He scowled to himself, then moved aside to let the man pass.

‘After you,’ he murmured.

The man stood still for a second before pushing hurriedly past him, out into the car park. Harland glanced over his shoulder, and went inside.

His phone was there, lying on the table where he’d left it. Walking over, he reached out to pick it up, then stopped.

Mobile phone.

He would need to check, but he felt certain there’d been no mobile phone listed in the personal effects of the Hampshire murder victim. Filled with a new sense of urgency, Harland turned and hurried back to the station.

32

Wednesday, 22 August

‘Come in, Graham. Take a seat.’

Safe behind his desk, Blake pointedly closed the folder he had been studying. There was the customary polite smile but his eyes were alert, watchful.

Harland closed the door and walked over to the chair. Sitting down, he noted an unusual tension in the Superintendent’s posture, the hunch of his shoulders, the right hand resting awkwardly on the edge of the desk. Something wasn’t right.

Damn. Pope must have dropped him in it after all.

‘I believe good communication is key to effective police work,’ Blake began. The words sounded uneasy, as though he’d rehearsed this little speech too many times. ‘So I wanted to have a one-to-one with you, to explain where we are with the Severn Beach case.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Harland nodded. He was wrong. It wasn’t a disciplinary talk – the first in an inexorable series of meetings that would undoubtedly see him suspended. He exhaled silently. Thank goodness. But if it wasn’t that, what was it?

‘We’ve invested a lot of time and valuable manpower in this investigation,’ Blake said. ‘I’ve put my faith in you and your team from the beginning, and that faith has been rewarded by some significant breakthroughs. It was our hard work that unearthed the connection to the other killings, and I’m proud of that.’

Harland’s heart sank as he recognised the empty praise that always seemed to precede bad news. Blake was going to pull the plug.

The Superintendent drew a breath and leaned back in his chair, frowning slightly as though considering where to go next.

‘However . . .’ he said carefully. ‘Just as there are times when it’s appropriate for us to lead the investigation, we must recognise that sometimes others are better placed to do so.’

He paused, trying to measure Harland’s reaction, but there was none.

‘I believe that we’ve made a significant contribution to this case, Graham . . . but I think the time has come to let Hampshire have a clear run at it. As far as we know, the most recent murder happened on their patch, so they’re in the driving seat now.’

‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Harland knew it was pointless, but somehow he just had to speak. ‘How can we give this one up to Hampshire? All the bigger-picture stuff – everything – has come from us.’

Blake gazed across the desk at him.

‘Nobody’s disputing that,’ he said, quietly. ‘But we can only take it so far, and things haven’t really moved much in the last couple of weeks.’

‘That’s not true,’ Harland protested. ‘What about the mobile phone?’

‘What mobile phone?’

‘Each body seems to have one thing on them, one thing that doesn’t belong, that was lifted from the previous victim, yes?’

‘Yes . . .’

‘Well . . .’ Harland forced himself to speak slowly, calmly. He couldn’t allow his frustration to get the better of him now. ‘We were talking about that, about how we’re always two steps behind the killer because it’s so hard to spot which murders are linked. About how, if we don’t know what we’re looking for, then we can’t get the other forces to watch for it.’

‘So?’ Blake shrugged.

‘So we’ve been trying to figure out what was taken from the most recent victim, something that we can watch for, something that’s close to the killer now.’

He paused, slowing himself down again, taking a breath.

‘Our lecturer had no mobile phone on him when he was found,’ he said. ‘We’ve gone through the reports, checked with his family . . . nobody knows where that phone is.’

Blake rubbed his hand absently across his mouth, his eyes thoughtful for a moment.

‘He definitely had one?’

‘Yes, a basic pay-as-you-go phone,’ Harland nodded. ‘If you’ll authorise it, we can get a watch put on the number, see if it’s used again.’

Surely, even a self-serving bastard like Blake must see the potential in that. If they could track down the phone it might give them a real edge.

Blake leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of him.

‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘We’ll put a flag on the phone and see if anything comes of it . . .’

Harland felt a brief surge of exultation, but the Superintendent hadn’t finished.

‘In the meantime,’ he continued, ‘I think we need to reassign people. This isn’t our only case, and I have to make the best use of resources.’

And there it was. The neat little manoeuvre that effectively bumped the investigation onto the back burner.

‘With respect, sir,’ Harland argued, ‘things really aren’t that busy just now. By all means take Pope, even Mendel if you have to, but you don’t need to reassign me just yet.’

Blake drew himself up, his mouth showing a faint smile.

‘I agree,’ he said in a quiet, level voice. ‘Perhaps now might be a good opportunity for you to take some time off.’

‘I’m sorry, sir?’ Harland was caught off balance by the suggestion.

‘You heard me.’ Blake stared him down, a flicker of challenge beneath his calm tone. ‘Good communication is the key, and I’ve been listening. Did you really think I was unaware of your little scene with Pope?’

Harland’s head dropped. He’d been played.

‘Take some time off, Graham,’ Blake said calmly. ‘That’s all.’

part 3

LONDON

33

Tuesday, 28 August

It was getting dark. He knew he ought to be getting home. His socks were wet and his feet were cold, but it wasn’t too uncomfortable as long as he kept moving. He looked down at his school shoes and scuffed them through some long grass to wipe the mud off them. They weren’t too bad. His mum would put newspaper in them and leave them on the radiator to dry for the morning.

But it wasn’t his shoes that he was worrying about.

He stooped to pick up a broken branch, snapping off a few twigs to make a walking stick. It felt good in his hand as he swished it back and forth, scything it through the grass like a sword. If only he could stay out here for another hour, put it off a little longer. But the street lights were coming on in the village below him, flickering red and faint at first, before settling into a bright orange glow.

It was time.

He sighed and started down the hill.

The dark evening clouds were creeping up over the horizon as he turned into his street, walking with one foot on the pavement and one in the road. He dragged the stick behind him, enjoying the sound as it rattled over the gratings of the gutter drains, then using it to draw a long snaking line in the gravel as he trudged up the driveway. He suddenly felt quite sick.

The back door was open and he went in slowly, trying to scrape the last of the mud from his shoes onto the mat.

‘Out with no coat again, I see.’ His mother breezed into the kitchen and smiled at him as she went over to the sink. He said nothing as she rinsed her hands, then turned to look at him.

‘Are those your school shoes?’ she asked, noticing his muddy feet. ‘Oh Rob, I asked you to wear your old ones . . .’