the call. She was never told who replaced DI Chapman. At the time she wasn't strong enough to think any more about it and tried to concentrate on her new life. A life without Riley. But now, if he was alive, then she knew that she would have to try and investigate who had attempted to kill him and, more importantly, try to find the man she loved.
She would have to return to Manchester. The letter had come from there. But why would she be able to fare any better than the police? And just six months on from Rileyâs supposed death was she really yet strong enough to cope with what she might find?
8
Then, 2001
----
â I f you donât understand something, Amy Barrowman, then you should say so. Youâll never amount to anything if you donât start asking questions.â
The voice was angry and belonged to Mr Hawker, Amyâs weak-chinned French teacher at the Stephen Hague Comprehensive School in Manchesterâs Moss Side, a place where Amy begrudgingly found herself Monday to Friday for most of her teenage life. School was not something she enjoyed, to be honest. There were too many things that needed answers, that warranted questions, that required Amy to engage her brain on subjects that didnât really interest her and Mr Hawker was right, fourteen-year-old Amy Barrowman didnât really ask a great deal of questions.
âStand up, Barrowman.â Mr Hawker was waving Amyâs homework at her from the front of the classroom where the rest of the class were eagerly waiting to see what happened next. âThe homework was to write an essay on the delights of French cuisine, as in the marvellous world of French cooking. I was imagining a report on Flamiche and confit de canard , on cuisses de grenouilles and escargots , not the fact that your kitchen at home has flowery wallpaper and a tiny breakfast bar that wonât fit you and your parents at the same time. What were you thinking?â
Amy watched as a few drops of spittle shot from Mr Hawkerâs mouth as he reprimanded her. He was not an attractive man and reminded Amy of Mr Garrison from South Park , one of her TV guilty pleasures that she loved to watch on her small portable in the privacy of her own bedroom at her parentsâ council flat back home.
âI just heard you say cuisine, sir, and I thought you wanted a report on our kitchen at home,â offered Amy sheepishly. The sound of giggles erupted from her classmates.
âYou thought? You thought? You donât think further than the end of your nose, Barrowman.â
âBut I didnât understand what we were supposed to do.â Amy tried to interject.
âSo you ask me. I set this homework last week. Thatâs seven days ago, girl. Surely even you might think to ask in that time if you donât understand something. You can redo it for next lesson. And this time I want to know about the fineries of French food, not flaming Formica worktops. Tu comprends ?â
Amy gave a meek â oui â in response and sat down once again as Mr Hawker handed her the essay back, a sea of red pen slashed across it. Her mind drifted off as she stared at the clock at the front of the classroom, willing away the minutes until the end of the lesson and home time.
----
â I thought youâd already completed that French homework,â said Enid Barrowman, as her daughter bent double over their kitchen breakfast bar writing into her folder, a bank of books and dictionaries spread out either side of her.
âI did, but I misheard the teacher and ended up writing about the wrong thing, so I have to do it again,â said Amy without looking up.
âYou never listen, always in a world of your own, arenât you, young lady?â I donât know, what are we going to do with you?â Enid came and stroked her daughterâs hair, which was a deep shade of brown streaked with blonde hair dye she had bought Amy from the local market. Enid adored
She would have to return to Manchester. The letter had come from there. But why would she be able to fare any better than the police? And just six months on from Rileyâs supposed death was she really yet strong enough to cope with what she might find?
8
Then, 2001
----
â I f you donât understand something, Amy Barrowman, then you should say so. Youâll never amount to anything if you donât start asking questions.â
The voice was angry and belonged to Mr Hawker, Amyâs weak-chinned French teacher at the Stephen Hague Comprehensive School in Manchesterâs Moss Side, a place where Amy begrudgingly found herself Monday to Friday for most of her teenage life. School was not something she enjoyed, to be honest. There were too many things that needed answers, that warranted questions, that required Amy to engage her brain on subjects that didnât really interest her and Mr Hawker was right, fourteen-year-old Amy Barrowman didnât really ask a great deal of questions.
âStand up, Barrowman.â Mr Hawker was waving Amyâs homework at her from the front of the classroom where the rest of the class were eagerly waiting to see what happened next. âThe homework was to write an essay on the delights of French cuisine, as in the marvellous world of French cooking. I was imagining a report on Flamiche and confit de canard , on cuisses de grenouilles and escargots , not the fact that your kitchen at home has flowery wallpaper and a tiny breakfast bar that wonât fit you and your parents at the same time. What were you thinking?â
Amy watched as a few drops of spittle shot from Mr Hawkerâs mouth as he reprimanded her. He was not an attractive man and reminded Amy of Mr Garrison from South Park , one of her TV guilty pleasures that she loved to watch on her small portable in the privacy of her own bedroom at her parentsâ council flat back home.
âI just heard you say cuisine, sir, and I thought you wanted a report on our kitchen at home,â offered Amy sheepishly. The sound of giggles erupted from her classmates.
âYou thought? You thought? You donât think further than the end of your nose, Barrowman.â
âBut I didnât understand what we were supposed to do.â Amy tried to interject.
âSo you ask me. I set this homework last week. Thatâs seven days ago, girl. Surely even you might think to ask in that time if you donât understand something. You can redo it for next lesson. And this time I want to know about the fineries of French food, not flaming Formica worktops. Tu comprends ?â
Amy gave a meek â oui â in response and sat down once again as Mr Hawker handed her the essay back, a sea of red pen slashed across it. Her mind drifted off as she stared at the clock at the front of the classroom, willing away the minutes until the end of the lesson and home time.
----
â I thought youâd already completed that French homework,â said Enid Barrowman, as her daughter bent double over their kitchen breakfast bar writing into her folder, a bank of books and dictionaries spread out either side of her.
âI did, but I misheard the teacher and ended up writing about the wrong thing, so I have to do it again,â said Amy without looking up.
âYou never listen, always in a world of your own, arenât you, young lady?â I donât know, what are we going to do with you?â Enid came and stroked her daughterâs hair, which was a deep shade of brown streaked with blonde hair dye she had bought Amy from the local market. Enid adored
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