Death of a Cave Dweller by Sally Spencer

had just deliberately engineered would have been bound to
happen sooner or later anyway, but now, looking at the expression
of devastation on Jack Towers’ face, he couldn’t help
but feel guilty.

Seven
    T he black police Humber, which was parked in the canyon between the two blocks of tall Victorian warehouses, seemed almost as if it had strayed into the area by mistake, but the uniformed inspector standing next to it – and watching Woodend’s approach with something very much akin to suspicion – looked as if he were on familiar territory.
    â€œAye, an’ that’s the trouble – whatever else is wrong with him, he does know his patch,” the chief inspector muttered to himself as he approached Hopgood. “An’ though I don’t want to use the bugger – it’d be like usin’ a sledge hammer to crack a walnut – I may not have any choice.”
    With what looked like a considerable effort on his part, Hopgood forced a half-smile to his face. “Did you learn anything interesting from talking to the Seagulls, sir?” he asked.
    â€œOh, I learned a hell of a lot that was
interestin
’,” the chief inspector told him. “I’m just not sure yet whether I’ve learned anythin’ which might help me to solve this case.”
    â€œAnd now you want to go and see Eddie Barnes’s parents?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œMight I ask why, sir? They’re not likely to have murdered him now, are they?”
    Woodend sighed. How could he ever hope to explain the way he worked to this stolid, unimaginative bobby?
    â€œI want to understand the dead lad better,” he said. “I want to find out what made him tick.”
    â€œI see,” Hopgood said – though it was plain that he didn’t. “Shall I come with you?”
    â€œI don’t think so,” Woodend said. “I prefer to be alone when I’m dealin’ with grievin’ parents.”
    â€œPlease yourself, sir.”
    Hopgood tapped on the window of the Humber, and beckoned. The door opened, and a tall, thin constable with sandy hair got out.
    â€œThis is Constable Bates,” Hopgood said. “He’ll take you wherever you want to go.”
    â€œRight then, Bates, let’s get started,” Woodend said.
    The constable moved smartly round to the back of the car, and opened the door.
    â€œYou’ve got long arms, son, but I think even you’ll have trouble drivin’ from the back seat,” Woodend said.
    â€œI . . . er . . . thought you’d want to sit in the back, sir,” Bates said. “Most senior officers do.”
    â€œNay, lad, I’ll ride in the front with you – like a real grown-up,” Woodend told him.
    He heard Hopgood’s loud snort, and realised he had just managed to offend the inspector’s sense of what was right and proper again. Well, stuff the officious bugger.
    Liverpool was nothing like the size of London, and the police Humber had soon left the city centre and was heading out into the suburbs. Woodend watched a seemingly endless stream of semi-detached houses fly past the window, each with its own small, but tidy front garden.
    The men who owned these houses were probably train drivers and electricians, plumbers and assistant shop managers – fellers who had, in all likelihood, been brought up in back-to-back terraced houses and were probably immensely proud of what they’d managed to provide for their own families. And why the bloody hell shouldn’t they be proud? Woodend asked himself.
    Constable Bates slowed, and finally came to a halt in front of one of the semis. “This is the place, sir,” he said.
    Woodend sighed. This was a part of the job which, however often he did it, he’d never been quite able to come to terms with.
    â€œDid somebody think to ring the parents up to tell them that I was makin’ a visit?” he