‘Know what?’

‘About your son.’

‘What about him?’

Tomek leant back on the sofa, leaving Anna to explain. The news would be better coming from her. She was much more tactful when it came to this sort of thing.

‘Does the name Johnny Bra-vo mean anything to you?’

‘You mean the kids’ cartoon?’

‘Not quite. It’s the name of a drag act.’

‘A drag act…?’ Daphne repeated, realisation quickly dawning on her.

It took her husband a few seconds to catch up, and when he did, he leapt out of his seat.

‘Drag? Are you saying my son’s gay?’

‘Not necessarily,’ Tomek interrupted. ‘Perhaps he just enjoys dressing up as a woman.’

‘Yeah, but that means he’s fucking gay. My son, Johnny, gay!’

Just as Tomek was about to respond, Roy began pacing, shaking his head. Then he made a sudden move towards the patio doors and looked out onto the garden beyond, arms behind his back. Tomek’s first impression was that he was more upset about his son dressing up as a woman than he’d been about his daughter’s death.

‘I don’t fucking believe this,’ he said. ‘How long’s this been going on?’

‘I think that’s a discussion you need to have with your son. Right after we’ve finished with him, that is.’

Without warning, Roy punched the glass. Once, twice, three times, pounding his fist on the window. Then he turned round, grabbed the Chavin stone head, and launched it into the glass. The head bounced off the double glazing, cracking it slightly, then fell to the floor, landing in a mess of pieces.

‘What is it with this fucking family and fucking secrets?’ Roy yelled.

Yes indeed, Tomek thought as he rushed to calm the man. What is it with your family and secrets?

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

All it had taken for Roy Whitaker to calm down was a single slap on the cheek from his wife. As if she’d knocked the devil and anger out of him. Shortly after, he’d returned to normal again. Realising that they had nothing more to add or to learn, Tomek and Anna left them to process the latest information about their son. But first they had a stop to make: a quick pit-stop at The Prince Albert. The pub had been first built in the early nineteen hundreds and resembled the Shakespeare Globe, with its white walls, wooden beams and thatched roof. Inside, the pub was equally archaic. The furniture was made from wood and looked as though it was handing out splinters at the same rate the bar was serving beers. The ceiling was too low and the wooden beams offered Tomek a chance to attempt an assault course he’d never tried before. A thick, cloying musty smell lingered in the air, and it was all thanks to one person: the man sitting in the corner, slouched in a chair, head forward, tucked into his chest, spittle dangling from his mouth, a half-empty glass of lager perched on the edge of a coaster. If it weren’t for the steady rise and fall of his chest, Tomek would have assumed the man was dead.

‘Don’t worry,’ the bartender, a twenty-something bloke with the first showings of a mullet, called from across the bar. ‘I give him a nudge every hour just to make sure he ain’t croaked or nothing.’

Tomek looked at the beer glass. ‘How many’s he had?’

Shrugging, the bartender replied, ‘Since I’ve been here today, I’d say maybe about three-ish.’

‘And in total?’

Another shrug. ‘Ain’t been here as long as he has.’

‘Brilliant. Do you think maybe you should stop serving him?’

The young man raised his arms in mock surrender, admonishing himself of all blame and responsibilities. ‘I just do what I’m told. And if he wants a beer, then I pour him a beer. So long as he can pay, it ain’t a problem to us.’

‘His liver might have something to say about that.’

Tomek handed the glass to Anna and told her to take it to the bar. While she was there, she leant across to the bartender and quietly whispered in his ear. A word of warning, no doubt. Tomek pulled a seat from beneath the table, and as he sat, prodded Johnny Whitaker’s arm. The man’s body rippled and shook from the assault, but he didn’t move. Next, Tomek slapped him twice on the cheeks. Still nothing. Comatose, unconscious. It wasn’t until Tomek asked for a glass of water from the bar and threw it over him that he finally came to.

‘Wahblugarf,’ Johnny mumbled.

‘Johnny, can you hear me?’

‘Fugoff.’

‘I think he’s trying to tell you to fuck off,’ Anna said as she joined him.

‘Now that’s a language I can speak.’

Tomek leant across and continued to slap him lightly on the cheeks, alternating each time Johnny rolled his head to the other side. Nearly a minute later, Johnny’s eyelids opened, revealing a set of eyes the colour of his sister’s angel wings. The man looked as though he’d been on a five-day bender and wasn’t even through the worst of it yet. His hair was dishevelled and greasy, and his skin was equally oily and clammy, alcohol and guilt seeping through his pores. His breath was so strong it forced Tomek to hold his own while he waited for the man to become cogent, and a thin river of snot had run down his nose and into his mouth. The man was in a state, and in desperate need of sobering up.

Anna handed Tomek a glass of water. Tomek took it from her and held it to Johnny’s lips. But it was pointless. His face was so slack it was impossible to part his lips wide enough for the rim of the glass to fit, and Tomek wasn’t keen on becoming his carer. At least, not without the aid of a glove.

‘It’s like feeding a child,’ Anna commented.

‘A fat and ugly one.’

‘They’re all fat and ugly at some point.’

This was ridiculous. Right now, Johnny Whitaker was just existing. He had no faculties about him, no sense of where he was; he was in no fit state to do anything, let alone answer questions about the lies and secrets that had torn his marriage and family apart. He needed to get to a hospital. Tomek pulled out his phone and called an ambulance. It arrived over twenty minutes later, after struggling to navigate the narrow country lanes and small, almost unusable pub car park. A few minutes after its arrival, Johnny Whitaker was in the back of the van, and on the way to Broomfield Hospital in Chelmsford. Tomek and Anna stayed with him every step of the way, like they were his loved ones, concerned and worried for his welfare, even though Tomek had no sympathy for the man at all; the pain and suffering he was currently enduring had all been self-inflicted.

After nearly two hours of sitting in a hospital bed, hooked up to a drip, having wasted the NHS’s time and resources, Johnny Whitaker was finally ready to answer some questions.

As soon as Tomek was given the all-clear, he wasted no time in getting the man’s attention.

‘Johnny, my good man!’ he yelled on purpose. The man winced and recoiled in the bed at the sudden burst to the eardrums. ‘How are you feeling? Better?’

‘Why… why are you shouting?’ the man said as he fought against the still slightly slurred speech.

‘Just making sure you can hear me, mate. You were pretty fucking out of it back at the pub.’

‘The… the pub?’

‘You don’t even remember being at the pub?’

The man shook his head so slowly it was almost like he was a sloth.

‘Oh dear, you have been drinking a while, haven’t you? What can you remember from the last few days?’

Johnny’s gaze gradually moved from Tomek to the blanket, slowly, almost robotically, as though his buttons had been switched off. Either that or he was malfunctioning.