Chapter Twelve

The Beauties of Grief

An uneventful two weeks had passed since the news of Katerina’s murder broke. Lyra had spent her time off work, grieving, never leaving her bed, unable to eat. Her mother’s death brought her depression back with a vengeance. She’d summoned the strength to leave her bed for Katerina’s funeral a week prior, where she had experienced a complete inability to stop crying or form words and had struggled to stand upright without the support of Savannah. Apart from that, she had segregated herself from society.

Meanwhile, Jeremy seemed to have disappeared. He hadn’t resurfaced since attacking Savannah and while it would be an exaggeration to state that the Glasco-Mason children were worried about him, his absence had become a source of unease - they all silently wondered whether he had managed to drink himself into such a stupor he’d killed himself.

For the most part, as the days shortened and grew colder and the year drew into November, Savannah and her siblings had continued life in as normal a manner as was possible. Despite what the detectives had implied to Lyra, Savannah and Lauren (who had relayed the information to Alexis and Aaron immediately after the police departed) hadn’t entertained the possibility that their father could have killed their grandmother, believing while he was capable of all manner of atrocities, he was incapable of murder.

A nagging sensation pervaded Savannah’s mind when this subject was broached given her personal experiences with Jeremy, but his innocence was easier to believe than the alternative. The four teenagers, therefore, had come to the comfortable conclusion that the police simply believed that Jeremy could be the culprit due to a distinct absence of any other suspects.

They had all taken time to register the loss - including Lauren, who’d been taken in as Katerina’s granddaughter as much as Lyra’s daughter - and grieved their grandmother’s death, although Theo needed more comfort than the rest. Theo was devastated. He’d hardly visited Katerina during his short life, yet his grief was as pure and concentrated as everyone else’s. He wasn’t educated on the concept of death, so helping him understand his grandmother was ‘with the angels now’ and that he wouldn’t see her again was the toughest challenge his siblings had experienced.

As it transpired, their half-term break had come at the perfect time. However, even that silver lining had to come to an end and the Glasco-Mason children had to contend with school once more, which didn’t leave a great deal of time for grief.

As it was, today, on a frosty Monday morning with blistering winds, foggy surroundings, pelting rain, and shivering temperatures, it was time to sack up and return to school as though nothing had happened.

‘For Christ’s sake, right,’ Savannah moaned to Lauren. They were awaiting their English lesson and Mr Schofield was running late (again). ‘I love English... but there’s a special place in hell for whoever decided to put us in the first slot on a Monday morning. I’m not in the mood.’

Lauren offered a bemused smile. ‘Yes, but let’s be real - you’re never in the mood.’

Savannah shrugged. ‘That’s true.’

Eventually, at ten minutes past 9, Schofield sauntered up the corridor with a swagger to his gait and unlocked the classroom door. Although he’d been off for a week (returning from which traditionally resulted in his darkest moods), he wore a huge grin and had even taken the time to groom his combover and even smelled pleasant - fresh and floral.

Savannah and Lauren shared a wary look - an act echoed by their classmates.

‘Good morning, my little cherubs!’ He held the door open for the class to enter, beaming at each of them in turn.

As Savannah passed him, she gave him a dubious frown. ‘Why on earth are you so happy? Who is ever happy this early? Never mind the fact it’s you, of all people.’

Schofield chuckled, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. ‘Oh, my dear Savannah, ever a ray of sunshine you are. I am elated to be spending a glorious hour with my favourite class, that’s all.’

He closed the door as the last member of the class, Kate - who appeared relieved that Schofield was being so pleasant - scurried through the door. Savannah narrowed her eyes at Schofield, moved to her desk, and slid into her seat beside Lauren.

‘Have you won the lottery?’ Savannah blurted out.

‘No,’ Schofield grinned.

‘Your horse win the race this weekend?’

‘Nope.’

‘Get a hot date with some old lass from a retirement home?’

‘Haha, don’t be so cheeky! But no.’

‘Did you get a new cat?’

‘No, sadly I did not.’

‘Huh… I’m at a loss, then.’

‘Savannah,’ Schofield sighed as he turned the projector on and set up the lesson’s PowerPoint. ‘It is conceivable that people can be cheerful purely because they’re alive.’

‘Huh. Wonder what that feels like,’ she said, drawing laughs from the others and an eye roll from Schofield.

