Brotherhood of Blades by Linda Regan

not to go back to the estate to see that slag Chantelle, he would still go. Love was love, and Jason thought he loved Chantelle. Sally knew she was bad and would drag him back down the wrong road, but it was no use arguing with Jason. He was strong-willed; when he was a child she had often been afraid of him. Even at the tender age of eight he was capable of terrifying violence. She remembered a particular incident when he’d gone half mad at her for something or nothing, picked up a sharp carving knife and stabbed it into her new kitchen stools, one after the other, and after she’d saved so hard to buy the bloody things. She loved those stools; the seats had been covered to match the floral blinds in her kitchen. She had kept them, meaning to have them re-covered when she’d saved up enough money, but she never had; they were still slashed and stabbed now, as a reminder to herself never to push Jason too far.
    She’d have to hope he’d forget Chantelle when he got into his new dancing life. She wasn’t going to risk him turning on her by telling him what the slapper was up to every night, on the street in front of the estate. Sally had seen the little tart with her own eyes, flagging down motorists and offering them sexual favours. Jason would have to find out for himself. And she hoped he would.
    And as for that Haley! The woman really provoked her, banging on at her to keep Jason away from her niece because he wasn’t good enough for her. Well, the truth was he was too bloody good by a mile.
    So when Jason came home, and stood shaking inside the door, with blood all over his hands and clothes and in his hair, her first thought was that someone had tried to take him out, and after all that had happened to her precious family, she was now going to lose her only grandson to someone who wanted to get even for something in the past. Oh, the relief when he’d assured her that he wasn’t hurt, but had to get out of those clothes! He told her something terrible had happened and he didn’t know what to do.
    They had both sat in her kitchen on the stools with the slashes across their floral plastic coverings, and Jason told her that Haley Gulati was dead and lying at the bottom of her block of flats with knife wounds in her chest.
    Sals had picked up the phone to dial 999. But he had stopped her; he had taken care of everything, he said, but now he needed to get away. She had asked no more questions; she just got on with helping him, as she always had.

SIX
    T he flat was quiet and empty as DI David Dawes unlocked his front door and let himself in. He stood in the hall for a moment and took a couple of deep breaths.
    In the short time that she was there, Philly had turned his neat home into bedlam. He was forever shouting at her to tidy her stuff from under his feet and turn her music down. Now he missed the mess, almost as much as he missed her.
    He knew it would take time, but it had been well over a year now, and the numbness still suffocated him. Every time something reminded him of her, he silently promised her that he would find the dealer that sold her the heroin that killed her and make the bastard pay. Now that goal was within his grasp.
    He walked into the bathroom, turned the tap on and held his cupped hands under the cold tap. A vigorous cold splash followed by a brisk rub with a clean towel made him feel more awake; the long hours police work demanded were no joke. He hung the towel tidily on the rail and looked around. Here, too, he found he missed the mess: bottles without tops, their contents leaking over the glass shelf.
    Some of her clothes still hung in the wardrobe. He’d thought about taking them to a charity shop but couldn’t quite bring himself to pack them up; knowing that something of hers was still there was a comfort. It was only a pair of jeans, and a few party tops he had bought for her, knowing better than to give her money. He had enjoyed choosing them, and she had loved them, but never