Don't Come Looking by AJ Campbell (always you kirsty moseley .txt) 📗

coffee and plough in. When Rob turns up, he briefs me on his findings from yesterday. Apparently, Jason Harper was suspected of taking a backhander in some client deal and “asked to leave” the software company he worked for. It was all kept very hush-hush because the client in question had associations with the company secretary. We view the Shane Baker interview from yesterday. He was let go due to insufficient evidence to charge him.

Despite our focused attempts, it’s not until late afternoon that we get a tip-off from an old school friend of Baker’s who we trace through social media. We head out to the given address west of Holborn. It feels like a treat, in a way, to escape the office and journey into the West End.

‘My mum’s got us tickets for my dad’s sixtieth birthday up in that thing,’ Rob says as we near the London Eye.

‘That thing?’ I say in a tone to suggest he needs to pay this London landmark a little more respect. As we wait in traffic, I stare at the ferris wheel revolving in London’s sky. Jim and I have ridden the Eye twice, once in the day, once at night, way back before the kids, when life was so much simpler. I had loved the daytime ride so much, Jim surprised me one Saturday morning. ‘I’ve got you a treat,’ he said, opening the bedroom shutters to a glorious summer day. ‘The weather has to be right. And tonight’s the night.’ He perched on the edge of the bed and handed me a printout of the tickets slotted amongst a bunch of red roses.

Such different experiences, but the night visit won the vote. He’d arranged a river sightseeing trip beforehand too. We drank bubbly and ate canapes as we cruised up the Thames capturing the best of London – St Paul’s Cathedral, the Tower of London and the Houses of Parliament – before boarding the glass-encased pod. The thirty-minute ride turned out to be everything I had imagined. Some claim it’s overrated and overpriced, but I don’t agree. Seeing London twinkle a spectrum of colours, illuminating the night sky, is an experience you can only capture from views rising to one hundred and thirty-five metres high. We dined at the Oxo Tower afterwards and discussed our future – four kids and a holiday home in the South of France that were never to be.

We arrive at the given address in Holborn to find an overcrowded student flat. None of them have ever seen or heard of a Shane Baker.

‘Bleeding waste of time,’ Rob says as we leave.

‘I need a favour.’

‘What?’

‘Before we go back to the station, would you drive me down to that house I went into the other night?’

‘What’s going on there?’

‘Something to do with Jim.’

He looks at me quizzically. ‘Whatever. You’re lucky I like you a little bit.’

When I knock at Sasha’s clinic door, she steps outside to tell me she’s treating a patient but will be with me in ten. ‘Make yourself at home,’ she says, waving me over to the house to wait. ‘The kids will let you in.’

George answers the door, scruffy after a day at school. He needs to visit the barbers, and ketchup stains his shirt. ‘You need to be quiet,’ he says, sniggering. ‘Greta Thunberg’s filming.’

I follow him into the kitchen. It’s still a mess and smells of stale fish and chips. Hannah is sitting on a beanbag, and Luke is kneeling, videoing her speaking about climate change. They both look quite the experts, concentrating intently on what they are doing. Across the room, Harry is lolling on another beanbag watching, amused. George whispers in my ear, sniggering, ‘It’s for her YouTube account.’

Hannah wears her hair in two plaits which rest on her chest. She looks so young, yet so mature, sitting crossed-legged, encouraging students to join the growing movement of global climate change strikes. ‘One person can make such a huge difference. And that person is you,’ she says, pointing a finger at the lens.

Luke stops the video. ‘Let’s rework that last bit. I’m going to zoom in, but you keep your finger still.’

‘Rework that bit,’ Harry laughs. ‘She’s not a fricking supermodel.’

‘OK, Mr Videographer Extraordinaire,’ Hannah says to Luke, blowing her fringe from her eyes.

‘OK, Mr Videographer Extraordinaire,’ George mimics.

Hannah turns to him. ‘Get lost.’

Luke positions his phone like a professional. ‘Ready?’ He presses the start button. ‘I’ll edit it later and send it over. Let’s add some music too. What do you fancy?’

‘You’re the expert, you choose.’

‘You’re the expert?’ George is off again.

Hannah ignores her brother. ‘Can you get some photos too for my Insta?’

Luke stands to catch her from different angles, taking several shots before crouching down to show her his endeavours.

‘Can you get some more and more and more photos for my Insta?’ George wiggles two-finger peace signs either side of his immature grin. ‘My “we must all do our bit to save the planet,” Insta.’

Harry reprimands his younger brother. ‘Grow up, George.’

Sasha’s entrance is well-timed. ‘You lot aren’t arguing again, are you?’ She turns to me. ‘Are they?’

I laugh. ‘Just some healthy sibling rivalry, best ignored. Joe and Isabella are the same except they bicker over Lego bricks and colouring pencils.’

It comes out of I don’t know where. Three days of pent-up stress and frustration, probably. It is as if her wrath has parachuted in and hijacked her placid nature. ‘Grow up!’ she screams at them. As silence fills the room, their four heads spin around simultaneously as if they have been choreographed.

Hannah runs over to her, concern flushing her cheeks. ‘Mum, what’s up?’ She tugs Sasha’s arm, but Sasha swings away from her.

‘Your kids are young, Eva. You’d think mine would’ve grown up a bit by now.’ She turns to her teens. ‘Stop your stupid squabbling and get this place cleaned up.’ She takes my hand, ‘Come to the studio. I need to show you something,’ she says, dragging me away from an argument about whose