The Score by Howard Marks

the fields. It was a warning. The woman looked briefly towards them, then away again into the trees.
    Kyle. She was wearing a townie’s version of country gear: a padded jacket and sensible boots. She looked like she was off to a corporate clay pigeon shoot somewhere. Had she spotted Cat? Hard to tell. There had been no obvious reaction.
    Cat stepped back behind the stack of logs so she wasn’t so visible. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ she asked Thomas, wondering if it was his revenge for the night before.
    ‘Because you’d have gone back to town like a good girl, would you?’ His voice was sneering, but also held some admiration for her tenacity.
    Kyle moved away from them, skirting the edge of the hill.
    ‘Why is she here, Thomas?’
    ‘Spends a lot of time in the area. Renovating her weekend cottage.’
    ‘But why’s she at the scene? One of the families call her in to help?’
    A light shake of the head came from Thomas. He took another drag on his cigarette, looked around. He could have been a man at a bus stop, mildly irritated by a late bus.
    ‘No. She expressed an interest in the other two girls when they were filed as Mispers.’
    ‘Bit small-time for Kyle, isn’t it?’
    Thomas snorted quietly. ‘It’s not a professional interest, it’s personal.’
    ‘Personal?’
    Like most other members of the force, Cat found it hard to imagine Kyle having a personal life. Cat peeked out, seeing Kyle stood under one of the trees, peering at the bottom of the field. There was nothing down there, just the bare banks and a shallow, freely flowing stream.
    ‘She lost her foster-daughter five years back. Suicide.’
    Christ. ‘She blames herself?’
    Thomas shrugged. ‘The girl just did it, right out of the blue. Standing alone at the station, jumped out in front of a train. No sign she was unhappy. There was nothing Kyle could do.’
    Poor cow, thought Cat. Having to carry that around with you. That might be a reason Kyle was so fierce and cold at work, pushing everyone away. Thomas stubbed the cigarette out under his shoe, turned back towards the farmhouse. Cat looked briefly over at the trees, and at Kyle staring at the field. Kyle had moved further away, was looking down towards the stream, then back towards the trees. She seemed lost, unable to focus.
    The front door to the farm was open. Thomas stood aside, ushered Cat in before him. Not from chivalry, she thought.
    At the end of a passage she could see a farmhouse kitchen, the threadbare arm of a settee, an old sink packed with washing-up, a corrugated draining board. To the right a female Family Liaison Officer stood beside a chintz sofa. A woman was lying on the sofa, stretched out flat, one arm bent above her head, clearly sedated. Nia Hopkins’s mother. Every so often the FLO softly patted her arm, as if she were a pet dog.
    Cat became aware of another presence near her in the hallway, turned back to where a tall, dishevelled youth stood, swaying gently, at the foot of the stairs. He wore a khaki T-shirt, sweat stains under the armpits, decorated with an image of a cannabis leaf. His jeans were mud-spattered, although his trainers were a brilliant white, and looked as if they’d just come out of the box. His face was pale, his mouth partly open. He caught Cat’s eye, then Thomas’s. They turned back to face the kitchen. Seconds later the sound of his feet dragging up the stairs filtered down to them.
    ‘That’s the half-brother. Calls himself Moose.’
    Thomas went up after him and Cat followed. Thomas gently pushed open the door of the room at the top of the stairs, revealing a modern bathroom. Judging by the smell of bleach it had recently been cleaned. The room to its left was a large double bedroom, clearly the master. The next door but one was shut. Thomas rapped it with his knuckles, pushed it open before there was any response. Cat and Thomas stepped inside.
    The room was narrow, the curtains drawn. Moose was sitting on the bed, wiping his