‘No, I haven’t seen Jack Hobson in months,’ Hobson’s former girlfriend, Cathy Maitland, told Brian Endcliffe and Carol Tombohm when they spoke to her at her workplace, an accountant’s office where she was a junior associate.
Cathy was a tall, attractive, heavyset girl in her mid-twenties and Brian, a rugby player, could well imagine her playing in the second row of a scrum during a lady’s rugby match.
‘And to be honest,’ she continued. ‘I’d lose no sleep if I never saw him again.’
‘Why’s that?’ asked Carol.
‘Because he was a pig and a f*****g arsehole, if you’ll excuse my French.’
And Carol could well relate to that; in fact, she could not have thought up a better description herself for Hobson.
‘How long were you together?’ Brian asked.
‘Too long, you ask me. Five, six months, some
