He gazed down at Michaela again, taking in her naked form, letting his growing arousal force out all other thoughts. She did have a great body, and he was eager to fuck her once more. Rolling over, he gently kissed her neck and slid a hand under the sheets to wake her.

Afterwards, breakfast was strange. He watched her as she slowly tore open a warm croissant, her long lashes beautiful as her eyes looked down at the plate . . . and he tasted the bitter sadness of disappointment. Women often lost their appeal after he’d slept with them – there was nothing unusual about that – but he’d expected more with Michaela. He’d thought about her often, seeing something compelling and interesting in her gaze, in the way she spoke, in her attitude. And yet now, across the hotel breakfast table, he suddenly knew it wouldn’t be enough. It wasn’t what he wanted.

She glanced up at him, mischievous eyes sparkling between strands of long hair. He smiled back at her, but it was an effort now, when last night it had been so natural. There was really no point prolonging things.

‘Remember I said I had an appointment in town this morning?’

She nodded as she ate.

‘Well, believe it or not, that wasn’t just a clever excuse to come and see you. I really do have an appointment this morning.’

‘Oh,’ she shrugged. ‘No problem. Who’s it with?’

The last of his desire for her evaporated. It was tiresome making up stories for Kim; he really didn’t want to have to do it for anyone else. But it wasn’t her fault, and he had no wish to hurt her feelings if he could avoid it.

‘An old friend from university,’ he lied. ‘He’s finance director for a firm of accountants over in Clifton and he wants me to meet his boss, see if there’s anything we can do for them.’

‘That’s great.’

She seemed almost satisfied with this, but he did want to let her down gently if he could.

‘I’m not sure what time I’ll be done. I could try and meet you somewhere after lunch. Maybe.’

Her mouth was still smiling but her eyes looked at him differently. It was such a pity.

‘No, that’s okay,’ she said. ‘You can give me a call later. If you like.’

She raised her coffee cup and held it there, sipping from it thoughtfully. The poor girl understood.

Naysmith wandered aimlessly along the Bristol harbourside, listening to his footsteps, feeling the cobblestones through his shoes. He took out his phone, his finger hovering over the speed dial for Kim, then scowled and put it back in his pocket.

Not now.

Gulls wheeled around the Arnolfini building as he walked over to the edge of the quay, looking out at the grey-painted cranes across the water. The city felt as though it was waiting for him, but he was at a loss. Everything had been arranged so that he could spend the whole day with Michaela – the cover story, the hotel room, everything. With her out of the picture, he suddenly had time on his hands, and he resented it.

A faint breeze touched the tree-lined waterfront, teasing through the branches so that the leaves rustled for a moment, then fell silent once more. Naysmith found an empty bench and sat down. He could make an excuse and go home, but something warned him against seeing Kim while he felt like this.

A couple of women in their sixties strolled by, towed along by an eager West Highland terrier on a long lead. One of them was pointing at something further up the street and he leaned forward to see what it was. There was a white police van there, parked by the main road, and he could just make out a couple of officers talking to a group of kids. He got to his feet and wandered towards them, but as he drew near, the group dispersed and the officers returned to their van. He watched it as it pulled around, noting the insignia as it drove past him.

Avon and Somerset Constabulary.

And suddenly he remembered that haunted face on the TV, the detective on the crime programme with the Severn Beach reconstruction. DI Harland from Avon and Somerset Constabulary. Yes, that was it.

Perhaps fate had brought him to Bristol for a reason after all.

The nearest police station to Severn Beach was at Portishead. Naysmith had looked up the address – it was only ten miles away, and he thought it might be an interesting diversion, or at least give him time to think.

Now he was parked in a quiet residential street, an open newspaper propped up on the steering wheel in front of him, but his eyes focused always on the police station a hundred yards further down at the bottom of the road – two storeys of uninspiring beige plaster and brick, tucked in behind a low wall. The entrance porch, decorated with crime prevention posters and overhung by a couple of broad trees, was clearly visible from his vantage point. Why were so many small-town civic buildings so ugly?

He’d experienced an odd thrill driving out here. The sight of the Second Severn Crossing, delicate and pale in the distance as he’d come over the hill from Bristol, had sent a shiver of excitement through him, dispelling the angst from earlier. The last time he’d seen it had been that early morning on the beach . . .

Portishead was a bleak place on an overcast day like this, its huddle of Victorian architecture and desolate sixties shops besieged by a vast sprawl of new developments. Bland industrial units, a generic retail park, a host of waterfront apartment complexes – everything seemed grey, even the people.

He sat back in his seat and rubbed his eyes for a moment. It had been a late night, but his mind was alert. DI Harland could be in there right now, just a stone’s throw from where he was sitting. The idea pleased him.

He checked his watch again. It was 12.50 p.m., which meant he’d been sitting here for nearly an hour with no activity except one uniformed officer who’d emerged and driven off in a panda car. And yet somehow it didn’t matter. The fact that this detective – this man who was hunting him – might be so close was enough.

Smiling to himself, he leaned forward and switched on the radio for some music. He would give it another hour.

The street was quiet. One or two cars had turned in from the main road, disappearing up the hill behind him, and an elderly man shuffled down from a house further up on the opposite side. Naysmith watched his progress in the mirror, fascinated by the agonisingly slow pace, willing him along. Eventually, though, the stooped pensioner passed out of sight at the bottom of the road, and there was nothing to watch but the rhythmic swaying of the trees above the police station porch.

Patience was part of the game, bargaining with yourself to sit still for sixty seconds, then another sixty, and another . . . until you’d burned away five minutes. Same again, and ten minutes were gone, then quarter of an hour. He turned the radio down and focused on the memory of that gaunt man, recalling the troubled expression he’d seen on the screen.

And then, moments later, it was all he could do not to lean forward. The door had opened and two men emerged, both wearing dark grey suits. One of them was broad, tough-looking, with a square jaw and short hair, but it was the other man who held Naysmith’s attention.

There was no mistaking that gaunt figure, that pale, drawn face. It was Harland. Naysmith exhaled, watching as the men walked out of the porch and turned away from the car park, out onto the pavement. For a heart-stopping moment he thought they might come this way, but they went down towards the main road. Where were they going?

Naysmith considered starting the engine, then decided against it. Moving quickly, he got out of the car and locked it. Folding the newspaper under his arm, he hurried towards the police station.

When he reached the junction, they had already crossed the main road, but that was fine. He preferred following people from the other side of the street, especially when it was quiet like this. They were talking as they went – the broad one was saying something and Harland was nodding – but it was too far away for him to hear what was said.