She was flushed but the look on her face was defiant rather than contrite as she took a sip of Babycham. She looked about sixteen years old, he thought, and he did not know how to start telling her the extent of the risks he had seen her taking. He put his glass down and sighed. The only way forward, he thought, was to come at the girl obliquely, through her brother, and then perhaps take her out for a meal later. ‘I can look after myself, you know, la,’ she said, breaking the silence and glancing at him over the top of her glass, her Liverpool twang very strong. ‘Liverpool’s not exactly a garden of roses or anything. There’s some bad things going on. I learned to look after myself when I was a kid.’ ‘I’m sure you did,’ Barnard agreed solemnly. ‘But just at the moment, right here, it looks like we’ve got two major gangs at each other’s throats and two deaths which may or may not be connected. Believe me, they won’t be too fussy about getting rid of anyone who gets in their way.
