“You must have something.”

“Nothing. Apart from our savings, but we are using that on the house.”

“Come on, we will have a chat with them.”

Steve got out of my car and made his way through the entrance. I followed him a few paces behind; he was clearly not fazed at all by any of this. It was quite a small warehouse, and there was a group of men standing by a makeshift table made from an upturned cable reel. I could feel my heart pounding through my chest as they looked at us on our approach. Steve outstretched his arms in welcome, laughing heartily as he walked over.

“All right, lads?” Steve boomed.

I’m sure I recognised Nick Broadhead from the paper. When he saw Steve, this huge grin spanned his face, exposing his golden teeth. He walked over to Steve, his hand reached out in a handshake, as his entourage followed. I remained at a slight distance. He barely even looked at me.

Nick’s hand closed into a fist.

He swung at Steve’s head, hitting him square in the nose. It instantly burst, and blood exploded down his white shirt. I stepped forward impulsively, and one of Nick’s entourage raised a single finger to signal me to stop. I did.

“What did you think was going to happen?” Nick shouted, stamping on Steve’s defenceless body in time with every syllable.

I stood there, like a spare part, watching my oldest friend get beaten to death. I hated violence. I always did. I know that isn’t exactly a rare trait, but even seeing it always made me feel vulnerable. Instead of running away or trying to stop it, I’d just want to curl up into a ball in the corner. When Steve stopped resisting and became entirely motionless, Nick’s attention moved to me.

“Who the fuck are you?” He asked.

VI

THE TOWER

AMELIA

I couldn’t stand people who weren’t on time. It was almost a quarter past the hour, and there was still no sign of her. I should have just left without her. When I’d agreed to it, I was in a fragile state, but after I’d had the time to think it through, I’d have preferred to go on my own. Just as I was about to leave, I was scared half to death by banging on the car window. It was Kim, looking fresh as a daisy, clearly excited for our little road trip. I rolled my eyes at her as I wound the window down.

“You’re late,” I chastised.

“Sorry. I had a doctor’s appointment, and it overran,” Kim said, climbing into the passenger side as I hesitantly unlocked the door.

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“Yeah, fine. Just routine. Shall we get going?”

“Yes.”

I started indicating and merged into traffic. It was busier than usual; I couldn’t help thinking the 15 minutes I’d waited would have given us a chance to miss the traffic. Kim was being her usual quiet self, pensively looking out of the passenger side window into the fields and fidgeting. I was expecting a barrage of questions about my behaviour the day before, but she didn’t seem to care. Good, I thought. We weren’t friends; we were barely acquaintances. Our goals were temporarily aligned; that was it.

“What are we going to ask Steve?” Kim asked.

“What he knows,” I responded.

“What if he’s somehow responsible?” Kim quivered.

“He isn’t. He is one of Harry’s oldest friends.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I am. I’m not even convinced the whole thing wasn’t just an accident.”

The closer we got to Filey, the more Kim’s whole demeanour improved. She was almost chirpy. I couldn’t stand that place, and everyone who grew up here had this bizarre affinity to it. I think she spotted my dirty looks, and her mood came back down. We pulled into Steve’s caravan park. I hadn’t been here in a while. Every plot housed a caravan, and there were barely any available for hire; he must be doing well for himself. We drove through the seemingly endless lines of caravans to Steve’s house, which overlooked the Brigg.

If only he showed the same care and attention to his house as the caravans. It was more like a squat or a depraved squalid wreckage, blighting the landscape with its boarded-up windows. It seriously should have been condemned in the name of health and safety; half the render was falling off the walls and lying in piles around the perimeter. We drove up the gravel path, and I parked the car a few metres away from the front door to avoid any further falling debris. There would have been a time that you couldn’t drag me into that house by my ankles, but needs must. I could see Kim wasn’t excited to go in there either. But if we wanted answers, we would have to brave it.

Kim got to the door first and tapped on it lightly. It wasn’t the time for a light touch. With a further eye roll, I bashed the door heavily with my closed fist. Steve emerged a few seconds later.

“Ladies! What can I do for you?” Steve boomed.

“It’s not a social call, Steve,” I answered.

“Oh? What’s happened?”

“I’m hoping you can tell us. Can we come in?”

“Sure.”

Steve led us into his home, if you could call it that. Before I could process my other senses, the first thing that hit me was the overpowering stench. The air was thickened by a mouldy cocktail of damp and rotting food. It didn’t help that the entire house was almost entirely in darkness. In lieu of curtains, Steve had hung various sheets and scrap pieces of fabric against the windows. Not to block out the light; it was only there to obscure the view of the plywood that replaced the glass. The only remaining light came from the gaps in Steve’s haphazard window-boarding, which allowed bright streams of light into the room. The beams of light only highlighted the sheer amount of unknown particles hanging in the air, and I coughed instinctively. There was barely a scrap of floor not occupied by something revolting. We tiptoed through the debris and dodged the humongous cobwebs as he led us into the sitting room. The sofa looked older than me and appeared as if something could be living in it, given the gnaw marks. Steve outstretched his hand to offer me a seat. I politely declined.

“Quite the place you have here,” I remarked.

“Thanks,” Steve replied, unperturbed by my obvious sarcasm.

“Kim and I just want to talk to you about the night of Harry’s death. What happened?”

“Well, he stepped off the Brigg pissed up, didn’t he?”

“He wasn’t drinking, Ste,” Kim interjected abruptly, almost being overcome by her gag reflex.

“Well, he’s a clumsy oaf then because he fell either way,” Steve shrugged.

“There is talk that his death was suspicious, and I’m starting to believe it. Kim said he was trying to call someone just before, and there was talk about him owing money to some brothers from Leeds.”

Steve stared at Kim disapprovingly. “You weren’t meant to hear anything about that,” Steve turned to me, “The Broadheads.”

“Did they kill Harry?” I asked.

“God, no. They lent him some money.”

“How much money?”

“A hundred grand,” Steve confessed dryly.

“What for?”