“At the weekend, Howard. On Sunday. After our little trip to Hingley.” Mary informed him. Howard felt like a knife had been pushed into him, and then twisted around several times.

“Oh.” Said Howard. He gave Alex and Mary a quick, poisonous glance, and then slowly walked away, heading further up the road. His heart was racing, and Howard's stomach was completely knotted-up with jealousy. He found a small garden wall to sit on. What the fuck is Mary doing with that clown? I can’t believe this. Of all the people in Coldsleet that she could have ended up with… it just had to be that stupid fucking moron, thought Howard, not noticing the tall, moustached man with a slightly pock-marked face quietly approaching him.

The man with the moustache sat down next to Howard on the wall, startling the teenager.

“How’s it going, kid?” Asked the man. Howard stared at him, perplexed.

“Who are you?” He wanted to know, eyeing the man with suspicion.

“I’m Tom Grogan. Detective Tom Grogan.” Replied the man. “I’ve been inside Mister Whitehouse’s house for the past two hours… there’s a lot of activity going on… people examining things, gathering evidence… it does my head in, to be honest… all of those people.” Said Tom. He leaned back slightly. “I mean, I know they’re just doing their jobs… we’re all just doing our jobs, aren’t we?” He asked.

“We are?” Howard replied.

“Well, I didn’t mean you, obviously.” Said Tom Grogan.

“No, of course not.” Howard said, with a nervous smile.

“So, what’s your name, kid?” Detective Grogan wanted to know.

“Erm, it’s, erm, Howard. Howard Trenton.”

“Are you a neighbour of Mister Whitehouse, Howard?” Quizzed Tom.

“Yep. I live over the road, with my cousin and his wife.” Answered Howard, his voice shaking slightly.

“Did you know Mister Whitehouse well, Howard?” Asked the detective.

“Yeah, I suppose so, you know, to say ‘hello’ to, that sort of thing. He was very friendly with my cousin though. They got on well, always chatting.” Said Howard, but the detective didn’t appear to be listening; he was too busy staring down at Howard’s feet.

Detective Tom Grogan looked up at Howard.

“Those are nice hi-tops that you’re wearing, Howard. My son’s got a pair like that, except they’re black, rather than blue.” Said Tom. “I didn't know that you could get them in that colour.” He went on. Howard stared down at his footwear.

“The blue colour is hard to come by. I had to order them online. They were a limited edition thing.” He explained.

“They’re really nice though. My son would love a pair in that shade. Hey, Howard, how much did they cost you, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Forty nine quid. Plus the delivery costs, obviously.” Answered Howard Trenton.

“Obviously.” Smiled the detective. “How long have you had them for?” He wanted to know.

“Oh, not long. A couple of months.” Howard told Tom.

“And what… are they those… now what do they call them… ‘distressed’ hi-tops?” Queried Tom.

“‘Distressed’? Ah, you mean like, when you buy them, they’re already a bit worn-looking, dirty, torn? I’ve got some jeans like that… but these? Erm, no. These ones weren’t ‘distressed’ when I bought them. Why do you ask?”

“I just noticed how well-worn they look. Do you do a lot of walking, Howard?” The detective asked. Alarm bells started to go off inside Howard Trenton’s head. Why does this guy keep asking me about my fucking trainers?

“I do a lot of walking, yes… hey, I’m sorry, but I need to be getting back home. I’ve got coursework to be catching up on for college.” Said Howard.

“That’s okay, Howard. You go home, get on with your studies.” Tom smiled. Howard jumped off the wall.

“Goodbye, Mister Grogan.” Howard nodded. He was just about to walk back across the road, when the detective gently clutched at his arm.

“Before you leave, Howard, I’d like to share a little secret with you… if you don’t mind.” Said Tom.

Howard took a deep breath, trying to control his body, which was shaking. Badly.

“I really have to be off, Mister Grogan.” He said to the policeman, panicked.

“Of course you do, Howard, but this’ll only take a moment. I just want to tell you something strange.” Replied Tom.

“What do you mean, ‘strange’?” Responded Howard. Tom Grogan let out a little laugh.

“We found a set of footprints… in Mister Whitehouse’s bath.” The detective confided. “Now isn’t that just the weirdest thing?”

“Pardon?” Howard said.

“A set of footprints. Just as if someone had been standing up, in the bath-tub. And here’s the strange part, Howard. I recognised the pattern on those prints straight away, because my son… his name’s Bernie, by the way, which is short for Bernard… perhaps you know him? Bernie Grogan?”

“I don’t know anyone called Bernie, sorry.” Snapped Howard, impatiently.

“Oh, okay. It was just a thought… well, my son, Bernie, he’s like you, Howard. He does a lot of walking. He goes into the mountains and the hills a lot… Bernie is a born rambler. Me, I prefer to stay indoors, relax, watch a bit of soccer on the…”

“Mister Grogan, I really need to get home.” Said Howard.

“I know you do, Howard, I know that you do, but just let me finish… Bernie, he goes off rambling a lot, wearing hi-tops, just like yours. And I’m always querying with him if those hi-tops are suitable footwear for trudging over rocks and stuff… I mean, they don’t offer much in the way of ankle protection, do they, Howard?” Asked the detective. Howard rolled his eyes. Please, just shut up about your fucking son’s hi-tops, and just leave me alone, he thought.

Howard wriggled out from the policeman’s grip, and took a step away from Detective Tom Grogan.

“I have to go. I’ve got loads to do.” Said Howard.

“But I haven’t finished yet, Howard. Now, where was I? Oh yeah, my son, Bernie. He wears those hi-tops when he’s out on his walks, and I’m always telling him that he should buy himself a proper pair of hiking boots… but that’s all beside the point. Do you want to know what irritates me about my son, Howard?” Asked Tom.

“I really haven’t the slightest, sir.” Replied Howard, in a high-pitched, agitated voice.

“I’ll tell you what irritates me about Bernie. He’s always traipsing mud and grass into the house. He goes off on some walk, comes home, and never wipes his ruddy feet. My wife, Sheila… she’s forever having a go at Bernie for dirtying the kitchen floor with those bloody hi-tops. I have a go at him, too. It’s annoying, Howard, when someone keeps walking in mud, slowly wrecking the carpet… but now, Howard, I’m glad that he did.”

“You’re glad that he did what?” Asked Howard.

“I’m glad that Bernie left all of those dirty footprints. And do you know why I’m glad that he did, Howard?” Smiled the detective.

“No.” Responded the teenager.

“Because it helped me recognise, straight away, those footprints that were found in Alfie Whitehouse’s bathtub. The pattern that those hi-tops leave… they’re unique, Howard. Unique. As soon as I saw them, I thought to myself, whoever was stood here, they were wearing hi-tops, just like the ones that Bernie wears.” Said Tom. He stood up from the garden wall. “So, that’s what we’re focusing on now, Howard. Those footprints. Footprints that could have come from my own son’s hi-tops. Or yours, come to that. Good night, Howard.” Grinned the detective, before shuffling off back down the road. When Tom Grogan reached Alfie Whitehouse’s front pathway, he glanced back up the road, and smiled at Howard. Then he vanished inside the home of the murdered pensioner.

Chapter Thirteen

Mary Broderick lay on her bed, next to Alex Crennell.

“Howard didn’t look too pleased when he saw us walking up the road together.” Smirked Alex.

“Well, he wouldn’t, would he? I told you that he’s got a huge crush on me, Alex. I can’t help but feel a bit sorry for him though.” Mary replied. “He looked really hurt.”