‘Can you stop doing that?’ he said, his voice decidedly squeaky.

‘I’m only a little girl, stop whingeing.’

‘Not so “little” any more.’

Jessica didn’t get a chance to reply before the door rattled in front of her. At first it stuck in its frame and then it was wrenched open.

The pictures of Anthony Thompson that had been in the newspapers looked hardly anything like the man standing in front of her. In the media, he had sensible brown hair cut almost into a basin style and had been wearing an open-necked shirt. Jessica wondered how long ago the photo had been taken because the man in front of her had straggly grey hair that hung to his shoulders, his cheeks puffy and glowing red. He was wearing a thick green jumper with a hole in one of the shoulders and Jessica could smell the alcohol without having to cross the threshold. The only thing that told her this was the man she was after was a scar that ran across his chin, finishing somewhere before it reached his neck. In the photos it had been visible, although somewhat faded. On the man in front of her, it was white against the crimson of his skin. She knew from their files he was in his early fifties but he looked much older.

Without a word, Anthony turned and walked through a doorway. Jessica glanced around at Rowlands, shrugging before stepping inside. As she wiped her feet on a thinning grey mat, she couldn’t help but notice everything seemed to be as faded as the paint of the front door. It reminded her a little of Adam’s house in that there wasn’t necessarily anything wrong with it but its style was twenty years out of date. The crusty wallpaper had a raised oval pattern that had been painted over in white gloss that was also beginning to flake. Apart from the reek of alcohol, there was also a stale smell which Jessica associated with the boot of her old car.

Jessica headed to the doorway she had seen Anthony go through. It was no surprise as she walked into the living room to see it had the same carpet and wallpaper as the hallway. Directly across from the door was a white cabinet filled with books – except for one slot in the centre where there was a large framed photo. Without going any closer, Jessica knew it was of Alfie Thompson. She had seen similar pictures in the file they had and, given the length of time since his death, she knew the photo had to be somewhere between eight and ten years old.

Anthony was sitting in a rocking chair steadily going forwards and backwards. It was made out of dark wood and creaked noisily each time it moved. He was holding a glass filled with a dark brown liquid that Jessica assumed was whisky. She walked around the room until she was standing in front of him, Rowlands staying close to the door awkwardly leaning to one side.

‘Are you okay, Mr Thompson?’ Jessica asked.

Anthony sipped from his glass before answering with a croaky ‘Yup’.

‘Do you live alone?’

The man’s rocking increased in tempo, the back of the curved wood touching the floor. ‘Yup.’

With the obvious tension, Jessica didn’t think it was worth wasting any more time. ‘Can you tell me where you were between three and four this morning, Mr Thompson?’

She tried to use her sweetest tone again but it seemed to agitate the man further. The speed of Anthony’s rocking increased again, causing a few drops of his drink to splash over the top of his glass.

‘Mr Thompson?’ Jessica persisted.

Abruptly, Anthony planted his feet on the floor and stopped the chair, springing up in a way that was totally at odds with his age and appearance. With an elegance Jessica could barely believe, he switched from rocking to walking in one fluid movement, striding from one end of the room to the other. He sat in a brown armchair closest to the photograph of his son and leant back, pointing at a matching seat across from where he was sitting. The whole incident had lasted a few seconds. As she walked towards the seat he was indicating, Jessica caught Rowlands’s eye but he too seemed stunned by Anthony’s sprightly movement.

‘I was sleeping,’ Anthony said crisply, still holding the drink in his hand.

‘On your own?’ Jessica asked, already knowing the answer.

‘Yes.’

‘Did some officers visit you a couple of days ago?’ Jessica again knew the answer.

‘Yes.’

‘And you told them you hadn’t threatened Mr Chadwick?’

Anthony downed the rest of his drink in one and winced slightly. ‘Yes,’ he replied, his voice hoarser.

‘Have you had any contact with him since then?’

The reply came instantly, although the man was staring at his empty glass, refusing to acknowledge Jessica. ‘No.’

From her first impression, Jessica would have doubted Anthony being able to throw a brick but it was now clear the man was a lot more agile than he looked. They had no evidence to connect him to the scene of vandalism at Martin’s house and, although the specialist team were looking for footprints or anything else of note, she didn’t expect them to come up with anything. Jessica didn’t want to tell Anthony what had happened; for now, she wanted to get a feel of what he was like, especially after the time she had spent with Martin and Ryan.

She’d been hoping Anthony’s words had been taken out of context by the newspaper. Instead, her fears that something could happen between the two parties had only increased.

After a host of one-word replies and general lack of cooperation from Anthony, Jessica glanced sideways at Rowlands, who had a blank look on his face. It was clear they weren’t going to get anything. Jessica stood and offered her hand for the man to shake. She didn’t know if he would, but the man reciprocated, sending a shiver through her from the coldness of his hand. Jessica left him one of her cards and followed Rowlands out of the house. Anthony hadn’t moved to show them out, so Jessica closed the door behind them.

‘He’s friendly,’ Rowlands said once they were outside.

Jessica clicked her tongue into the top of her mouth. ‘Did you see how quickly he moved?’

The constable hummed in acknowledgement. ‘I thought he was going straight towards you before he went for the armchair.’

‘I hope we can keep him and Ryan apart. I don’t trust either of them.’

As she was talking, Jessica bumped into the back of Rowlands, failing to notice he had stopped in front of her. She peered around him and saw why: at the end of the pathway leading to Anthony’s house was a woman with a camera with a telephoto lens pointing towards them. Even at this distance, Jessica could hear the click and whirr as the person took their photo.

She pushed ahead of Rowlands and strode purposefully towards the gate, opening it as the photographer stepped backwards, still taking pictures.

‘Who are you?’ Jessica demanded.

The photographer answered without lowering her camera. ‘Press.’

‘I can see that,’ Jessica snapped, trying not to take the bait. ‘Where are you from?’

The woman finally moved her camera down to her hip. ‘Herald.’ Jessica turned and realised there were two more photographers a few metres away also taking her photo.

Before she could say anything, a male voice sounded from behind her. ‘Sergeant Daniel?’

Jessica turned to see a man holding a silver metal device towards her. He was somewhere in his mid to late twenties with spiky dark hair, wearing a black pinstripe suit that looked as if it was tailored specifically for him. It fitted perfectly around his trim physique and he was also sporting a thin dark tie. His smartness coupled with the fact he was standing on a pavement uttering her name made Jessica take a step backwards in surprise.

‘Who are you?’ Jessica asked, noticing that the electrical object had what looked like a small microphone pointing out of it.

The man’s response was as sharp as his attire. ‘Sebastian Lowe, Manchester Morning Herald. Why are you visiting Anthony Thompson, Ms Daniel?’