‘Right, my lovelies,’ Schofield said, clapping his hands and skipping to the front of the class. ‘This morning we’re gonna be doing some creative writing. That way we can take ourselves away from the monotony of Shakespeare and Wharton, which I’m sure none of you are particularly keen on studying straight after an enjoyable half-term holiday, and take ourselves into the creative rivers of your minds, exploring the darknesses that live there.

So! I know that this is GCSE stuff, but it can never hurt to refresh the ol’ skills - you never know when they’re gonna come in handy. Well, unless it’s algebra, which never will. So, what I would like you to do is just spend half an hour writing me up some glorious fiction works of your own, about anything you’d like. The best one gets… I don’t know, I’ll bring you in a pack of sweets or something. I’d traditionally say ‘I’ll buy you a drink’, but the last time I did that with an A-Level student, I got suspended.’

He slapped his thighs in amusement but the frosty absence of laughter was not the reception he’d expected. ‘God, tough crowd. I’m joking! Come on, then, off you go!’

The class broke out into a buzz of chatter, something they only dared to do when Schofield was like this - if he’d been mutinous, they wouldn’t make a sound for fear of their voice boxes being forcibly extricated from their bodies.

Savannah turned to Lauren with a simpering expression. ‘Laureeeen…’

‘No,’ Lauren said, holding her finger up at Savannah. ‘You can do your own work for a change, I’m not your slave. Come on, it’s easy. Just think of something completely random and put it into words. It doesn’t have to be good, it just has to be.’

Under the cover of the hubbub, Lauren decided it was the ideal time to have a heart-to-heart with Savannah. Up to now, she’d left her to grieve and live in her bubble, dealing with Katerina’s death in her own way with her family... but she believed Savannah would need to talk about it and there was no better time to broach the subject than now they were back at school and things had settled down.

‘So, how are you doing? Really?’ she asked, keeping her voice low. By now, it had become common knowledge around the town that Katerina Andrianakis had been murdered in her own home. The initial frenzy, however, had abated and due to the vast difference in their surnames, no one had connected Katerina with Savannah, and Lauren had no wish to be overheard and make that the case. Savannah had more than enough going on without the attention.

‘I’m fine,’ Savannah said, her voice ambivalent, as she worked through her creative writing piece, pausing and chewing on her pen every now and then for thought. ‘Really, I loved my Grandma and I miss her a shit tonne, of course I do. She’s been a large part of my life for as long as I can remember. I want her killer found above all else. But… I can’t let myself be down forever. I’ve processed the grief and now I have to be strong and support my siblings while mum grieves herself. It’s… expected of me as the elder sibling - I’ve got to step up. I’m used to it by now, man, it’s honestly not a big deal.’

Lauren would have accepted this response, but Savannah refused to make eye contact. Yet, for now, she chose not to push the point.

‘And… be honest with me… what do you think about the links the police are making to Jeremy?’

Savannah smiled and met her eyes this time. ‘I think… I mean, I can see why the police would believe it was him. I mean, let’s be real, they’ve got no other suspect, regardless of the fact the link between Grandma and Jeremy is tenuous. Sure, everyone except Jeremy loved Grandma, giving only Jeremy any reason to hurt her. But… I don’t know… I can kind of see why he would do it. Not that I think he did,’ she added. ‘That being said… y’know, mum had just told him she’s filing for divorce. You know Jeremy - he’s vindictive and vengeful enough without that. I kinda feel like she may have handed him a motive, if I’m honest. And we’ve both seen he’s more than capable of assault with a knife. It would be odd that his choice of victim would be Grandma, but I could see it being the case that mum hurt him, so to hurt her, he responded by… murdering her mother.’

The word ‘murdering’ caught in her throat. The event may have been processed, but it was tough to think of her grandmother like that. The connotations came with unpleasant mental images she’d rather not possess.

‘I understand. I think you’re right, as well, more than anything else. But… I don’t think he did it. I still believe underneath all the aggression… he’s weak, pathetic, and lacks balls. Killing someone? He hasn’t got it in him.’

‘Girls, girls, girls,’ Schofield wandered over to their table, a sarcastic frown twisting his features. ‘A little less talk and a little more work, please. Oh, wow!’ he said, peering over Savannah’s shoulder. ‘I’m surprised! You’ve found time to attempt the task in between your seemingly more significant conversation! Let’s have a look at what you’ve done so far, shall we, Savannah?’

‘Ugh, must you? It’s no work of art, I’ll tell you that much,’ she said, shrinking back in her chair.

He picked up her workbook and she watched him as he read, lips mouthing the words. His eyebrow rose when he got to the end of the passage.

