Page 21 of Just Another Missing Person

He passed her the coffee with one of his paw-sized hands. “Need some off-record advice,” she said to him.

“Oh, make no small talk, why don’t you,” he said with his characteristic booming laugh.

He was in a suit, no jacket, and trainers, which she assumed he didn’t wear in the office, though she wasn’t sure.

“All right, sorry,” Julia said, blushing. “How’s work?”

“Yeah, busy: too much off-record pro bono work,” he said, side-eyeing her. She gave him a wry smile back. “Otherwise, you know. Counting my piles of money. Shoutingobjection...”

“Of course.”

“And you?”

“You know, high-speed car chases, shoot-outs... eating doughnuts,” she said back. Bill laughed so loudly that the hot wind carried it right away.

They fell into step beside each other. The sun was high in aTruman Showperfect sky.

Their parents had died when Julia and Bill were twenty-three and twenty-one respectively, within two months of each other. Their mother to cancer and their father to suicide. Within a year of it, Bill had converted to law and Julia had joined the police. There must be a psychology in it, but she isn’t sure what. Finding things out, perhaps. Seeking the ever-elusive clarity. Perhaps, if she had some expertise, she could have prevented at least her father’s death. Been tipped off, somehow.

Bill is excellent at reading people, when he can be bothered, and, sure enough, he brought her back to what she wanted: “What’s the advice?” His eyes flicked to her.

They rounded a corner. The high street fell away into the marina. The wind picked up. Big sheets of it swelled across them, solid-feeling against their faces, as though they might be carried away on them.

“What is it?” Bill said. “I have half an hour, I need to file some directions at the court.”

“Can’t Sharlé do it?” Julia says. Bill’s fancy new secretary. Bill had recently said Sharlé had whipped his entire life into shape.

“Up to her neck ironing my trousers,” he joked with a small smile.

“Let’s say I got mugged, right? I lashed out—and assaulted the mugger.”

Bill deliberately sipped his drink, which is what he does when he’s thinking. Sometimes, Julia couldn’t believe it was him. Her baby brother in a suit. Despite the pretense, despite the jokes they have, despite him sending her memes ofThe Simpsonsevery day even though they’re both in their forties, he has expertise. Related to the knowledge Julia has, but distinct, too. And he was trawling through it while he sipped that over-syruped latte of his.

“What kind of attack did the mugger instigate on you, what did you do in return, and did the mugger die?” he said. He kept his tone light, but his eyes were curious. They have that same trait. Used to love gossip as kids, and now have two of the world’s most salacious jobs—theoretically, anyway.

The clear, green spring light near Portishead marina smelled like still water. Julia leaned into it, wanting to forget. “Like... the mugger tried to take a phone, say, and then I used the hand with my keys in it—to... you know.” Julia made a gesture; a crude, criminal slash across the neck, and Bill’s eyes widened.

“Why?” he asked. One simple word.

“Fear.”

“Did the hypothetical person believe the mugger was going to attack them?”

Julia grimaced. “Maybe. In panic. But then—they left.”

“Hmm.”

“But let’s say he lived. Wound not as bad as it looked. But he dies—later. Sepsis.”

“From the wound?”

“Yes. What’re the chances of self-defense?”

“You can’t kill someone because they take your phone. Obviously. Julia?” Bill looked at her quizzically. “It has to be a proportionate response...”

Julia dropped her head. “I know.”

Bill sucked his lips in. “You know this stuff, don’t you?” he said softly.

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