Home Front

by Thomas Waugh

  Josephine Quinn made herself unavailable for comment. Her father, on more than one occasion, had to chase off a few bottom-feeding, door-stepping journalists from the front of his property. Josephine wanted to put the past behind her. In return for her mother agreeing to put a roof over her head, Josephine promised to re-start her nursing training. At the same time, she also contacted her old web designer, to ask him to create a new site for her. Her past would also be her future. Josephine dyed her hair blonde and arranged for some new pictures to be taken. “Beauty” would re-launch herself as “Mystique”.

  “The world is a slightly finer place with Mullen and Duggan absent from it,” Martin Coulson’s commanding officer argued. “Sign-off on the investigation. Take the win.”

  Coulson agreed, reluctantly. There were a couple of moments when he had a mind to investigate James Marshal and tug upon any thread that might come loose. Not everything added up, in relation to motive and the crime scene. There were more questions than answers. But that was life.

  The policeman signed-off on the case. He was owed some leave, and had promised Irene that he would catch-up on some work in the garden. He had also just found out that his daughter had joined Extinction Rebellion.

  God help us.

  Porter made some subtle inquiries into the shootings, the day after. He also tasked Mariner to keep him abreast of any developments. At no point was Marshal a person of interest. Porter blew a sigh of relief, both for his friend and for himself. There did not seem to be any danger of things coming back to him.

  Life could carry on as normal. Porter continued to fly-fish, work on his novel and eat more foie gras than his wife, doctor or any vegan would approve of. He also often walked in on his wife when she was having a heart to heart with her niece over the phone. Instead of keeping an ear out for any gossip, Porter was mindful of just walking out of the room again, without being seen. He did not want to get overly involved in fixing Marshal’s faltering relationship.

  I’m retired.

  But not altogether retired. Porter still had to call in his favour from his friend. Marshal duly agreed to take care of Violet whilst Porter and his wife went away on holiday. The sweet-natured mongrel could not stop wagging her tail in a windmill motion when she settled into Marshal’s flat. Similarly, Marshal could not stop smiling when the dog clambered over him and licked his face with uncommon affection. The ex-soldier could never be unhappy in the company of the dog.

  The following day Marshal was sitting outside of Bobo in the massaging sunshine, with Violet at his feet, keeping one eye open for one of the staff coming out with an obligatory dog treat. He had just finished writing an email to Billy Turney, discussing the prospect of investing in his courier business. His phone vibrated with a message from Grace:

  Hi. I hope you’re well. Oliver said that you are looking after Violet for the next fortnight. Let me know if you would like some help walking her.

  Marshal put down his drink and replied:

  I would love that. So would Violet. Call me when free. Xx.

  Within a few seconds of sending the text, his Blackberry chimed. He felt he should no longer leave his screensaver blank.

  Raise, don’t fold, Marshal thought to himself as he answered the call.