She raised a finger. ‘Yeah, you’re right. Never forget that!’

‘And so modest.’

‘That too.’

He glanced down at the tome beside her and read the author’s name. Jean-Paul Sartre.

‘Good book?’

‘Actually yes. I just read something he wrote that could apply to both of us – before we met.’

‘Uh huh?’

Cleo picked the book up and flicked back to one of the tagged pages.

‘Tell me.’

‘It was something about if someone is lonely when they are on their own, then they’re keeping bad company.’ She looked at him. ‘Yes?’

He nodded. ‘Very true. I was. I was in totally crap company!’

‘So,’ she said, ‘at what time does my darling fiancé want to eat?’

He pointed at his briefcase. ‘Somewhere this side of midnight?’

‘I’m feeling rather horny. I had in mind a bit of an early night…’

‘Half an hour?’

Pouting her lips seductively, she stopped at one of the tagged pages. ‘Did you read this passage, about satiating desires? Apparently if you refuse to satisfy them, then your soul can become infected.’ She put the book down. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t like me to have an infected soul, would you, Detective Superintendent?’

‘No, I really wouldn’t want you to have one of those at all.’

‘I’m glad we’re on the same page.’

Reluctantly dragging himself away from her, Roy lugged his bag up the wooden stairs and went into Cleo’s den, which he had now more or less seconded as his office-away-from-the-office. On the desk sat a City Books plastic carrier. Stuck to it was a Post-it note with his name scrawled on in Cleo’s writing. He removed a book with a picture of a racehorse on the cover. It was entitled Eclipse.

He remembered Cleo telling him her father was mad on horseracing and she was ordering a book for him to give as a present.

He put it carefully to one side, then from his bag he took out a wodge of papers, the first of which bore the Sussex Police shield and the wording, beneath, SUSSEX POLICE. HQ CID. MAJOR CRIME BRANCH. OPERATION NEPTUNE. LINES OF ENQUIRY. Next he took out his red ring-binder Strategy File, followed by his pale blue, A4-sized INVESTIGATOR’S NOTEBOOK, in which he had written up his notes from all the briefing meetings on Operation Neptune, including this evening’s.

Five minutes later, Cleo came silently into the room, kissed him on the back of his neck and placed a cocktail glass, filled to the brim with a vodka martini, on the desk beside him.

‘Kalashnikov,’ she said. ‘It will make you very fiery.’

‘I already am! How’s your soul?’ he whispered.

‘Fighting off infection.’ She kissed him again, in the same place, and went out.

‘This book, Eclipse - is it the one I’m giving to your father for Christmas?’ he called after her.

She came back in. ‘Yes. It will get you about a thousand brownie points with him. Eclipse was the most famous racehorse ever. He’ll think you’re very smart knowing that.’

‘You’d better brief me some more.’

She smiled. ‘Why not read the book?’

‘Duh!’ he said, slapping his forehead. ‘Hadn’t thought of that!’ He peered more closely at the cover, at the author’s name. ‘Nicholas Clee. Was he a famous jockey?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I have a feeling he was a tennis player originally, but I may be wrong.’ She went out again.

He read through his notes from the briefing, marking up significant new developments for his MSA, from which she would amend the Lines of Enquiry, prior to tomorrow morning’s briefing meeting.

They still had no suspect, he thought. Feedback from the United Kingdom Human Trafficking Centre was that there was no evidence of any persons being trafficked into the UK for their organs – something that had been confirmed, so far at any rate, from the HOLMES analyst’s scoping.

Trafficking of humans for organ transplantation was one of the major lines of enquiry on the list. But in the absence of any evidence that this practice had happened before in the UK, Grace was concerned not to throw all his resources into this one line, despite all the pointers to it.

It could simply be some kind of maniac killer.

Someone with surgical skills.

But then why would that person have just stopped with those four organs. The high-value ones?

What would Brother Occam have done? What is the most obvious explanation here? What would the great philosopher monk cut through with his razor?

Then Cleo cut through his thoughts. Dinner, she called up sweetly to him, was on the table.

Lynn heard the sound of music blasting out from the living room as she arrived home, shortly before nine. She slammed the door behind her against the icy wind and unwound the Cornelia James shawl she had bought on eBay – where she bought most of her accessories – a few weeks earlier.

Then, with her coat still on, she peered around the living-room door. Luke was lounging on the sofa, drinking a can of Diet Coke, his hair looking even more stupid than ever, most of it hanging in one big, gelled, lopsided spike over his right eye. But he did not look as stupid as the two slender girls dancing on the screen, in the pop video that was playing.

Clad only in black bras and briefs, wearing silver boxes on their heads, they were gyrating in jerky, mechanical movements to a hard, repetitive beat. Various phrases were stencilled in crude black letters on different parts of their arms, legs and midriffs. do it! make it! work harder! ever better!

‘Daft Punk?’ Lynn said.

Luke nodded. ‘Yeah.’

Jabbing the remote, she turned the volume down. ‘All OK?’

He nodded. ‘Caitlin’s sleeping.’

With this fucking racket? she nearly said. Instead she thanked him for looking after her, then asked, ‘How is she?’

He shrugged. ‘No change. I checked on her a few minutes ago.’

Still with her coat on, Lynn hurried up the stairs and went into her daughter’s bedroom. Caitlin was in bed with her eyes closed. In the weak glow of the bedside lamp, she was looking even more yellow. Then she opened one eye and peered at her mother.

‘How are you, angel?’ Lynn leaned down and kissed her, stroking her hair, which felt damp.

‘I’m quite thirsty actually.’

‘Would you like some water? Fruit juice? Coke?’

‘Water,’ Caitlin said. Her voice was small, and reedy.

Lynn went to the kitchen and poured out a glass of cold water from the fridge. She noticed, to her dismay, a build-up of ice at the back of the fridge – a sure sign, she knew from past experience, that the appliance was on its last legs. Yet another expense looming up which she could not afford.

As she closed the door, Luke came in, barefoot, in a grey cardigan over a ragged shirt and baggy jeans.

‘How did you get on today, Lynn?’

‘Raising money?’

He nodded.

‘My mother’s come up with some. And Caitlin’s father has offered his life savings. But I still need to find one hundred and seventy-five thousand.’

‘I’d like to help,’ he said.

Surprised, she said, ‘Well, thank you – that’s – that’s very kind of you, Luke. But it’s an impossible sum.’

‘I’ve got some money. I dunno if Caitlin ever told you about my dad – not my stepfather – my real father.’

Holding the glass of water in her hand, and anxious to take it up to Caitlin, she said, ‘No.’

‘He was killed in an accident at work. On a building site – a crane toppled on to him. My mum got a big compensation payment, and she gave most of it to me, because she didn’t want my stepdad getting it – he has a gambling habit. I’d be happy to contribute it.’

‘That really is very kind of you, Luke,’ she said, genuinely touched. ‘All contributions are more than welcome. How much could you spare?’

‘I’ve got one hundred and fifty thousand pounds. I want you to have it all.’