Free Dead Right by Peter Robinson

afternoon nap. Slowly, he groped his way back to consciousness—it seemed to take longer every time, as if consciousness itself were slowly moving farther and farther away from him—and walked over to the window. There they were: the three of them, struggling up the path against the wind. Well, he supposed they would have to come some time; Josie had already telephoned and told him what had happened to Jason.
    He answered the knock, let them in and told them to make themselves comfortable while he went to put the kettle on. The good old English custom of a nice cup of tea, he thought, had helped people avoid many an embarrassing moment. Not that they should be embarrassed about what had happened, of course, but Yorkshire folk, especially, often fell short of words when it came to strong emotions.
    Josie gave him a silent hug when he came through from the kitchen, then she sat down. Grief suited her in a way, he thought; she had always looked a bit pinched to him. These days, she had also started to look more like mutton dressed as lamb, too, with that make-up, her roots showing and those figure-hugging outfits she wore. At her age. Her mother would have been ashamed of her.
    Steven looked as lacklustre as ever. Couldn’t Josie, he wished again, have chosen someone with a bit of spunk in him?
    Then there was Maureen. Good-natured, bustling, hardworking, no-nonsense Maureen. The best of the lot of them, in his book. A proper bonny lass, too; she’d break a few hearts in hertime, with her laughing eyes and smiling lips and hair like spun gold all the way down to her waist. Well, not today. But that was how he remembered her. She had cut her hair short just after she started nurses’ training. A real shame, that, he thought.
    “When’s the funeral?” he asked.
    “Thursday,” Josie answered. “Oh, you should have seen what they’d done to him, Dad.” She sniffled. “Our poor Jason.”
    Frank nodded. “Nay, lass … Police getting anywhere?”
    “Even if they were,” Josie sniffed, “they wouldn’t tell us, would they?”
    The kettle boiled. Frank moved to rise, but Maureen sprang to her feet. “I’ll get it, Granddad. Stay where you are.”
    “Thanks, lass,” he said gratefully, and sank back into his armchair. “What have they told you?”
    “They’ve got some lads helping them with their enquiries,” Josie said. “Pakistanis.” She sniffed. “They think it might have started as an argument in a pub, and that these lads followed our Jason, or waited for him in the ginnel and beat him up. The police think they probably didn’t mean to kill him.”
    “What do you think?” Frank asked.
    Maureen came back with the teapot and raised her eyebrows at the question. “We haven’t really had much time to think about it at all yet, Granddad,” she said. “But I’m sure the police know their business.”
    “Aye.”
    “What is it?” Steven Fox said, speaking for the first time. “You don’t think they’ll do a good job?”
    “I wouldn’t know about that,” Frank said.
    “Well what is it, then?” Josie Fox repeated her husband’s question. Maureen started pouring milk and tea into mugs, spooning in sugar.
    “Nowt,” said Frank. He fingered the folded, creased sheet of paper in his top shirt pocket and pulled it out.
    “What’s that, Granddad?” Maureen asked.
    “Just something I got in the post.”
    Maureen frowned. “But what … I don’t …”
    “Oh, for crying out loud,” said Frank, his patience with them finally snapping. “Don’t you know what happened? Don’t you knowanything? Did you all turn your bloody backs?” He turned towards Maureen. “What about you?” he snapped. “I’d have expected more of you.”
    Maureen started to cry. Frank felt the familiar pain, almost an old friend now, grip his chest. Hand shaking, he tossed the sheet towards Josie. “Go on,” he said. “Read it.”
    III
    Banks crossed the factory yard, dodging puddles rainbowed with oil. Crates