Enjoying himself, forgetting, letting his guard slip . . .

He forced himself to look up at her. ‘I’m just tired.’

She studied him as they stood there under the light of a street lamp.

‘Are you sure? More than happy for you to join us . . .’

He looked at her and shook his head.

‘It was really good of you to invite me. I enjoyed it.’

‘I’m glad you came.’ She offered him a brief smile. ‘’Night . . . sir.’

‘’Night.’

He watched her push through the doorway into the laughter and murmuring voices of the pub, then turned his back on the glaring lights and walked away, following his long shadow over the cobblestones.

28

Monday, 20 August

It was becoming intolerable. No matter what he did, Harland could feel the sand draining from the hourglass. In the days since the Superintendent’s veiled ultimatum, they’d gone over things again and again, but turning up leads wasn’t something you could hurry. The momentum was slipping away, and it wouldn’t be long before Blake would smoothly pass the buck to Hampshire and quietly reassign everyone.

They needed something tangible, something to keep the investigation alive, but this killer wasn’t stupid. He didn’t seem to have made any mistakes at all – there was nothing but a single souvenir connecting one victim to the next.

Harland considered this as he walked into the station kitchen, mug in hand. He switched on the kettle, then paused.

Those souvenirs weren’t mistakes, they were deliberate. Some killers were compelled to take things from their victims as mementos, or trophies. But this one wasn’t keeping his souvenirs. They were subtle markers – the faint initials of the artist on the back of a painting – just enough to prove whose work it was if you knew what you were looking for, nothing more. Their presence spoke of arrogance, a desire for recognition, but tempered by caution and an absolute determination not to be caught.

Pouring water into his mug, Harland shook his head. Real mistakes, if any ever came, would be few and far between. Unless they were focused – properly focused on the case – they wouldn’t spot them.

He took a spoon from the cutlery drawer and slammed it shut hard.

So frustrating . . .

The worst part was that it didn’t have to be this way. But politics and sheer bloody incompetence would drag them down, no matter how desperately they wanted a result. Blake was certainly a glory hunter, but he was much more interested in avoiding any negative PR. Pope was an idiot who would take the shortest route he could to suck up to the Superintendent, neither of them knowing or caring who he trampled over on the way. Between the two of them, what chance did he have?

Bastards.

He stirred his drink and tossed the spoon, clattering, into the sink.

And it wasn’t just Pope who’d acted incompetently. He shook his head as he remembered his own outburst in the meeting, how he’d taken his chance to reason with Blake and thrown it away.

No, it didn’t have to be this way . . . but it would be. They were just going through the motions until the whole thing was shut down.

He took a breath, then picked up his coffee and turned back towards his office. He needed a moment to think, time to clear his head. Rounding the corner into the corridor, he moved slowly, as though in a daze.

Laughter. Pope was leaning in the meeting-room doorway, smiling broadly, that irritating laugh echoing along the corridor. The smug little toad was sniggering about something as his head tilted round and their eyes met.

Harland hated him.

That pudgy, leering face and that smug grin. What was so bloody funny? The clock was ticking and all he could do was prop up a wall . . .

As they drew level, Pope nodded at him, then turned back to Josh who was coming out of the meeting room.

‘Run out of work, Pope?’ The words were out of Harland’s mouth before he could stop them, but it was a reasonable thing to say, wasn’t it? For some reason, Josh had taken one look at him then anxiously moved away, hurrying down the corridor.

‘Don’t worry—’ Pope started to drone, raising a placatory hand.

‘Don’t fucking tell me what to do!’ Harland spat. He suddenly found that he was standing with his face inches away from Pope’s.

Everything seemed to be moving slowly, and even though he could tell they were very close, it felt as if he was staring out at Pope from somewhere deep inside his head.

‘Now hang on!’ Pope was saying something, his face a blubbery frown. ‘You can’t speak to me like—’

There was a ringing crack as Harland’s mug hit the floor, splashing coffee along the wall and skirting boards. His hands were on Pope’s lapels, knuckles shining pale as he pushed the miserable little creep up against the door frame.

‘I said, don’t tell me what to do!’ Harland snarled again. He could feel Pope’s rapid breaths on his face, his piggy little eyes wide. ‘Understand?’

The adrenalin taste in his mouth, every muscle taut, ready to lash out hard . . .

And then Mendel was there, running down the corridor, his huge arms between them, prying them apart in a moment of quiet confusion. Pope remained pressed up against the wall, spluttering and pointing, as everything cleared and Harland found himself being moved back, recoiling from what had just happened.

He was shaking. Mendel was holding him, concerned eyes searching his face, speaking quiet words that he couldn’t quite latch on to.

‘Are you okay now?’

Harland stared at him for a moment, then nodded mutely.

What the hell had he done?

Pope eased himself away from the wall, drawing himself up and jabbing out an accusing finger.

‘What the fuck was that?’ he gasped, his cheeks flushing red. ‘You’re out of order, Harland, bang out of order!’

Mendel’s hands released their grip and he sagged a little. He was out of order, and he knew it. What had he done? This would mean disciplinary action for sure. Suspension, maybe worse.

‘Did you see?’ Pope’s voice was shrill now. ‘You saw what happened, didn’t you?’

Mendel spun round and raised a warning finger.

‘Nothing happened here,’ he hissed.

‘But—’

‘Nothing happened, Pope.’ His tone was absolutely serious. There would be no argument.

Pope stared at him, about to say something more, then turned his back and stomped away. A door slammed and suddenly it was just the two of them standing there.

Harland was still shaking.

Mendel looked at him carefully for a moment, then glanced down at the spilt coffee.

‘Come on,’ he said calmly. ‘Let’s get this cleaned up.’

29

Tuesday, 21 August

Harland sat back in his chair, closing his eyes for just a moment, after an hour or so of staring at the screen. An uneasy calm had settled over the station since his outburst the day before, and so far nobody had mentioned it.

At least, not to him.

He swivelled his chair a little, stretching his legs out at the side of his desk. Things had got badly out of hand, and he’d spent every hour since then expecting the call from Blake summoning him to the Superintendent’s office for that short, difficult conversation. But the call hadn’t come and now he felt rather at a loss. Pope had him on the ropes – what the hell was the little idiot waiting for?

Yawning, he turned back to his screen and tried to concentrate. Charlotte Bensk, the DI from Sussex, had put him onto the files for the Brighton murder a few weeks ago, but nothing had stood out. Khalid Ashfar’s body had been in open water, exposed to the elements far longer than the others, and was degrading badly when it was found. Personal effects might have been compromised too, and the length of time that had passed since the body was found made new witness information unlikely.