66
I don’t know what I imagined Toby Sheridan’s house would look like. I suppose I thought it’d be some grubby little bedsit, like a crazed serial killer’s damp old dungeon. But, in reality, it’s a very nice-looking house in a leafy suburb, hidden by tall hedges at the front, as are many of the houses along this stretch. They’re all detached, and I reckon they must be four- or five-bedroom affairs.
What are policemen paid? Thirty grand, maybe? Nowhere near enough to be able to buy a place like this on their own. Which raises the odds that he lives with someone else. A wife, girlfriend perhaps. Someone completely oblivious to the real personality of the man she lives with. Someone else who’s going to get irreparably hurt when they find out what Toby Sheridan is really like. I just hope th
