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had heard since the DNA match had come back. He looked across at the DC. He knew that he should slap the cocky sod down. He knew that he should make a speech about their jobs as police officers, their need to be dispassionate, whatever the case, whoever the victim. He should talk about debts having been paid and maybe even drag out stuff about one man’s life being worth no more and no less than any other.
    He couldn’t be bothered.
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    Dave Holland was always happiest deferring to rank or, if he got the chance, pulling it. When it was just himself and another DC, things were never clear-cut and it made him uncomfortable.
    It was simple. As a DC, he deferred to a DS and above, while he was able to play the big man with trainee detectives and uniformed officers. Out and about with a fellow DC, and things should just settle into a natural pattern. It was down to personality, to clout.
    With Andy Stone, Holland felt outranked. He didn’t know why and it peeved him.
    They’d got on well enough so far, but Stone could be a bit “up himself.” He had a coolness, a flashiness, Holland reckoned, that he turned on around women and superior officers. Stone was clearly fit and good-looking. He had very short dark hair and blue eyes, and though Holland wasn’t certain, when Stone walked around, it looked as though he knew the effect he was having. What Holland was sure of was that Stone’s suits were cut that bit better, and that around him he felt like a ruddy-cheeked boy scout. Holland would probably still get the vote as housewives’ choice, but they all wanted to mother him. He doubted they wanted to mother Andy Stone.
    Stone could also be overcocky when it came to bad-mouthing their superiors, and though Holland wasn’t averse to the game himself, it got a bit tricky when it came to Tom Thorne. Holland knew the DI’s faults well enough. He’d been on the receiving end of his temper, had been dragged down with him on more than one occasion…
    Yet, for all that, having Thorne think well of him, consider that something he’d done was worthwhile, was, for Holland, pretty much as good as it could get.
    He’d been on the team a lot longer than Andy Stone, and Holland thought that should have counted for something. It didn’t appear to. It had been Stone who’d done most of the talking when they’d shown up bright and early on Mary Remfry’s doorstep with a search warrant.
    â€œGood morning, Mrs. Remfry.” Stone’s voice wassurprisingly light for such a tall man. “We have a warrant to enter and…”
    She’d turned away then and, leaving the door open, had trudged away down the thickly carpeted hallway without a word. Somewhere inside a dog was barking.
    Stone and Holland had entered and stood at the bottom of the stairs deciding who should start where. Stone made for the living room, where, through the partially opened door, they could see a silver-haired man slumped in an armchair, lost in morning TV trivia. As Stone leaned on the door he hissed to Holland, nodding toward the kitchen, where Mrs. Remfry had seemed to be heading.
    â€œCup of tea likely, you reckon?”
    It wasn’t.
    It seemed odd to Holland, needing a warrant to search a victim’s house. Still, like Stone had said, Remfry was a convicted rapist and the mother’s attitude hadn’t really given them a lot of choice. It wasn’t just the grief at her son’s death turning to anger. It was a genuine fury at what she saw as the implication in one particular line of questioning. Considering the manner and circumstances of her son’s death, it was a necessary line to pursue, but she was having no truck with it at all.
    â€œDougie was a ladies’ man, always. A proper ladies’ man.”
    She was saying it again, now, having suddenly appeared in the doorway of her son’s bedroom, where Holland was methodically going through drawers and