Free In the Dark by Mark Billingham

constant yap-yap-yap’s starting to get on my tits.’
    â€˜You’re a funny fucker as well, which is good.’ Shepherd dropped his cigar into the gutter. The skin around his mouth was white. ‘Not sure Ray’s going to be pissing himself, though. See, some arsehole took his tongue out with a pair of secateurs a couple of years back.’
    Paul looked at Ray, who had turned round in his seat. ‘Jesus . . .’
    â€˜Mind you, laughing isn’t quite as tricky as yap-yap-yapping.’
    â€˜Sorry.’ Paul opened his mouth and closed it again. ‘I didn’t . . .’
    Ray almost gave it away then, turning round before his face betrayed him; enjoying the joke as much as he clearly had on any number of previous occasions.
    â€˜I’m winding you up,’ Shepherd said. ‘Look at you.’
    Paul clapped a hand to his chest and hacked out a laugh. ‘Oh, thank Christ.’
    â€˜Your fucking face . . .’
    Paul reckoned he was doing the relief thing pretty well. Every bit as well as he did shock and gullibility. He was good at letting the likes of Shepherd think that they had the upper hand, even before they handed over any money. Five minutes later, in the back of the cab on the way into the West End, Paul decided that the whole evening had gone well. And he knew that Kevin Shepherd would be thinking exactly the same thing.

EIGHT
    There appeared to be at least one crossword and a couple of sudokus on the go. Several puzzle magazines lay open on the small table next to the sofa, alongside a dictionary, a Daily Express and two paperback thrillers with bookmarks inside. Helen was pleased to see that her father was keeping busy, though part of her suspected he laid it all out on display when he knew she was coming round.
    He came through from the kitchen with two mugs of tea on a tray, and a plate of muffins he’d made that morning.
    â€˜Date and pecan,’ he said. ‘I’ve got some cranberry ones in the freezer if you’d prefer.’
    She started eating. ‘This is gorgeous, Dad.’
    â€˜They’re dead easy,’ he said.
    Whether he was putting on a show or not, Helen was pleased that he was looking after himself so nicely. She polished off her muffin and reached for another. Better than I am, she thought.
    Her father had moved down to Sydenham five years earlier with his second wife, as many years again after Helen’s mother had died. Robert Weeks had been understandably devastated when breast cancer had taken his childhood sweetheart at forty-nine; and, among a slew of mixed feelings, both Helen and her sister had been amazed when he had appeared to find happiness a second time. The marriage had lasted eighteen months.
    Nobody quite knew why wife number two had packed her bags so quickly, and their father had never been keen to let on. Helen and Jenny had agreed that he probably wasn’t the easiest man to live with and left it at that, but they were once again surprised at his resilience; at the speed with which he’d steadied himself. He’d taken early retirement at sixty-two and dug into the small pot of money he’d put away. He’d joined clubs, taken up hobbies with boyish enthusiasm, and now, to complete the rejuvenation, it looked as though there might be another woman on the scene. Helen and Jenny were still giggling like schoolgirls, months after the old man had revealed the existence of the ‘nice lady over the road who sometimes lets me park in her slot’.
    The small road was neat and well kept; an army of terracotta pots in its front gardens and its parking spaces guarded as fiercely as children. There were Neighbourhood Watch stickers in most of the windows and a residents’ association of which Helen’s father was an active member. Jenny said that was how he had met this new woman. Probably wooed her with a muffin.
    â€˜You can take a few of these with you,’ her father said.