‘Can’t one of your colleagues deal with things while you’re away?’

‘That all depends on which colleague it is,’ he said grimly. ‘But yes, I suppose so.’

Jean looked at him for a long moment.

‘And do you feel as though you’re walking out on something when you take time off?’ she asked.

He struggled with this for a moment, then sighed again.

‘Not really,’ he said eventually. ‘It’s just that I want to see things through . . .’

‘I know you do, Graham,’ she said gently.

They sat for a moment, the room quiet except for the sound of the pen scribbling in her notebook. He picked at the neutral blue fabric on the seat of his chair, then looked up to find Jean staring at him.

‘You said that you might not be in the mood just now,’ she said. ‘Do you usually enjoy your time off or are you maybe happier when you’re at work?’

Harland frowned.

‘Happier at work?’

He dealt with murder and other violent crimes. Misery and loss. That wasn’t something that should make anyone happy. And yet part of him was desperate to be back on duty.

Jean leaned forward a little.

‘Some people find the regular routine helps them to structure their lives,’ she said. ‘It’s not uncommon.’

No. That wasn’t him. Or at least, it didn’t used to be . . .

‘I think maybe I just like to keep myself busy.’

He used to say that he didn’t have enough time to get everything done. Now, he didn’t have enough to fill his time.

Jean nodded thoughtfully.

‘Perhaps you could tell me what you usually do when you’re not working. How do you spend your regular days off?’

Harland considered this.

‘Depends what the rotas are like, but usually I catch up with chores, try and keep the house tidy, that sort of thing.’

He paused, aware that it wasn’t much of an answer, that there must be more.

‘I also read a lot. Sometimes I go for a walk . . .’ Damn it, what did he do? ‘Oh, and there’s the swimming of course.’

Jean noted something, then smiled encouragingly at him.

‘And what about this week?’ she asked. ‘What have you been doing with your time while you’re on leave?’

He sat back, trying to think, but only one thing came to his mind. There seemed no point in trying to hide it.

‘I drove out to the place near Redhill,’ he said slowly.

She waited, sensing how hard he suddenly found it to speak.

‘Oh, I see. Is that where . . .’ her eyes flickered down to her notebook ‘. . . Alice had the accident?’

You had to check her name there, didn’t you?

A shiver of anger brushed over him, but it somehow lightened the burden, made it easier for him to talk.

‘Yes.’ He sat up, forced himself to breathe. ‘I drove out there a few days ago.’

Jean waited.

‘It was strange,’ Harland mused, half to himself. ‘I wasn’t planning to go there. I was just driving around and I somehow ended up on that road. I haven’t been there since . . .’

Jean nodded.

‘How did you feel going back there?’

‘Empty,’ he shrugged. ‘At first there was a sort of dread – so many memories stirred up there – but after a while I just felt numb. Empty.’

‘That must have been difficult for you.’

Harland looked up at her.

‘I thought it would be,’ he nodded, ‘but I didn’t really feel it properly until afterwards.’

‘Afterwards?’

‘When I got home.’

‘Well, as you said, an experience like that can stir up a lot of memories. Coming to terms with bereavement takes time . . .’

She made it sound like a legal disagreement, something to be negotiated with, settled with. As if he could ever come to terms with it. As if he could ever change the way he felt about Alice. He shook his head.

‘. . . she was your wife and—’

‘Alice is my wife,’ Harland spoke abruptly. And in that instant the room seemed different, suddenly less intimidating to him. ‘You weren’t even sure of her name a moment ago. Why am I listening to you on a subject you don’t really understand?’

His voice was raised now, and he could sense her drawing back from him, concern in her eyes. Why did people always look so worried when he got upset recently? What did they see in his face that hadn’t been there before?

She began to speak, but he held up a hand for her to wait, turning his head away from her as he spoke, hiding whatever it was that lay behind his eyes.

‘Please,’ he scowled, his voice careful now, ‘I don’t mean any offence, but you don’t understand. You can’t understand.’

They sat there in silence for a long time, until he slowly lowered his hand. Jean waited for a moment, then spoke in a soothing voice.

‘I understand that it isn’t easy to rebuild your life when someone important is taken from you.’

Harland laughed, a desperate, almost sobbing sound.

‘How can I rebuild my life?’ he snapped. ‘She was my life. I don’t want to move on, I don’t want to get over her . . . I want her back. I want all of this to just stop, and I want things to go back to the way they were before . . .’

He looked at her, her expression still guarded, but tinged with a curious sympathy.

‘Don’t worry,’ he sighed, getting to his feet. ‘I’m not losing it. I know that I can’t go back. But I also know that everything isn’t going to be all right.’

‘Graham,’ she began, but he just smiled sadly and shook his head.

‘I think our time’s up for now,’ he said, opening the door. ‘Thanks for everything, Jean.’

41

Thursday, 6 September

Naysmith bowed his head as the train swept down into the tunnel and the grey morning light of East London was extinguished. Swaying in his seat as the carriage rattled from side to side, he closed his eyes, quietly preparing himself for another rush-hour vigil, recalling the face of his target and fixing it in his mind.

Early thirties, clean-shaven, with sandy hair and a pale complexion. Slight build, weak chin and small, dark eyes. Impossible to be sure of his height – the man had been seated when he’d seen him – but the blue anorak and brown leather case might be worth watching out for.

He opened his eyes and looked around, calmly taking in the dull expressions on the faces of his fellow passengers, already drained from the morning commute before they’d even made it to work. Scrubbed skin, combed hair and newly ironed clothes, but all withdrawn, dead eyes staring away into nothingness. Adopting that same tired expression, Naysmith sat back in his seat. Everything now depended on his ability to blend in, to avoid attention. An underground station wasn’t somewhere he could stay for long without arousing suspicion. He’d mentally allowed himself thirty minutes, but that would be a very long time to stand there in the glare of so many CCTV cameras.

This train was some fifteen minutes ahead of the one he’d seen his target on at Poplar. As it slowed, and the darkness of the tunnel was replaced by the bright walls of the DLR station sliding into view, he got to his feet, ready to disembark with the other passengers. His face was bored, expressionless, but as the doors opened and he stepped out onto the platform, his eyes swept back along the other carriages, flickering from face to face. A long line of glaring strip lights hung from the curved white ceiling, illuminating the head of each person who got off. There was no sign of that short, sandy hair he was looking for, but he was early . . .

As the passengers made their way towards the exit, he allowed himself to drift along with them, slowing as they mingled with other groups of commuters who were making for the train. He paused for a moment, making a pretence of checking his phone, then started walking again. Except now he was walking back towards the platform, just another ordinary person on his way to work. He had already identified the best places to stand, not far from the platform exit, where the target would have to pass by as he made his way out.