64
As far as Jack Culverhouse was concerned, he was having some time off. A dead taxi driver was none of his concern. Malcolm bloody Pope could deal with that.
Meanwhile, the body of Dmitry Buryakov would not be discovered for another few weeks, when Julia’s neighbours had finally had enough of the smell emanating from her property.
Jack sat at his kitchen table and jabbed a fork into the plastic container of Chinese takeaway, before taking a swig from his bottle of beer. Just as he was starting to relax and enjoy his night on his own, Emily walked in.
‘Alright?’ he said. ‘I didn’t think you were home.’
‘I wasn’t.’
‘Right. I would’ve ordered you some food if I’d known.’
‘That’s alright,’ she said, grabbing a fork from the cutlery drawer. ‘I’ll just have some of yours.’
‘Don’t mind
