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beside him.
    ‘Bit of a fan, then?’
    ‘Eh?’
    ‘Soccer? Bit of a fan? United? Liverpool?’
    ‘Who the fuck are you?’
    But then Donald saw the two men outside the house, no more than fifty yards away, and he knew. Instinctively, he turned to run, milk and paper spilling from his hands, one corner of the carton splitting as it landed, leaking semi-skimmed on to the pavement.
    Elder grasped Donald’s arm between elbow and wrist.
    ‘Don’t. Don’t be stupid. You’ll only get hurt. No need for that.’
    ♦
    They took them to separate stations, McKeirnan with abrasions to his face and hands, a swelling over his left eye, the impression of a metal toecap faint alongside his groin. Whistling ‘Summertime Blues’ through splintered teeth.
    ‘My client’s already been waiting forty-five minutes to see a doctor,’ the duty solicitor blustered, pink-faced.
    ‘My old man waited eighteen months for a hip replacement,’ the custody sergeant replied. ‘The way it is these days.’
    ‘This isn’t funny…’
    ‘What my dad said. Especially when the bastard thing kept slipping out of joint. But keep your shirt on. The police surgeon’s on his way.’
    Three-quarters of a mile away, in the bowels of another station, the custody sergeant asked Donald to confirm his age.
    ‘Seventeen.’
    ‘The truth, son.’
    ‘Seventeen next birthday.’
    ‘Is there anyone you’d like informed that you’re here?’
    Donald shook his head.
    ‘Your parents?’
    ‘What the hell for?’
    Elder leaned across the desk. ‘Let’s get on to social services sharpish, explain the situation. Someone to attend the interview. When they show up, make sure he’s cautioned again. Meantime, let’s see if we can fix him up with a cup of tea and something to eat. Bacon sandwich, something of the sort.’
    ‘Thought you were going to tuck him in,’ the custody sergeant said, nodding towards Donald’s cell, the formalities over. ‘Read him a bedtime story.’
    ‘Kiss him good-night, if I thought it’d help,’ Elder said. ‘And whichever solicitor’s assigned, let’s try and make sure it’s not someone fresh out of law school, out to make a name for themselves.’
    ♦
    It took till mid-morning to get it sorted: a senior social worker in a black skirt and crisp white blouse, rings of tiredness around her eyes; the solicitor late fifties, genial, semi-retired, doing his bit for legal aid. Elder had asked Maddy Birch, a bright DS with soft eyes, to run the interview with him. The room was windowless, low-ceilinged and bare-walled – table, chairs, twin-deck recorder, overhead light. Elder identified himself for the tape and invited the others in the room to do the same, Donald’s voice so faint that Elder had to ask him to say his name again.
    For the first fifteen minutes Elder led Donald through basic background information about himself, nothing challenging, encouraging him to relax a little, lose some of the tightness across his shoulders, the defensiveness in his voice. When Maddy Birch asked him to tell them about his first meeting with McKeirnan, Donald wriggled in his chair and ran his tongue around his mouth and answered haltingly. Maddy smiled and drew him on. A good laugh. All the fun of the fair.
    ‘Lucy Padmore, Shane,’ Elder said, slipping in the name without warning. ‘What was she like?’
    ‘She was nice.’
    ‘Nice?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘Nice to you?’
    ‘Yes, why not?’
    ‘Is that why you did those things to her?’
    ‘I…’
    ‘Pay her back for being nice to you.’
    ‘I dunno what you mean.’
    ‘Why you killed her?’
    ‘No!’ The chair skewed beneath him as Donald pushed himself to his feet, the social worker reaching out a hand, whether to save him or ward him off unclear.
    ‘Shane…’
    ‘No. Don’t say that.’
    ‘About killing her?’
    ‘Don’t say that.’
    ‘She died, Shane. No bringing her back.’
    Donald was breathing unevenly, open-mouthed, a rasp of air sucked in and then