Page 44 of Maybe Tomorrow

‘A bit. From the spray. As well as from the rain. I had my big coat on. It’s got a hood. And I had my waterproof gloves on, too.’

‘Did you go anywhere else?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure about that?’

‘Yes,’ he nodded. He looked to the other two detectives, took in their blank expressions and turned back to Bishop, whose smile had dropped.

‘We’ve heard that you don’t always go straight home after work, even when there isn’t a storm. Sometimes you like to go walking around Canal Street, don’t you?’

Anthony’s eyes widened. He swallowed hard. ‘Sometimes.’

‘You know what Canal Street is known for, don’t you?’

Anthony shrugged.

‘Canal Street is a popular area for ladies of the night to ply their trade. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you?’ Bishop asked, leaning forward.

Anthony didn’t say anything.

‘Prostitutes, Anthony,’ Bishop raised his voice. He was beginning to lose patience. ‘Women who sell themselves for sex. You go there, sometimes, don’t you? To watch them?’

Anthony remained silent.

Bishop took a deep breath. He lowered his voice. There was a smile on his face. ‘Anthony, we’re all men, here. You can tell us. We’re not going to judge. You should hear some of the things Ed’s got up to in his time.’

Ritter and Osborne laughed.

‘See, we’re just four blokes having a chat. Years ago, when I was a bobby on the beat in Sheffield– that’s where I’m from– there was this woman who used to shoplift. She was always getting caught. She was a terrible thief. But she had no money and two little kiddies to bring up on her own. She’d do anything so we wouldn’t arrest her. I think she blew off most of the blokes in uniform many times over before she sorted herself out,’ Bishop said.

DS Osborne stepped forward and pulled out the chair next to Bishop and sat down.

‘Have you got any stories to tell, Anthony?’ Osborne asked.

‘Look at him, Anthony,’ Bishop said. ‘All for a bit of filthy gossip, this one.’ He grinned.

Anthony tried to smile, but it was half-hearted. ‘I don’t…’

‘Go on,’ Osborne prompted.

‘I don’t do anything. With the women, I mean.’

‘You just like to watch?’ Osborne asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you get excited?’

‘I… Sometimes,’ he said, ashamed.

‘Do you… you know… play with yourself?’ Osborne asked.

‘No. Never.’

‘These women, Anthony, when you’re watching them, would you like to do what the men are doing to them?’

‘Sometimes.’