Through litter-strewn streets, past narrow terrace houses, Barty made his way home. The block of flats where he lived was clean enough but grubby and grey. So bland that it seemed to absorb the colour from the landscape, sapping any hints of vibrant green from the grass and bright blue from the sky.

In rebellion against the tired, dull appearance of his building, Barty had filled his one-bedroom flat with an abundance of colour. Frankly, it looked ridiculous. Barty was okay with that. He didn’t mind that it gave some people a headache. To him, the vibrant interior was an antidote to all the grey outside.

As well as his flat, Barty had a small office. He dealt with most of his business there, but some clients had his address. Lauren was one such client, and he hadn’t been home five minutes when she buzzed his flat. He told her to come up and saw in her face everything she wanted to say the second he opened the door.

“I’m sorry to drop in unannounced.”

“Don’t be silly,” he said. “When I said I was here for my clients any time of the day or night, I meant it. Unless Eastenders is on the telly.”

This made her smile. Despite how what she’d come to say weighed on her, her mouth turned further upwards when she stepped into the flat, as it had the last time she was here. The space offered a vibrancy her everyday life lacked, as it did for him. Satisfied, she settled on the sofa. Barty made drinks, and Lauren had a stab at small talk. Within a few minutes, she ran out of steam and stared into her mug, struggling to find the words she needed to say.

“You’re not leaving Kieran,” said Barty.

This brought her head up. “How did you know?”

That was a kick in the stomach. He had hoped he was wrong.

“A week ago, you bounded through that door ecstatic to tell me you planned to file for divorce. I can’t remember my response. I fear it was unprofessional.”

“You made a whoop sound and leapt in the air.”

“Unprofessional and embarrassing, then.”

She smiled. “You care. That’s what I like about you.”

“I do care. I flatter myself that I’m observant, too. You were happy then. Today, you’re wracked with worry, and you can’t meet my gaze. What else could have caused that?”

She forced herself to latch her eyes onto his.

“I’ve let you down.”

“Ridiculous. This isn’t about me.”

“You must think me an idiot.”

“No.”

Lauren touched the raised mark on her cheek. It had been worse a week ago. Even now, it was obvious what had caused it – the loose fist of an angry man. “You should.”

Leaning back, Barty recalled meeting Lauren and all he had subsequently learned about a woman who had fallen for the wrong man, finding out too late that she was with a bully, too fond of the drink and not fond enough of hard work. A man with outdated views about who should do the housework but without a chivalrous bone in his body. Lauren had been at pains to tell Barty that Kieran had never put her in the hospital. It was rarely more than a single punch. Only once had she had to call in sick the next day at work.

Hearing that had made Barty want to cry. Or run Kieran over with his car.

Convinced she could find no one else to love her, Lauren accepted the constant smell of booze on her husband’s breath and the occasional bruise on her skin. What she could not accept was the adultery.

Enter Barty Symonds, private investigator.

Barty proved Kieran was not only engaged in a long-term affair with someone he worked with but regularly had one-night stands while out drinking. Upon seeing the evidence Barty had gathered, Lauren acted decisively, returning to him a few days later, declaring she’d visited a divorce lawyer and told Kieran she was leaving. She had been elated.

Now this.

“You’re not an idiot,” Barty said. “You’re human.”

Tears came to Lauren’s eyes.

“Know what he said when I told him I wanted a divorce?”

“I’d guess he stormed off in a strop.”

“Went to the pub, yeah. No apology, no promises that it’d never happen again. And I’m still thinking about staying with him. Because… because…”

“You’re frightened,” said Barty.

“Terrified, more like. I’m no good alone, and no one else will want me.”

“Does he?”

That one hurt. He saw it in her eyes. Perhaps she’d expected him to insist that someone else would want her. Naturally, he believed this. He also believed it was looking at the problem from the wrong angle to consider who might come next.

He said, “One who fears the threat of a famished tiger that may be lurking nearby does not stay safe by sheltering with an ill-tempered bear.”

It took Lauren a few seconds to fully comprehend what this meant.

“Kieran’s the bear?” she said.

“And not a cuddly one.”

Their mugs were empty. Barty spoke as he collected them and stood.

“I won’t tell you what to do. That’s not my place. I will say I don’t believe fear of the unknown is a reason to choose unhappiness. That’s all.”

Lauren stayed a while longer, and they returned to small talk. When it was time to leave, Lauren paused in the hall, biting her lip. Upon making up her mind, she threw her arms around Barty, squeezing with the desperate need of a child in her parent’s arms after a bad dream.

“I don’t know what I’ll do,” she whispered. “Whatever it is, I want you to know it’s amazing what you do. The way you help people. I know it’s not just me.”

Barty shrugged, momentarily bashful.

“What made you decide to do it?”

“My father,” he said. “He inspired me.”

“Because he was a good man?”

“Because he wasn’t.”

Once she was gone, Barty made dinner and dwelled on what Lauren had said. About how he had helped her and others. Was that true? He only did what he did to help people like Lauren. To use his investigative skills to liberate them from damaging relationships.

But was that what he was doing? Lauren was not the first to stay with her man (or woman) despite all the evidence he presented.

The potential futility of his career haunted Barty until his phone rang.

“Hi, uh, is that Barty Symonds?”

“Yes…” Barty hadn’t known who to expect at the end of the line. A child would not have been his first guess. “Who’s this?”

“Florence.”

“Hello, Florence.”

“I got your number.”

“I gathered.”

“I mean, I got it from… I got it from Vincent Symonds.”

Barty felt the world tilt. As though one side of the block of flats was sinking into the ground. Despite the risk of falling, he got to his feet and walked into his bedroom.

“Vincent Symonds?”

“Yes,” said Florence. “Is he your dad?”

Across Barty’s small bedroom was a window. Next to the window were two bookshelves. Barty went to these. Now, as always, his books brought him comfort.

“He is.” Was that the correct answer? He was felt more appropriate.

“He’s missing,” said Florence. Was that a hitch in the young girl’s voice?

Two of the left-hand bookcase’s shelves were dedicated to Stephen King. Barty ran his fingers along spines so well looked after a casual observer wouldn’t know Barty had read many of these books multiple times.

“I know.”

“What?” That threw her. “You know?”

“Yes. He went out for milk fifteen years ago. Been missing ever since. You’re probably too young to realise what a cliché that is. Going out for milk. That’s what hurts the most.”

Florence seemed to have no idea what to say to this. Barty’s fingers continued over the books as he moved from one Stephen King shelf to the next.

“I take it he’s gone missing again?” he asked.

“Yes. Last night.”

This time, there was more than a hitch. Barty’s fingers fell from the books as he heard a sob.

“What’s your full name, Florence?”

A deep breath indicated that this question got to the heart of why the child had phoned.

“My name’s Florence Symonds,” she said. “I think I’m your sister.”