‘I have to say, Savannah,’ he said in an undertone. ‘This is a fantastic piece of work.’

‘Always the tone of surprise,’ she said with an eye roll. ‘You completely lack faith in my abilities, don’t you?’

He fixed her with a serious look. ‘You’re projecting on me. It’s you who lacks faith in your abilities. Have more confidence - you’re a special talent.’

He strutted off to interrogate another student, leaving Savannah sulking at what she perceived as an attack on her character.

Once Schofield was out of earshot, Lauren spoke again.

‘You seem… I dunno… marginally more upbeat. At a minimum, I expected more tears,’ she observed, smiling.

Savannah shrugged. ‘To be honest, like, I decided about a week ago that I’m kind of sick of being sad. I don’t want to be considered weak, nor do I want to end up like mum - bedridden, glum, depressed…’

Lauren shook her head fervently. ‘Being sad, depressed, glum, whatever you want to call it… it’s not weak. Neither you nor your mother are weak. You are both so strong. Never consider yourself weak. And… don’t deny your emotions now you’re stepping up to the plate of parenthood again. Allow yourself to be sad. You are not weak. Emotions are what makes us strong as humans. It’s the unfeeling psychopaths that are weak.’

Savannah sighed and stared at nothing. ‘I appreciate you saying that but… no-one wants to be crying all the time. Other people get sick of it. I get sick of it in myself.’

‘Look at how much you do for your family. Even when you are a miserable fucker, you get on with things and keep fighting. For them.’

Savannah tilted her head in acknowledgement. ‘That’s true, I suppose. I feel like…’ She nicked a furtive, downturned glance at Kate and Matthew across the classroom. The two were joking and couldn’t keep their hands off one another. ‘Like my emotions were what chased Matthew away. He got scared because I got emotional more than he could handle - because of what was going on at home - and he ran away to something… something I couldn’t give him.’ She shuddered and shrugged it off. ‘That doesn’t matter anymore. That’s past. I’m focused on getting my family through this, even if it’s by the skin of our teeth. They mean more to me than… just about anything.’

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

*

Bradshaw and Robertson found Jeremy, by complete accident, outside a pub in a small village ten miles west of Fareview, around lunchtime. They’d been intending to speak to an inhabitant of the village about a DUI charge. As chance would have it, they now had a more significant interview to attend.

‘Jeremy Glasco-Mason,’ Bradshaw called as they approached him.

It had been a long time since Bradshaw had seen Jeremy, and in the time since, Jeremy’s appearance had gone significantly downhill. He had gained a significant amount of weight; his eyes were bloodshot to the point there was barely a speck of white; his chin was unshaven and had sprouted long, haphazard grey hairs; his cheeks sported numerous burst blood vessels. The old, frayed, grey t-shirt he wore was covered in dribbled food and drink. One would be forgiven for mistaking him for a homeless person. He had not been attractive previously by any stretch of the imagination, but even the Jeremy that Bradshaw had known looked like a model compared to this shell of a human.

‘Wha’?’ he barked, squinting up at them. He was smoking a cigarette and sitting on a bench outside the pub.

‘My name is Detective Bradshaw, and this is my partner, Robertson,’ Bradshaw said, doing his utmost to remain professional and ignore Jeremy’s overpowering odour which was turning his stomach - it gave Bradshaw the impression that Jeremy no longer bathed in water and instead chose to do so in whiskey and mould, surrounded by tobacco smoke, then went into a field and slept in a pile of cow manure. Were it not for this, Bradshaw would have considered taking up the seat next to him.

‘Oho, par’ner, is it? Well, yi’ wanna watch it, lad, she’ll leave yi’ wi’ nothin’ in the end.’

Bradshaw shot a glance at Robertson and waved a hand. ‘No, it’s not like that… but that’s not relevant.’ And if it was, you’d be the last person I’d come to for dating advice. ‘Anyway, would you mind, once you’ve - with all due respect, sir - sobered up, paying us a visit at the station? Nothing to worry about, it’s purely procedural. You know, crossing the i’s and dotting the t’s. We just need you to answer a few questions, that’s all.’

Jeremy snarled and rose from his bench. He stumbled, forcing him to grip the arm of the bench to steady himself. ‘Wha’s tha’ bitch been sayin’? I tell yi’, I ain’ touched the girl!’ he shouted, paling and wide-eyed.

Bradshaw tilted his head. ‘What do you mean by that, Mr Glasco-Mason? Touched which girl?’

