for you. And I thought, before you lose so much weight you disappear completely, you might like to take her out for a meal.'

‘Did you?'

‘Yes.' She grinned. ‘I could always be in the local this evening with her for a drink, you pop by, and then I get a strange phone call from Matthew telling me I'm urgently needed at home and leave you both to it.'

Terry couldn't hide his smile. ‘Thank you, Kyra. I know you're trying to help, but?—'

‘No,' she interrupted. ‘No buts. Terry, I'm being serious now. There is more to life than the job. Please don't turn into a cliché detective.'

‘Let me think about it. Ask me again on Monday.'

She jumped up from her seat, excited. ‘You do realise I won't be taking no for an answer on Monday.'

‘I do.'

‘Excellent. See you later.'

Terry watched her leave then turned back to his report. His heart sank. She was right. The job was consuming him. He did need to let things go. Unfortunately, it was easier said than done.

When Ian Braithwaite had bought his four-bedroom townhouse in Greystones Mews, he had done so with one thought in mind: he'd be able to hand it down to Terry and his wife and kids to live in. That didn't look like it was going to be happening any time soon. If ever. Terry was rattling around in a house with three floors, like a ghost. The only positive Terry could find to living there was it was within a five-minute walk of four decent pubs and two dives, two Indian takeaways, a Chinese and three pizza places. He could have a different meal each night. Tonight, he fancied pizza and texted his order when he was a ten-minute drive away. It was ready as he pulled up outside. He wasn't sure if the bloke behind the counter knowing his name was a good thing or a sign he should learn how to cook.

He parked in his designated space and climbed out – pizza box in one hand, pack of four cans of lager in the other.

He kicked the front door shut behind him, turned on the light with his elbow and went into the kitchen, slapping the pizza box down on the counter. From his back pocket, he took out his mobile and fired off a quick text to Kyra: You win. Arrange the phoney meet with Sergeant Morton for some time next week.

The truth was, he didn't want to be alone. He had a big house, and he needed someone to share it with.

Later, Terry woke from a doze on the sofa. He was in that state where he knew the television was on – he could hear the sound – but he couldn't process it. For some reason, he was fighting sleep. The pizza box, with only three slices eaten, lay open on the coffee table in front of him, and he'd only drunk one can of lager before his eyelids had grown heavy and sleep tried to claim him.

His mobile burst into life. His eyes shot open, and he sat up. He scrambled for the remote and turned off the television. He must have been asleep. There was no way he would have consciously been watching a cookery programme.

Terry's iPhone was dancing around the coffee table. He picked it up and blinked a few times for the screen to come into focus. Kyra was calling. He swiped to answer.

‘Kyra. What time is it?'

‘It's half-past nine.'

‘Is it?' He looked at the clock on the wall. He'd only been dozing for a few minutes. It felt much later.

‘Oh. What's up?'

‘We've got him,' she said, the excitement evident in her voice.

‘Got him? Got who?'

‘Dominic Griffiths' killer. Uniform arrested him an hour ago.'

‘Him?'

Terry squeezed his eyes tightly shut. The news had come out of the blue, but it was a huge relief, and he could feel his entire body starting to relax already. He thought of Harry and Barbara and his father, of everything they'd been through over the past twenty years, and it still wasn't over with. Maybe now it finally would be. Maybe now they could all finally move on.