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tree.”
“I like to paint trees, but not in the parlour, and certainly not
coniferous trees. The dreaded fir has become a dividing line between
council-house back gardens. They are not real trees. They don’t shut
down in autumn like real trees. There is no decay and death, nothing to
stimulate the artist.”
    Paul gave him an exaggerated frown, as children do, and said, “We
even had a Christmas tree in the…”
    “Prison?”
    “That’s it. But there were no pressies under it.” He explored further,
then, “There’s no TV?”
    “You’re right. No TV.”
    “In for repair, is it?”
    “No .”
    “How can you live without a TV?”
    “I manage.”
    “Grief!” The thought shook Paul's head. “Still, it's a big place, I'll
give you that. You could put up four people here, without bother.”
Mr Lawrence put in quickly, “It's a small flat, suitable for one.”
“Absolutely,” Paul agreed and offered a winning smile. “One and a
lodger.”
    They moved into the smaller of two bedrooms.
    “This is it,” Mr Lawrence said as Paul bounced on the bed.
“There's a walk-in wardrobe here where you can hide, if you like.
The airing cupboard is outside your door. Blankets, pillows and sheets
in there.”
    “Brilliant. This is the first time I've had a room to myself in months.
Not since I did a month in solitary.” He continued to bounce.
“Solitary?”
    “I put some bleach in the screw's coffee. He wasn't a happy screw
after that.”
    “Goodness me. What happened to him?”
    “Well, screw became screwed. He went to see the doctor, Mr
Lawrence, with a bit of a tummy upset.”
    Paul noticed the older man's concern. He stopped bouncing and
said, “I won't be no trouble. Honest. I'll make myself useful, you'll see.
Anything you want doing… Electrics, cooking, you name it. I'm the
man. I'll be out most evenings. Chess, go to the chess club, see?”
Mr Lawrence backed out.
    “Just one thing,” Paul continued. “I'm back late. How about a key?”
“Yes. If it's late you'll need a key.”
    “It is late. Wouldn't want to disturb you.”
    “No noise.”
    “No noise,” he agreed. “Quiet as a…lamb, innit? Baby, sleeping
baby! You won't even know I'm here.”
    Mr Lawrence closed the door and reached the kitchen when the
sounds of Madonna's Like a Virgin rattled the dishes. The noise came
from one of the two items held in the Robot City plastic carrier bag.
The other item was a toothbrush.
    Mr Lawrence hated Sundays.

Chapter 5
    DS Sam Butler thought that Cole was a workaholic, perhaps an
alcoholic too. A man full of bitter memories of a wife who'd gone off
with another man. The thought was painful. He’d gone through a
similar state of affairs but his wife hadn’t gone off. Instead she had
presented him with a daughter. His, so she said, and he believed her or,
rather, wanted to. It seemed a long time ago but it never went away,
not completely, and you could never forgive, not entirely, but if you
cared enough, then you could live with it. It was more of a strength
than a weakness.
    Butler was part of Inspector Jack Wooderson's team at Hinckley
nick, transferred from Sheerham when sleepless nights had arrived
with his daughter. Every minute in bed counted and Hinckley was five
minutes closer to home. Lately he'd seen little of Cole and it came as a
surprise when the DI asked him to call into HQ, off the record. They'd
worked together in the past but they'd never been close. No one ever
got close to Rick Cole.
    The office brought back memories, serious incidents. A copper's
mind was notched with memories of results, good and bad. Putting
them aside was the difficult bit. It was too easy to lie there and get off
on them again. You could never get away from the job. It followed you
around like a shadow and it threw a shadow over everything else too.
Butler said, “Heard about the bomb.”
    Cole tried a smile. “You're lucky. It rattled our windows. Marsh has
taken it very personally.”
    Marsh was the