. . . exactly what he was wearing today. Had it been taken on his way into work this morning?

He looked around, half expecting to find one of his colleagues playing a joke, or to see someone filming him for something, but there was nothing. Nobody was paying him any attention. He looked down at the photograph again, wondering who might have taken it, and why?

As he turned it over in his hands, he saw a single word, handwritten in block capitals on the reverse.

REPRIEVED

Reprieved? Reprieved from what? What was this all about?

He turned his attention back to the brown padded envelope. Glancing around once more, he slid a cautious finger under the sealed flap and opened it. Inside he found a second envelope with a neatly printed label:

FOR DETECTIVE HARLAND

AVON AND SOMERSET CONSTABULARY

WITH COMPLIMENTS

Standing up slowly from his table, Stephen gathered up the two envelopes and the photograph, hesitated, then took them over to the man at the counter.

‘Excuse me,’ he asked, ‘but can you tell me where the nearest police station is?’

53

Monday, 24 September

Harland was late but it didn’t matter. He’d been on compulsory leave ever since he got out of hospital. Now, they’d finally decided to call him in – an eleven o’clock appointment with Superintendent Blake – but he was in so much trouble that there seemed little point in hurrying. The bollocking would keep.

He walked calmly up the steps and into the station, smiling at Firth as he made his way through to the back offices.

‘Good to see you, sir,’ she said, her face bright, interested. ‘Feeling better?’

‘Fine thanks,’ he nodded, lifting a hand to the tender spot at the back of his head. ‘Just a concussion and some bruised ribs.’

‘Well, it’s good to see you back.’

Back, yes. But maybe not for long.

He went upstairs and made his way along the corridor. Should he go and make himself a coffee first? No, might as well get it over with. It was already ten past – he’d kept Blake waiting long enough.

Walking along to the meeting room, he opened the door and went in. The Superintendent was there, but he was surprised to see Mendel and Pope sitting on opposite sides of the table. Had he got the time wrong?

Pope’s expression was aloof, but Blake looked up pleasantly.

‘Ah, there you are, Graham,’ he said, removing his glasses and cleaning them with a handkerchief. ‘Fully recovered, I trust?’

‘Yes, thank you, sir,’ Harland replied.

‘Good.’ The Superintendent beckoned him into the room. ‘We may as well begin then.’

Harland pulled out a chair next to Mendel, catching the big man’s eye as he sat down, but it was clear that his friend was in the dark too. What was going on?

‘There have been some . . . developments,’ Blake began, ‘and I thought it would be appropriate to share them with you all.’

He put his glasses back on and, opening the folder in front of him, drew out several large photographs.

‘Last week, a man called Stephen Jennings walked into a police station in London with an envelope.’ He slid the first photograph across the table. Pope had to rise from his seat to see the picture of a plain brown envelope. ‘It was left on the table of a café near Bank, at lunchtime last Wednesday. Inside, there was a second envelope . . .’ He paused, then glanced up at Harland. ‘And that one was addressed to you.’

‘Sir?’ Harland frowned.

Blake slid a second photograph across the table. This one showed the front of an envelope, with a printed label. They leaned forward, reading the words on it.

‘I don’t understand.’ Harland shook his head as he stared at his own name. ‘What’s this all about, sir?’

‘What indeed?’ The Superintendent gazed at him for a moment, sharp eyes peering over the top of his glasses, studying, evaluating. ‘You weren’t here at the time, so we took a look at the contents in your absence . . .’

No, I wasn’t here, was I? I was on ‘leave’ again, pending your bloody review.

‘. . . and we found something rather interesting.’

Blake pushed another photograph towards them, showing a black mobile phone.

‘This phone was inside. It used to belong to a certain Morris Eddings.’

‘Eddings?’ Pope looked up. ‘Isn’t that the name of the guy in Hampshire?’

‘The victim in the West Meon killing,’ Blake nodded. ‘This is the phone we put a watch on, if you remember.’

‘So the envelope came from our killer.’ Mendel whistled. He turned to Harland, then frowned. ‘But it’s addressed to you.’

Harland sat back heavily in his chair.

‘Was there anything else in the envelope?’ he asked, quietly.

A faint smile passed over Blake’s face.

‘As a matter of fact there was,’ he said, sliding another photograph across the table. ‘This short note was with the phone, presumably intended for you.’

Harland stared at the image – a small square of white paper with two lines of text printed in the centre:

THE GAME IS OVER

WE’LL CALL THIS ONE A DRAW

Pope read the message, then looked over at the Superintendent.

‘What does it mean?’ he asked. ‘He thinks of all this as some kind of game?’

‘Perhaps,’ Blake mused. He paused for a moment, his hand resting inside the folder, before pulling out a fifth photograph, toying with it as he looked at them. ‘Stephen Jennings brought us something else that was quite significant.’

He pushed the photograph into the middle of the table, waiting for them all to crowd in and look. It was a photo of a photo – a small Polaroid snapshot by the look of it. It showed a sandy haired man in a blue anorak – unposed, as though the man didn’t realise that his picture was being taken.

‘That is a snapshot of Mr Jennings,’ Blake said. ‘He found it with the envelope on the café table.’

They sat for a moment, taking this in.

‘That’d give you the creeps,’ Pope muttered to himself.

‘I think it probably got his attention,’ Blake shrugged. ‘Perhaps that was the idea. However, there is one thing further . . .’

He slid a final photograph over. It showed the back of the snapshot, with one word written in large capital letters.

‘“Reprieved”,’ Mendel read aloud. ‘So perhaps this Jennings bloke was lined up as the next victim?’

Blake looked at him, his face impassive.

‘It’s possible,’ he said. ‘Jennings lives in Silvertown, close to the Royal Victoria Dock.’

Harland sat forward.

‘Where the hotel was,’ he said. ‘That’s why he was there.’

The Superintendent gave a slight nod as he ran a finger along the edge of the folder.

‘The Met are running with this now,’ he explained. ‘They’ve been over the hotel, and they’re working through CCTV footage from Docklands, London Transport, and the area around the café.’

‘What about Jennings?’ Pope asked.

‘He seems to be genuine,’ Blake replied. ‘They’ve done some digging and there’s nothing untoward. Naturally, they’ll keep an eye on him, just in case. That word “Reprieved” is encouraging, but I don’t think they’ll want to take any chances.’

‘If he knew how close he’d come . . .’ Mendel said, looking at the snapshot and shaking his head.

The Superintendent sat back in his chair, looking at each one of them in turn.

‘So there we are,’ he said. ‘While there are things that might have been done differently, it does seem that we may have interrupted the killer . . .’

Harland noted his slight emphasis on the ‘we’.

‘. . . for now at least. Although there were a number of decisions taken that I cannot condone, I think it’s best that we draw a line under the whole thing and move on. The case is now with the Met – we’ve done our part and there is no need for any further involvement, from any of you, without my express direction.’

He wasn’t looking at Harland as he finished, but it was a clear, absolute warning.