Angels Passing by Graham Hurley

microwave, a packet of Coco Pops and an empty carton of milk. There were the remains of a Chinese in a dog bowl on the floor while rubbish was spilling out of the black plastic sack in the corner. The open window above did little for the smell. Mrs Prentice had lit a cigarette. Faraday stepped carefully round her. Down the tiny hallway were two bedrooms. One contained an unmade bed with a smaller mattress beside it. The other door was locked.
    ‘What’s in here?’
    ‘The dog.’
    ‘Is that the kid’s bedroom?’
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘You’ve got a key?’
    The look again, garnished with a smile that Faraday didn’t altogether trust.
    ‘Good with dogs, are yer?’ She produced a key from her jeans pocket and tossed it towards Faraday.
    The moment he inched open the door, the dog lunged towards him. He wasn’t a big dog, a Jack Russell maybe, or a mongrel, and Faraday managed to hold him off for long enough to confirm that the room was empty. Three beds side by side. What looked like sleeping bags. Plus a Pompey poster on the wall. The dog was yapping fit to bust. Faraday shut the door.
    ‘You want it locked again?’
    ‘Of course I fucking do. They’ll have him out otherwise.’
    Faraday locked the door and returned the key. The woman stared him out. She’d been pretty once. Definitely.
    ‘Where’s Gavin then?’
    ‘Haven’t a clue.’
    ‘When does he normally come in?’
    ‘Pass.’ She sucked in a lungful of smoke, tipping her head back to expel it again. ‘Pub quiz, is it? Only I’m really busy.’
    Faraday persevered. What really pissed these people off was staying calm. Lose your rag, and they’d walk all over you.
    ‘Gavin’s ten,’ he pointed out. I expect he’ll be home for tea soon.’
    I doubt it. He’s off somewhere.’
    ‘Any idea where?’
    ‘Not the slightest.’
    ‘What about last night? What was he up to last night?’
    ‘Haven’t got a clue.’
    ‘You didn’t see him last night?’
    ‘Nope. Nor the night before. Nor the night before that. He comes home when it suits him. Like most men.’
    ‘He’s ten,’ Faraday reminded her. ‘And he’s your son.’
    ‘So?’
    She stepped into the kitchen, grinding out the remains of the cigarette in the sink. Faraday wondered how quickly you’d get used to the stench.
    ‘You’ll have a photo,’ he suggested.
    ‘Of Gav?’ The woman was grinning now, taking the piss. ‘You from the telly or something? Gonna make him famous?’
    For a moment Faraday toyed with explaining about this morning, about what they’d found outside Chuzzlewit House, but decided against it. Mrs Prentice was way beyond caring, least of all about a nice middle-class girl from Old Portsmouth lying dead in the rain. Looking at her, Faraday could hear the phrases already. Shit happens. Big deal.
    ‘The name Doodie,’ he began. ‘Does everyone call him that?’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Your Gavin.’
    ‘Doodie?’ She mugged a big, stagey frown. ‘Never heard of it. His name’s Gavin. I calls him Gavin. The kids calls him Gavin. Everyone calls him Gavin. OK?’
    ‘So where does he sleep at night?’
    ‘Loadsa places. His nan’s. Friends. Loadsa places.’
    ‘But you don’t know? You don’t check?’
    ‘No point. He’d only get in a strop and then I’d never see him at all, would I? Thing about Gav, he’ll always come back. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. But he’s like the dog, can’t do without us. Know what I mean?’
    ‘Food?’
    ‘He gets by, looks after himself. Never hungry, not my Gav.’
    ‘And school?’
    ‘Hates it. Can’t be doing with it. Hits the teachers, even women teachers. He’s wicked that way, really naughty. Like I tell them, they’re better off without him.’ She laughed – a short, mirthless bark of laughter – then nodded towards the front door. ‘That it then?’
    ‘What about his dad?’
    ‘What about him?’
    ‘Does he live here?’
    ‘With us, you mean? Are you out of your mind?’
    ‘You’ve got a name? A contact