Reya gave him a shy little nod of acknowledgement and stepped past.

“Constable, how’s the head?” asked Lee, eyes flicking briefly to the small bandage covering my wound.

“It’s healing,” I answered, and frowned. It had been irritating me that I’d never gotten the chance to thank him, even if his help had all been an act. “Thanks, by the way. For yesterday.”

His expression softened. “No thanks needed.”

I glanced around. “I’ve never seen you here before.”

Lee nodded. “Murphy’s closed down, so we all had to find a new place to train.”

“Hmmm.”

“Hmmm,” he mimicked, a grin shaping his lips as he leaned down, his hand braced against the door above my head. “Miss Sheehan, do you think I’m stalking you?”

Involuntarily, I snorted, and subsequently flushed with embarrassment. Staring at the floor, I muttered, “My ego’s not that big.”

I felt his breath whisper across my skin when he replied, “It’s a good thing mine is.” His wink told me he wasn’t talking about his ego.

Feeling the need to flee, I quickly stepped by him and outside to join Reya. All the while, I got the sense he was watching me leave. I gave her a lift to the tube station and then set off for my parents’ house. Yeah, I still visited, but it was mostly out of duty to my mum. I was patiently waiting for the day when she stood up to my dad and finally left his sorry arse for good. That would be the same day that elephants sprouted purple wings and scientists declared the world wasn’t round but flat. So, never.

Pulling up outside their house, I grimaced at the sight of the small front garden with its pristinely trimmed rosebushes and perfect little patch of grass. It was contrived, just like everything else about my family. Perfect on the surface, broken beneath.

Using my key to go in the front door, I could hear my dad talking loudly. The Northern Irish accent was a distinctive one, and it had this way of always sounding threatening, even when the speaker was merely commenting on the weather. He was on the phone, and from the gist I got of the conversation, it was a work call.

“We need to pin down McGregor sooner rather than later. He’s a snake — always when we think we have him, he manages to dodge the final bullet.”

Shop talk on a Sunday afternoon. Lovely.

I bypassed the lounge, where my dad was having his phone call, and headed straight for the kitchen. Mum was standing by the cooker when I came in, pulling her roast out of the oven.

“He’s not in the best mood today, love,” she whispered quietly, not even bothering to greet me. “It’s probably advisable not to try and rile him.”

“It’s nice to see you too, Mum,” I said, annoyed, and went to pour myself a glass of water. “And I never try to rile him. He riles himself. By the way, why the hell are we whispering?”

“Because I told you, your father’s in a terrible mood. The case he spent the last few months working on has fallen flat.” She paused, eyes moving to my bandage as she reached up to touch my forehead. “What happened here?”

“Hazard of the job,” I answered flippantly, and refocused on what she’d said about Dad. “What case was he working on?”

Dad sometimes liked to decompress by telling Mum about his work. He thought it was safe, because even if she wanted to tell someone, she didn’t really have anyone to tell. He’d seen to it a long time ago that she didn’t have any friends. Sometimes, though, if she was stressed, I could trick her into talking.

“Some bigwig called McGregor. Your father’s been trying to get him for years,” said Mum, waving away my questions. “Will you go and set the table, please?”

I wanted to ask more, but I knew she’d clam up if I did. So I went and set the table just like she’d asked, and a couple of minutes later we were sitting down to eat. Dad came in, shoving his phone in his pocket, and shot me a frown. That was about as much of a greeting as I ever got from him. We ate for several minutes without conversation, and, in spite of Mum’s warning not to rile him, I couldn’t seem to help it.

“Hey, do you know I was at Upton Park yesterday?” I said, eyeing Dad and pointing to my forehead. “Not that I expect you to express concern over the fact I’m sporting a bandage or anything.”

Letting his knife and fork clatter onto his plate, he grunted, “I’m sure you’ll survive.”

“Yeah, I’m sure I will,” I answered. It wasn’t so much what I said but the way I said it that caused his brow to furrow.

“Something like that would never have happened if you were working in an appropriate field.”

“An appropriate field like what? Becoming a housewife?” I replied derisively. “Not going to happen.”

“Yes, well, maybe that’s for the better,” said Dad cuttingly as he casually tucked back into his food. “I’d pity the man who took you for a wife.”

“Not all men are like you. Some want a woman who can think for herself,” I threw back.

Dad let out a dark chuckle, going directly for the lowest of blows. “Is that why you’re still single?” What he said didn’t hurt my feelings. My feelings were battle hardened, and we’d had this conversation a hundred times before.

“He’s right, Karla. You really should think about settling down,” Mum put in, oblivious as always. “You’re twenty-eight now. It’s a pity you’re not putting your looks to good use.” Was she serious? I swear, sometimes I thought she might be worse than Dad. The way they both spoke was practically medieval.