‘Ar, you’re tryna get me to incrim-inc-inri- ge’ mesel’ in shi’! I tell yi’, I ain’ saying nee more! No ma’er wha’ yi’ think yi’ know, it’s wrong! It’s LIES!’

‘Now, we’re not trying to incriminate you in any way, you can relax. Like I said, just a few -’

‘ARGHHH!’ Jeremy yelled and lurched at Bradshaw, aiming to grab him by the collar. Bradshaw saw this coming a million miles away and seized Jeremy’s arm, twisted it behind his back, and forced him to his knees before Jeremy could process what had happened. He looked green, on the verge of vomiting. Bradshaw motioned to Robertson to pass him some handcuffs.

‘Right, Mr Glasco-Mason, I think you need to sober up under our supervision,’ Bradshaw tightened his grip and cuffed Jeremy. ‘Provided you cooperate with our questioning, I won’t press charges for assaulting an officer of the law, and you can go on your merry way. Understand?’

Jeremy, humbled by Bradshaw’s superior physical ability, mumbled something incoherent, but nodded. Bradshaw escorted him to his car, forced Jeremy into the backseat, and drove him to the police station, where he was locked in a cell with nothing but a few chairs, a metal table, and a jug of water. Jeremy fell asleep in an instant on the cold, stone floor and (for a few hours at least) found peace in his dreams.

*

Jeremy had woken up. Bradshaw and Robertson entered the room, their noses upturned. Jeremy kept his resolute gaze on a spot in the corner. His arms were folded and his lower lip extended outwards, giving him the appearance of an overgrown, sulking child.

‘Okay, then, let’s get started,’ Bradshaw said. ‘I’m glad to see you’re more… in control, shall we say, than earlier today. Ought to save you from making any additional silly mistakes. Now, as I said then - should you cooperate now, you’ll be released without charge for the… incident.’

Jeremy grunted. Bradshaw took this as acceptance.

‘Excellent. Now, I understand you know Katerina Andrianakis?’

Jeremy snorted. ‘Aye, I knew ‘er. Right bitch, she was. And aye,’ he looked at Bradshaw for the first time and Bradshaw noted a glimmer of amusement in his eye. ‘I’m aware the ol’ bat’s been offed. Before yi’ ask, no, I didn’ do i’, bu’ I’d be ‘appy to send whoever did a baske’ o’ cookies.’

Bradshaw gave a bitter smile. Robertson curled her upper lip.

‘Mr Glasco-Mason,’ Robertson pressed. ‘How would you characterise your relationship with Katerina? Good quality? Civil? A great deal of animosity? Outright, mutual hatred…?’

He scoffed. ‘Bad. She was a twa’, never liked ‘er. So, I guess I’d have t’ go with the las’ option.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘She always ‘ated me, we couldn’ stand each other. From the minute I met ‘er daughter, she ‘ated me. Any time I was in ‘er company she’d call me a worthless, goo’-for-nothin’, drunken scumbag ‘oo was unworthy of ‘er daughter. Li’l di’ she know, it were her daughter ‘oo weren’ worthy of me. Bu’, course, she never saw i’ tha’ way. Deluded people, y’kna’?’

Bradshaw and Robertson glanced at one another and suppressed smiles. If they’d had to stand on one side of that particular debate, it would have been Katerina.

‘So, each of your interactions with Katerina went in a similar manner, yes??’

‘Oh aye. No’ tha’ we ‘ad many, mind. Saw ‘er maybe, five or six times over the years. Bu’ each time was the same. ‘Ostile, rude, aggressive. Righ’ bitch she was,’ he repeated.

‘Did you give her any reason to feel that way about you?’ Robertson asked.

‘I’m a deligh’. She didn’ like the drinkin’, other than tha’ I can’ think why she’d ‘ate me, an’ tha’s none of ‘er business anyway. She didn’ wan’ me in her company and the feelin’ was more than mutual.’

‘Mr Glasco-Mason, this next question has to be very candid, I’m afraid. Would that mutual hatred lead you to kill Katerina?’ Bradshaw asked, slow and cautious, wanting to avoid sending Jeremy into another rage. Nonetheless, he was simultaneously keen to bring this interrogation to an end.

Jeremy cackled. ‘Nah, as I said. I’m glad she’s carked it, but it weren’ me, lad.’

Bradshaw pulled his shirt sleeve down over his wrist before speaking. ‘You understand, of course, you’re the lone individual with an established grudge and, therefore, motive, against Katerina?’

