Free Evil Valley by Simon Hall

now?’ asked Peter.
    ‘No.’
    ‘Despite it being on the TV,’ Peter replied sarcastically, with a sideways look at Dan. ‘It’s scarcely a secret now, is it?’
    ‘I can still not be sure we’ve traced all of the man’s relatives and told them of his death,’ Whiting hissed. ‘I’m afraid I consider that TV report entirely irresponsible.’ He stared straight at Dan. ‘It would be a dreadful shock if some of the man’s family found out from the television he was dead. Furthermore, I believe the hounding of the relatives of bereaved people by journalists is deplorable.’
    ‘Hang on!’ snapped Dan. ‘I’m not having that. Mr Hanson’s sister approached us and asked to speak because she wanted to pay tribute to him and set the record straight about his character. So don’t give me your media harassment rubbish.’
    ‘That may be your version of events, but we’ve had trouble tracing this woman to speak to, and I’m sure if she …’
    Dan felt a sudden urge to pick Whiting up by the throat. ‘Well she managed to find me OK,’ he interrupted. ‘She just walked up to me and asked if she could talk about her brother. Not my hardest piece of research.’
    There were a few laughs from the press pack. Whiting’s eyes again flicked over them.
    ‘As I’ve said … that ends today’s briefing. And I do not propose to hold any more. All further information will come from our press office in Cardiff.’
    ‘I think you’ve upset him,’ chuckled Peter, as Whiting stalked away. ‘It looks like he’s taking his ball back and doesn’t want to play any more.’
    Dan tried not to enjoy his moment, knew it was pathetically petty, but failed.
    The evening’s outside broadcast was another top and tail. The studio introduced Dan, he talked about the investigations at the house being almost finished and his report played. Then he told the viewers the interviews with the marksman and others would be completed by tomorrow, an important stage in the inquiry. He was thanked and the programme moved on to its next report, a crisis in farming caused by a tuberculosis epidemic in cattle.
    He got home, took Rutherford for a run, then had some tea, stale toast with baked beans, followed by a yoghurt which was four days past its use-by date. He took the risk to get rid of the taste of the stale bread. He would have to get to the supermarket this weekend, however much he disliked shopping. He could live off takeaways and pub grub quite happily, but more importantly Rutherford was almost out of dog food. The beer cupboard was looking thin too, just a few dusty and long neglected tins of his less favoured ales remaining. Running dry was a frightening prospect.
    Dan went to run a bath, but first had to shift a fist-sized spider from its new home by the plughole. He wasn’t keen on spiders, but tried never to kill anything. Even a wasp that had landed in his beer last summer had been fished out with a pen and left to dry on the pub table. He’d watched it, expecting it to die of drowning or alcohol poisoning, but it had rallied and then tried to fly off, landing first on his hand and stinging him before managing to make it to the safety of a nearby bush. His hand ached for most of the evening. It was an interesting lesson in life. It doesn’t always pay to try to do good.
    The spider seemed keen on its new home and impervious to Dan’s attempts to help, scuttling back and forth along the length of the bath in an attempt to evade him. It was like a video game. He finally managed to tire and corner it, and with the help of a newspaper ushered it into a jug and popped it outside the front door. ‘Bet it comes back tomorrow,’ he told Rutherford, who’d been watching the action with what seemed like amusement.
    He left the light off in the bathroom, preferred the mellowing half-light from the hallway, and eased into the bath. Rutherford lay down on the floor beside him, and Dan flicked the odd handful of foam at the dog as he