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by the allotment for some serenity away from a wife whoā€™d badgered him throughout his career about not being at home much, not being a ā€˜present father or husbandā€™, and she still did it now, harping on and on. Heā€™d told her once that sheā€™d known what sheā€™d signed up for when sheā€™d married a copper, but clearly, she hadnā€™t realised the truth of that at first.

Melindaā€™s ranting pushed him to escape her, when all along, his retirement was supposed to be about them reconnecting, making up for the lost time heā€™d spent on case after case. Heā€™d pledged that promise to her years ago to stop her from leaving himā€”ā€œI swear, if you donā€™t give us some attention, weā€™re going, Robin, do you understand?ā€ā€”but heā€™d inevitably broken it.

Or maybe sheā€™d forced him to with her constant jibes.

This morning, never one to not make a point when she could, sheā€™d said, ā€œYou spend just as much time away from me now as you did before you left your job. What are you doing at that bloody allotment, because it certainly isnā€™t growing owt at the moment bar a few fucking runner beans? Got a fancy piece on the go, have you?ā€

Like he would. Melinda would have his guts for garters if she found outā€”and she would, her friends were gossipsā€”and besides, his downstairs equipment wasnā€™t working like it should nowadays, what with his age. Heā€™d blame brewerā€™s droop but didnā€™t drink that much, years seeing the results of drunken fights outside the pubs in town putting him off, and the Viagra Melinda had suggested didnā€™t sit well with him.

ā€œSo youā€™re saying you donā€™t want to do it with me anymore, is that it?ā€ sheā€™d screeched.

And his mind had screeched back: Please, please, just be quiet.

He hadnā€™t verbalised his thought, instead walking out of their kitchen, his three flasks of coffee cradled to his fast-narrowing chest instead of its wide form when heā€™d been in his prime, coming here to sit in his little shed, his sanctuary with two pictures on a whiteboard like the one in the incident room, names written down and red arrows pointing to cluesā€”well, supposition, suspicions heā€™d had back in the day but hadnā€™t said them out loud regarding a couple of cases that still bothered him.

The small heater warmed his toes, the aroma of gas from the cannister tainting the air, and he held a coffee from one of his flasks. He always made enough to last him for hours, plus brought a packed lunch along, although he hadnā€™t had time to make that today. Melinda had started on him as heā€™d twisted the cup on the third flask, and heā€™d legged it to get away from her complaints. Still, Greggā€™s had been open, and heā€™d treated himself to some sausage rolls and a couple of glazed ring doughnuts. Thatā€™d see him right.

What he hadnā€™t told his wife was that certain cases still haunted him, ones heā€™d never been able to solveā€”or one in particular he hadnā€™t been allowed to. Sheā€™d go mad if he admitted he thought about them: ā€œGod, just let it go, Robin!ā€ Despite his desire for peace, he wished he was still at work, sitting at a desk going over old crimes, desperate to find whoever had remained elusive, especially now Lenny Grafton was dead. One case had always concerned him, the disappearance then murder of Jessica Wilson, a three-year-old belonging to Joe and Lou, the farmers out at Handel.

There had been rumours that Lenny had dealt with the killer. Rumours. Who was Robin kidding? He knew full well Lenny had murdered The Mechanic, and Robin had taken a backhander and risked his job to hand over Jessā€™ wellies and raincoat out of the evidence storeā€”stealing it, for fuckā€™s sake, a copper turned rogue, and it had left more than a rancid taste in his mouth.

Robin had shit bricks, worrying every day since that heā€™d get caught for it, reminding himself there hadnā€™t been CCTV in the store back then to point the finger at him, but heā€™d been frightened of Lenny more than any camera. The man had been a right mad bastard, and Robin hadnā€™t wanted to die by his handā€”or that Marlene womanā€™s. Heā€™d tried to work out who she was, find her, but that name had to be a fake one. Surprisingly, no residents in town were called Marlene.

The holiday in Tenerife, paid for in cash with the bribe money, hadnā€™t been as enjoyable as Robin had hoped. Heā€™d thought time away would erase what heā€™d done, bring him and Melinda closer, but heā€™d been grumpy and out of sorts, the constant reminder that the holiday was paid for with ill-gotten gains turning the array of cocktails sour on his tongue, the good food curdling in his belly, the laughter of his wife and children somehow exacerbating his guilt-drenched emotions.

With Lenny having his heart attack and dying recently, Robin had breathed a massive sigh of reliefā€”awful, absolutely awful to be glad someone was dead, but there you have it. Robin was free now, but that didnā€™t mean heā€™d stopped thinking about Jess, or how heā€™d fobbed her mother off that timeā€”the unpleasantness of that gave him nightmares, the woman coming after him in his dreams, begging him to find a clue, no matter how small, so they could catch the bastards. As far as he was aware, no one else knew what heā€™d done, and the knowledge had died with the former patch leader. Still, Robin shouldnā€™t have taken Lennyā€™s word for it that The Mechanic was responsible, nor should he have urged his superior to shut the case down, as per Lennyā€™s instructions, Robinā€™s reasoning being there had never been any leads apart from the white van, the person in the back, and the man in a balaclava wielding a firearm, and those had turned into dead ends.

Rear Van Man, as Robin

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