Jeremy cackled again. ‘Aye, I understan’. Tha’ we know of, anyroad. ‘Oo knows wha’ the ol’ bat ‘ad goin’ on behind closed doors?’

‘Could you tell us your whereabouts between the hours of 11 pm on the 20th of October and 3 am on the 21st?’

He spat on the ground. ‘Har. Mos’ likely I were at the pub, weren’ I? Dunno which one, mind. I woulda been a bi’ ou’ of it by tha’ time. And tha’ was a while ago, so I can’ remember exactly where I was.’

‘Can anyone corroborate that?’

‘Aye, just gan’ round all the pubs an’ ask the staff if they seen me tha’ night. They all know me by name and looks by now, don’ they?’ Jeremy said with a cocky grin, as though this was something to be proud of.

‘No friends that can vouch for you?’ Robertson asked, a snide edge to her tone.

Jeremy detected it and spat again. ‘No, I prefer to drink alone.’ The two locked eyes in a stare, each daring the other to be the one to break it.

‘Right, Mr Glasco-Mason, that’s everything for now. You may go. Before you do, write your number down here,’ Bradshaw handed him a scrap of paper and a pen. ‘And we’ll call you if we have any further questions.’

Jeremy scrawled down an almost unintelligible mobile number and scarpered, crashing into the doorframe, before the detectives could change their minds.

Bradshaw crossed his legs and let out a deep breath, staring at Jeremy’s vacant bench. ‘What do you think?’

‘Well, I despise him. But as for whether he did it… I don’t think so. Yes, he completely lacked remorse or a shred of human decency regarding the death of a fellow human, but… if he had done it, he’d have put on more of a show. Y’know, acted more despondent.’

‘Or, maybe he knew we’d think that way and was just himself, and he did actually kill her - the double bluff. So, his blatant pleasure at Katerina’s death was his cover,’ Bradshaw countered. He sighed again. ‘This meeting hasn’t got us any closer to an answer, either way. Let’s go round the pubs, establish his alibi, then we’ll go back to Katerina’s house again and see if there’s anything we can dig up. Hopefully, we’ll be able to find something incriminating.’

‘Should we have pressed about what he said when we caught him? About the girl?’

Bradshaw frowned. ‘No, I don’t think so. The girl couldn’t have been a reference to Kat, so isn’t relevant to the investigation... I’ll ask Lyra about it next time I see her. I don’t want to spend any more time with that man,’ he gestured over his shoulder with a snarl. ‘Than I absolutely need to.’

*

‘Anything?!’ Bradshaw called through to Robertson, who was going through the mounds of letters Katerina had accumulated over the years. They were stored in a hectic and unorganised manner - shoved into drawers in the kitchen without a second thought.

‘No, unless you count bills and postcards from Greece as evidence!’ came the response.

Bradshaw sank into the fabric sofa, exhausted. They’d found nothing at the property. It turned out Katerina was a typical old lady, with a love for books, birds, gardening, knitting, and her Greek heritage, none of which lent themselves to potential motive material.

Robertson walked into the living room and sat beside him. ‘Walkins found no DNA evidence, either, did he?’

Bradshaw shook his head. ‘Nope. Not a damn thing.’

Robertson groaned. ‘Dammit… what about Lyra’s father? Did you find anything on him?’

‘Nope again. Typical deadbeat - left town three months into Katerina’s pregnancy and never contacted either mother or daughter after that, just like Lyra said. He can’t even be put onto our exceedingly thin list of suspects - he died three years ago. Heart attack, down in Athens.’

‘Fucksake,’ Robertson leaned her head against the back of the sofa and stared at the ceiling. ‘Something has to come up. We have to catch a break. There’s no way this murder can be this clean.’

‘I bloody hope something comes up, this is beginning to frustrate me - not least due to the complete lack of pursuable leads. I’m losing sleep. I love my sleep.’

She placed her hand on his and they met eyes. ‘Something will break our way, I promise, Ryan. It always does, eventually. The vile creature that did this will be put behind bars.’

Bradshaw looked away. ‘They’d better be.’

Rising to his feet, he motioned towards the door. ‘Let’s get out of this place, it makes me jittery knowing someone was killed mere feet from where we sit.’

Robertson followed him from the house and they made their way towards the car. Before they’d left the confines of the garden, she caught a strange glint beneath the poplar tree at the bottom of the garden as the sunlight caught the object.

‘What’s that?’ Robertson asked.

‘What’s what?’ He hadn’t seen it, so Robertson placed a hand on his back, steered him so he was in front of the tree, then pointed to its base with her other hand.

