Free THE DOMINO BOYS (a psychological thriller) by D. M. Mitchell

needed to know, that’s all. You might want to visit Duncan.’
    Barry looked away. ‘Maybe,’ he said.
    ‘What is it with you two? You’ve never really got on for ages. He’s your brother-in-law. He’s never been anything but good to you.’
    ‘You think so?’ he said sullenly.
    ‘So tell me, what’s gone off between you.’
    ‘Nothing that concerns you. It’s between Duncan and me.’
    ‘So you lost a sister – I know how much that hurt you – but he lost his wife. He loved her, too, you know.’
    Barry nodded. ‘It’s not just that,’ he said.
    ‘I’m your friend, Barry. We’ve known each other since school. If you can’t tell me then who can you tell?’
    Barry Stocker rose to his feet. ‘Ever thought that friends ought just to keep their mouths shut every now and again?’ he said. ‘I’ve got more troubles than anyone knows and I’m not in the mood for sharing them. I’ve got no job, no money, no prospects, no bloody wife…’
    ‘What?’
    Barry grimaced. He’d said too much. ‘She left me. Packed everything and buggered off.’
    ‘Don’t worry. She’ll be back. She always comes back. It’s the pressure of things, Barry, that’s all. She needs a little space.’
    ‘She took her Lionel Ritchie albums.’
    Alfie groaned. ‘That’s bad.’
    ‘You’re telling me it’s bad. How bad can it get?’ He left Alfie, mumbling something to Dickie as he made his way down the path and out of the allotment.
    It got Alfie riled up, thinking how Mickey Craddick was still at the heart of everything that was tearing all their lives up, corrupting decent people even though he was dead and buried. He hated that man more than he’d ever hated anything in his life. And now he hated his son.
    ‘You OK, Dickie?’ he asked.
    ‘Yeah.’
    ‘You happy?’
    ‘Yeah,’ he replied, chopping at the earth.
     
     
    Alfie Parker had been in Mickey Craddick’s house many times before. It always filled him with a slithery kind of dread as he unloaded his heavy equipment, left the van and lugged it to the front door.
    It was a huge Victorian affair, built by one of the colliery owners for his son and daughter. Detached, God knows how many bedrooms and bathrooms, conservatory out back the size of his house, sitting in a large garden all of its own. It was called Red House, for reasons no one ever knew, as it was built in creamy sandstone and never had a splash of red paint anywhere. Someone said it was the beds of red roses that used to fill the garden. They weren’t there anymore. Mickey Craddick had re-landscaped the garden and put down lawns, lots of decking and lots and lots of gravel. Luckily some of the mature trees were left standing by the high brick walls that formed Red House’s boundary, walls eight feet high to keep prying eyes and unwelcome guests out. There was a high wooden gate hung between two stone pillars topped with bronze stags, and a CCTV camera positioned so no one could nick them to sell off for scrap metal, like they’d been doing recently with the local railway lines and cables.
    Alfie Parker rang the doorbell. He was kept waiting for ages, had to ring again. Finally Donnie Craddick answered the door. ‘Round the back,’ he said abruptly.
    ‘What do you mean?’ said Alfie.
    ‘Tradesmen round the back,’ said Donnie.
    Alfie narrowed his eyes. ‘I never used to go round the back,’ he said indignantly.
    ‘Well you do now,’ he replied, slamming the door in Alfie’s face.
    Tosser, he thought.
    He loaded the van back up and drove it round the back of the house, had to go through the ritual of knocking and ringing all over again. This time it was one of the guys who had been in the pub with Craddick, trying to cause trouble, who answered. Silently he indicated for Alfie to go inside. He was chewing noisily on something crunchy and disgusting.
    Alfie plonked his cleaning machine and various hoses and nozzles in the hall, and was called into Mickey Craddick’s large office to