Trevor felt the steering wheel shift under his hand as he rounded the traffic island. In the back seat, his four-year-old grandson looked up from his book. Trevor smiled into the rear view mirror. “Sorry, kiddo. Just a bump in the road.” Harry yawned and went back to his book. The Gruffalo. The boy took it everywhere with him. Trevor sailed past his exit – the A452, heading towards the M6 and a day out in Stratford – and took the island one more time. Harry was only four. He

At Christmas time, Brummies could be split into two groups. The first contained those people who loved the Frankfurt Christmas market. They adored the cheesiness of it all. The little wooden cabins. The abundance of lebkuchen. Gluhwein on tap twenty-four hours a day, and the fact that for six brief weeks of the year the currywurst replaced the Balti as Birmingham's traditional dish. On the other hand, there were people like Wendy. Wendy hated the Christmas market. To be fair,

The house was a burglar’s dream. Nestled at the end of a cul-de-sac, with an alleyway on one side and a high wall on the other, it had no houses overlooking it. The front garden was shielded by a high hedge, with access to the garden down both sides of the house. Sure, one side had a gate but that was secured with nothing more than a slide bolt. “Amateurs,” he muttered as he strolled along the road towards it, hands in pockets, rucksack shifting as he walked. He’d been keepin

“Not that one.” Kayla felt her chest tighten as her friend Lin raised a hand to knock on the door. Lin turned to her, eyes flashing into the camera lens. “Yeah. Let’s leave that one. For now.” She smiled, injecting a note of breeziness into her voice and lifting her chin for the most flattering angle. “We’ll start at the far end of the corridor and work our way along.” Kayla let out a short breath, glancing back at the door as they headed towards the other end of the corridor

Sameena Khan hated shopping. Even more, she hated shopping for shoes with her fifteen-year-old daughter Jamila. For what seemed like the hundredth time in the last hour, Jamila picked up a pair of unsuitable shoes and shoved them in her mum’s direction, eyebrows raised. Sameena shook her head. “You know the answer.” “But Sarah’s got these.” Sameena eyed the shoes. Black patent – at least the colour was sensible – with a tiny pink bow on the back – not in the uniform guidance

Amit Hussain stepped down from the bus and yawned. He had to be up early for work tomorrow and was looking forward to his bed. He watched the bus pull away, lights receding into the December night, and brought his rucksack down from his shoulders. The three others who’d got off at his stop hurried away, no doubt eager to be out of the cold. There was a thick hedge behind this stop, separating the road from a patch of scrubland the council never seemed to clean up. Amit knew w

“Mum, she stole my Curly Wurly.” Alison looked down at her son. His mouth was ringed with chocolate and his curly brown hair was smeared with it. “It was a free Curly Wurly, Ollie. I’m not sure you can steal something they gave us free.” “Wan’ it back.” Alison turned to Ollie’s big sister. “Maddy love, give it back please.” “He doesn’t like Curly Wurlys.” “That’s not the point.” “Why should I give it back when he won’t eat it?” A man brushed past Alison. She flinched, her ner

Bryn Jackson was pissed off. With his wife, who’d been worse than useless at his retirement party. With DCI Randle, forcing him to meet before the party. Trying to wheedle out of promises he’d made years ago. And with the man who’d just left his study, or rather with the man’s boss. Jackson closed the door leading from his study to the garden, not waiting to see the man leave by the side gate. He was tired. He took the key from his pocket and locked the doors, testing the top