They approached it and Bradshaw gave an excited gasp. ‘Robertson, pass me gloves. And a bag.’

She did as she was bid. He stepped over the weeds and picked the object up, placed it into the clear evidence bag then returned to Robertson.

‘Here’s our ‘break’,’ he said, breathless. ‘The murder weapon…’

Inside the bag was a large kitchen knife. The blood of Katerina Andrianakis still stained the blade, now a murky brown and flecked with muck.

‘Let’s get this analysed and, hopefully, an arrest made,’ Bradshaw grinned and ran to the car.

*

‘Mum?’ Savannah mumbled, knocking on Lyra’s bedroom door. In her hands was a plate with two slices of toast - she’d have prepared Lyra something more substantial were it not for the knowledge Lyra wouldn’t be able to stomach it.

There was no response, so Savannah edged the door open and crept through it. The smell of stale sweat hit her.

Lyra lay with her back to the door. Clothed in a black top and jogger bottoms she’d been wearing since the day of Katerina’s funeral and that stuck to her skin, she’d thrown the duvet to the bottom of the bed, fed up with the excess temperature. Her arms were grey and blotchy; Savannah didn’t need to see it to know that her face was in the same condition. Her hair was greasy and clung to her scalp.

Savannah placed the toast on Lyra’s bedside table and sat on the bed. She placed a hand on Lyra’s shoulder, drawing a shuddering sob from her.

‘You need to eat, mum,’ Savannah whispered, her voice quaking.

Lyra shook her head. Beyond that, she was unresponsive.

Savannah stayed where she was, rubbing Lyra’s arm in comfort, not wanting to suffocate her by hugging her and giving her more attention than necessary. She stared into the corner as she did so, wondering where it all went wrong. For one glorious morning, they’d had their mother back to near-full mental health… until the news broke. It wasn’t fair - Lyra gained the boost she’d needed for years, only to have herself brought back down to an even greater low.

The bedroom door creaked open once more. Theo stuck his mousy head through the gap.

‘Savvy,’ he whispered. ‘Is mummy okay?’

Normally, Savannah wouldn’t have let Theo see Lyra like this. But, given the circumstances, she gestured to him to come over to the bed, letting him know it was okay to see her.

Theo padded over and clambered into bed beside Savannah and behind Lyra, who hadn’t moved. Savannah wasn’t sure whether she’d heard him enter.

Theo looked at Savannah, teary. Then, he wrapped his arms around Lyra and rested his head on her waist. Lyra gave another great sob. She turned around and pulled him into a co-dependent cuddle. She cried into his shoulder and him into hers.

Savannah, now Lyra’s face was visible, could confirm she’d never seen her mother look worse. Her eyelids were lidded and purple, and the bags below were larger and blacker than ever, resembling bin bags. Her skin lacked all semblance of its olive nature. It was white and rough like sandpaper, with clear tear tracks which Savannah would gamble had been present, non-stop, for the past fortnight.

She left the room, leaving Theo and Lyra to their embrace. Her expectation was Lyra wouldn’t be vacating the bed anytime soon, so she braced herself for a longer period of parenting.

Despite her larger concerns, she couldn’t stop herself thinking she’d have to buy the Christmas presents this year. That the thought even occurred made her laugh. In times of crisis, the smaller things always seemed to be of higher importance than they otherwise would be.

*

They caught sight of the dishevelled, drunken Jeremy in the corner of his favourite pub. He was swaying, teetering on the edge of a blackout.

This would be fun - the chances of another drunken assault were high.

They strode up to him and he wrinkled his nose at them.

‘Wha’ now?’ he slurred.

‘Jeremy Glasco-Mason, you’re under arrest,’ Detective Bradshaw said, brandishing a pair of handcuffs. ‘For the murder of Katerina Andrianakis.’

The pub’s other patrons were razed into silence. Each of them gawked in the direction of the two detectives and Jeremy.

‘You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say-’

‘’OLD ON!’ Jeremy roared, spit flying in every direction. He knocked the glasses in front of him over in his rage. ‘I TOLD YOU, I DIDN’ DO IT! YI’ ‘AVE NO EVIDENCE!’

‘Actually,’ Bradshaw said with a cold smile that failed to crease his eyes. ‘Yes, we do. Your fingerprints were found on the murder weapon.’

Jeremy’s retort caught in his throat. He glared at the detective, mouth hanging wide open, words failing him.

‘Now, are you going to come quietly, or are we going to have another physical altercation?’