DS JONES CALLS – Thursday evening Skelgill is inexpertly arranging his damp hair, squinting critically into the film of dust that coats a little-used vanity mirror. From amongst the jumble of clothes on his bed his mobile rings. Naked, and rather pale but for his head, neck and forearms, he braces himself with one arm and rummages to retrieve the intrusive device. He frowns at the display, his lips compressed. The bright screen tells him the same caller has tried three times in the past ten minutes. Then he jabs at the handset with his left index finger. ‘Jones?’ ‘Sorry to bother you, Guv...’ ‘No problem.’ The flat tone of Skelgill’s reply hints at something of the opposite sentiment. ‘What it is, Guv – I’ve had some thoughts on the case.’ ‘Aha?’ DS Jones is silent for a moment; perhaps she has detected his reticence and is recalibrating her approach. Her response is somewhat tentative. ‘Well... I wondered – are you free – for a drink...
