‘Archie, my old pal – how are you doing?’

Jessica accidentally slapped him on the back harder than she meant, making the constable partially regurgitate a bit of sausage. Given he had bought it in the station’s canteen, that could only be a good thing.

He coughed up a bit more and then struggled to down a mouthful of water in between splutters. ‘Give over, Jess.’

She had a quick glance around to make sure there was no one nearby and then crouched to whisper in his ear: ‘My office, five minutes.’

Four and a half minutes later and Archie peered around Jessica’s door, eyebrows raised in curiosity.

‘Shut the door,’ she said. ‘And lock it.’

Archie did as he was told. ‘Yaright?’

‘Did you just ask if I was all right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Only a Manc could turn four words into one – “Are you all right?” Anyway, I’ve got a job for you.’

‘Okay.’

‘But it needs to be between you and me.’

‘I won’t say owt.’

‘How’s your memory?’

‘I can tell you who scored the goals at any United match I’ve ever been to. Go on, test me.’

‘No, thanks. I’m going to give you a couple of names but I don’t want to write them down, email them, text them or anything. They also can’t be connected back to me. Are you still up for it?’

Archie was rocking on his heels again in the way he had been when he was ready to square up to Holden. He was excited, thinking it was proper police work for once. ‘Aye, it’s sound.’

‘First one is a person – Freddy Bunce. He owns some building companies, so does his wife. There’s next to nothing about him in our system or in any news archives but I want you to try to find something that links him to Brooklands Golf Club in Northenden. Perhaps he’s a silent partner somewhere, or whoever owns the course used to be a neighbour. Something like that.’

‘Freddy Bunce and Brooklands Golf Club – no worries.’

He turned to leave.

‘Don’t you want to know why?’

Archie turned back, looking surprised. ‘Sorry?’

‘Don’t you want to know why I’m asking you to look into things for me?’

He shrugged. ‘Don’t matter, does it? If you’re asking then there’s a good reason. If you want me to do it quietly, then fair enough. I’m chuffed you’ve asked, to be honest.’

‘It’s because other people might be keeping a close eye on Dave and Izzy. It had to be you.’

Archie sniggered, knowing Jessica had said too much – she could’ve just let him think it was because he was the chosen one but that wasn’t the style of either of them. ‘You don’t have to explain. I’ll sort it. Shall I call you?’

‘No . . . I just . . . I’m probably overreacting but best not. Come and find me if you need to.’

‘Sound – but if you could not go around slapping me in public, it’d be appreciated.’ He rolled his shoulders forward. ‘Gotta reputation to uphold an’ all that.’

Jessica skimmed through her notes, trying not to feel as if this was a job someone else should be doing. ‘Right, Mr, er, Naismith, I’d just like to go back over what you’ve told me, if that’s okay?’

The man lying face down in the hospital twisted his head to face her and mumbled something that sounded a bit like ‘yeah’, although it could have been ‘ow’. Given what had happened to him Jessica didn’t know which, but she carried on anyway – more to double-check that she could read her own handwriting.

‘So you were at home last night with your girlfriend, er, Kylie.’

‘Right.’

‘And you own a house together?’

‘Yes.’

Jessica made an extra note, before continuing. ‘You were watching television and having tea together when, and I’m quoting here, “she went mental with the fork”.’

A grunt.

‘I know you’ve already told me once but I do think I should probably ask you to confirm for a second time exactly why she, ahem, “went mental”.’

Michael Naismith propped himself up slightly, until he was in a yoga-like position: on his front, legs and hips flat against the bed, chest thrusting upwards, neck arched. ‘We were watching this midweek singing show thing – it’s like a preview to the weekend, so you catch up with who’s singing what and how rehearsals are going; that kind of thing.’

‘Right.’

‘Do you watch them?’

‘Er, no . . .’

Liar.

‘Okay, well anyway, there’s this girl on there – Jenga or something like that—’

‘She’s called Jenga?’

‘Something like that. She was singing this Boyzone song and I was like, “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Not Boyzone.”’

‘Right.’

‘Anyway, like I said, we were eating spaghetti bolognaise and Kylie dropped her plate.’

‘Why?’

‘I dunno – probably because she was so surprised.’

‘At the fact you don’t like Boyzone?’

‘I suppose – she’s always been a fan but I thought they were shite first time around. Every time the key changes they’re up out of their stools like they’ve just shat themselves. Whenever she goes on about them, I keep it quiet but it just sort of popped out.’

Jessica peered back at her notes. Michael’s opinion about the Boyzone members’ arses was ironic considering what his girlfriend had done with the fork and the reason he was lying on his front.

‘Okay, so anyway – in essence, and correct me if I’m wrong, but you made a comment about Boyzone which she didn’t take too well and that’s when the incident with the fork and your, er, body happened.’

‘Right.’ Michael plopped himself back down onto the bed. ‘I know I called you and you had to come out but you’re not going to press charges, are you? It was only a misunderstanding – a bit of a tiff. All couples have them, don’t they?’

He was right that all couples had tiffs but Jessica wasn’t convinced this was a regular outcome.

‘We’ll have to come back to you,’ Jessica said. ‘The CPS will take into account likely cooperation of a witness, and seeing as you’re the only witness that might mean they don’t take things any further. It’s not for me to say.’

‘It was just a mix-up.’

‘She was aiming for somewhere else? Either way, like I said, someone will be in contact. If it’s any consolation, Kylie did say she was sorry.’

Jessica made her way back through the hospital corridors trying to figure out if Michael and Kylie’s story would make the top five strangest things she’d investigated. When she’d interviewed Kylie, she had given more or less the same story, except that in her version she really did sound like the aggrieved party:

Kylie: ‘It’s just I really love ’em.’

Jessica (mishearing ‘’em’ as ‘’im’): ‘Michael?’

Kylie: ‘Oh yeah, I love ’im too – but I meant Ronan and the boys.’

Jessica had gone from investigating murders and serial thieves to interviewing a couple who’d fallen out over a boy band while eating spaghetti.

As she crossed reception, Jessica spotted the payphone on the wall. She slotted in 50p and called Archie. ‘Who is it?’ asked his gruff Mancunian voice.

‘It’s Jess. I’m on a payphone, so be quick. If you’ve got something for me then I’ve got a funny story about a man’s arse for you.’

‘Why would I want to hear about another man’s arse?’

‘Trust me; you’ll want to hear this. Have you got anything?’

‘Aye.’

‘If there’s no one around, you can tell me now. Better than keep sneaking off to my office.’

‘Two ticks.’ Jessica heard Archie shuffling and then he was back: ‘I didn’t find much. Brooklands Golf Club is owned by a fella named Logan Walkden. I couldn’t find much about your mate Bunce, except for the obvious.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It seemed so simple that I didn’t think to write it down at first, then I thought you might want to know anyway. Walkden and Bunce are both local lads, both born in the same hospital a couple of months apart. I’ve got their birthdays if you want them – they both turned fifty this year.’

The phone began to beep, telling Jessica her time was up. ‘Thanks – I owe you an arse story.’