It looked lost and abandoned between a petrol station and a furniture store. When Fearby walked in he recognized his man immediately and he knew at the same moment that he was a policeman, or an ex-policeman. Grey suit, white shirt, striped tie, black shoes. Slightly overweight. Fearby sat down beside him.‘Drink?’ he said.‘I was just leaving,’ said the man.‘What’s your name?’‘You don’t need to know,’ said the man, ‘because we’re never going to meet again. You know, we all got pretty sick of you. On the force.’‘They got pretty sick of me on my paper as well,’ said Fearby.‘So you must be feeling chuffed with yourself.’‘Is that what you’ve dragged me out here to tell me?’‘Are you finished with the story?’‘I don’t know,’ said Fearby. ‘Conley didn’t kill Hazel Barton. Which means someone else did.’‘The police are not currently pursuing other leads. As you know.’‘Yes,’ said Fearby. ‘Is that it?’‘I was wondering if you had any avenues of enquiry?’‘Avenues of enquiry?’ said Fearby.
