‘No and fuck you.’
Bryant turned his guffaw into a cough the right side of getting a transfer.
‘How is death not the worst?’ Kim asked.
‘Death is the worst crime punishable by law but not by conscience.’
‘Fuck me, Leanne. It’s probably good you don’t speak much. We’d get nothing else done but decipher—’
‘Okay, let me simplify.’
‘Yeah, let me come back there and smack that condescending tone out of—’
‘Guv,’ Bryant warned.
Kim took a breath.
Leanne continued. ‘You’re thinking like a police officer.’
‘Not one of your problems, is it?’ she quipped.
‘Killing is not always the worst thing you can do. For example, mercy killing. There’s no anger, hate, frenzy. You’re assisting someone to die. It’s merciful. It doesn’t prolong suffering. That’s all I’m saying.’
Bryant crossed the last island towards Pedmore looking thoughtful ‘You know, Leanne, that reminds me of a girl I dated at college.’
‘Oh, jeez, Bryant, not one of your bygone-days stories. Cheers, Leanne.’
‘You’re welcome.’
‘Hang on, hear me out,’ he insisted as the memory seemed to clear for him. ‘Her name was Becca.’
‘Unnecessary.’
‘She was studying sociology and—’
‘Even more unnecessary,’ Kim said, losing the will to live.
‘She’d turned vegetarian at the age of eight. Any meat on her plate and she’d scream the house down.’
‘Yes, killing animals is a contentious—’
‘It wasn’t the death that bothered her,’ Bryant continued. ‘She said her objection came from a family holiday to Wales, and for much of the journey they were behind a truck carrying sheep. She knew where they were going, and she swore she could see fear in the animals’ eyes. That was what she couldn’t be a party to: being responsible for demanding something that led to that much fear. It wasn’t the death.’
‘My point exactly,’ Leanne said as Bryant pulled onto the driveway of the Porter home.
‘No way did you two just say the exact same thing, but okay, I take your point.’
Bryant stopped the car and glanced in his rear-view mirror. If a silent high five was possible, they’d just done it.
She groaned and got out of the car.
The door to the property was open before she reached it.
Della Porter stood with her hands clasped. She wore a knee-length skirt, a white shirt and a pink cardigan draped over her shoulders in a manner Kim had never understood. Either wear it or don’t was her motto.
‘You’re not coming in, Inspector,’ she said frostily.
‘May I ask why…?’