The traffic did not move. She switched off the engine and took her Bible out of the glove compartment. At odd times such as this, she liked to rediscover the Books she did not know well and which were not a familiar part of the church services.

“ The word of the Lord came to me saying, Jeremiah, what do you see? And I said, I see a branch of an almond tree.”

She loved the Bible when it was at its most direct and matter-of-fact, when it spoke of everyday. “ I see a branch of an almond tree.” It scarcely mattered what you believed or did not.

She was still reading, occasionally looking up, over an hour later and by then she had found a notebook and jotted down comments on the text.

When the lights of the car in front showed red and it began to move, she was relieved not only to have studied all of Jeremiah, but to have put Simon Serrailler firmly out of her mind.

He came back to it as she drove on, free of the traffic eventually and taking side roads and short cuts, to try and make up time. She tried to picture him. Tall. White-blond hair. Long nose. But his whole face would not click into place, he hovered some where, shadowy and vague. Why was she trying to remember exactly what he looked like?

She switched on the car radio and tuned in to a discussion about Chinese babies abandoned in the countryside. The story might have been biblical.

She drove on down the dark roads.

Thirty-six

At first they had all been cut out and stuck into a scrapbook and the scrapbook was still there, to be consulted, in a box file on the shelf, but lately he had bought a scanner and scanned the pieces straight onto his computer. Easier to organise.

He had a routine. When he got in he went straight to the shower, then changed into clean clothes, usually combat trousers and a T. Tonight the T was an old olive-green one with a faded picture of Che Guevara. Retro. He hadn’t much idea who Che Guevara was.

Food. Lamb chop, carrots, peas, fried up mashed potato from the day before. Banana. Apple. Four squares of chocolate. Two mugs of tea. He liked his food. He ate well. Always cooked. You were what you put into yourself. Too much putting in of junk—that’s what did for them. Did for their brains and their behaviour and their attitude and their bellies.

He watched the news. Watched half an hour of random sport on Sky. Pulled the ring off a can of lager. Opened up the com puter. Switched on the scanner.

FORTHCOMING MARRIAGES

The wedding between Andrew Hutt and Chelsea Fisher,

both of Lafferton, will take place on Saturday 22 October at

Our Lady of Sorrows Catholic Church, Dedmeads Road,

Lafferton, at 2.30 p.m.

All friends welcome at the church.

He filed it under “Additional.”

NOTICE

The Dean and Chapter of the Cathedral Church of

St Michael, Lafferton, give notice that the Cathedral Close

and the area of Cathedral Lane, Old Lane and St Michael’s

Walk will be closed to the public and to through traffic

between 1 p.m. and 4 p.m. on Saturday 10 November.

Diversions will be clearly marked. The Cathedral Close will

remain accessible to residents.

Which was filed under “Primary.”

He pressed Save, closed the files. Changed the password, as usual every evening.

Tonight’s was “woodcock.”

Time scale, detailed plan, schedules, routes—were in a second box file, marked “Tax Receipts’, kept in the wooden chest on which the television stood.

The chest was locked. The key was in the freezer buried in a full tub of margarine. If it took five minutes to get at it that didn’t worry him. Precautions. Plans. Schedules. A routine.

That way there was less chance of anything going wrong.

Thirty-seven

Simon left his office and ran.

He was stopping for nothing and for no one. He had been on duty for fourteen hours. Bethan Doyle’s former partner had been questioned and was in the clear. Whiteside had taken it upon himself to drive him to see his baby son. Craig Drew had been driven back to his parents’ house by Louise Kelly. Simon had never been up against so many blanks. He felt as if he was wading through clouds. The one thing he could get his teeth into was the job of giving the Jug Fair the highest police profile it had ever received. The Chief was certain the fair would draw the gunman. “Nothing,” Paula Devenish had said, “and I mean nothing, can be allowed to happen.”

Simon got into his car and dialled from his mobile.

“This is the Deerbon residence, who is speaking please?”

“Hi, Sam.”

“Oh.”

“Are you OK?”

“Yes. Only Dad’s had an operation. On his brain. So I’m not really OK.”

“I’m coming over now, I’m just leaving the station. Will you tell—”

“Mummy’s upstairs with Felix and she’s crying a lot. Grandpa and Judith were here but they’ve gone to the hospital. Hannah’s on a sleepover. So there isn’t anyone.”

“Ten minutes, Sam.”

“In your own car?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. No siren.”

“No. But I’ll screech the tyres round the corners.”

“Cool.” Sam put the phone down.

He was at the door as Simon drew up. He looked suddenly older; his legs were longer, his face was changing, the baby softness firming and sharpening. His resemblance to Chris was clearer. Not long ago he would have raced to Simon, arms outstretched, ready to be lifted up and swung round. Now, he waited, his face serious.

“Hi, Sam.”

“Mum’s still upstairs. How’s the shooting investigation coming along?”

“We’ll get there.”

They went inside.

“I saw you on the telly. How old do I have to be to come and do work experience with CID?”

“Sixteen.”

“That’s not fair.”

Simon heard Cat’s footsteps on the stairs. “Many things aren’t fair,” he said.

Sam had the new Alex Rider book but he was reluctant to be left, asking anxious questions about Chris, chattering pointlessly about whether dogs could see in the dark and if his brother would grow up to get better marks than he had in maths. His eyes moved between Simon and Cat, looking for reassurance. They sat with him, talking, answering. In the end, he had simply opened the book, turned away from them and said, “I’m going to read now.”

Felix was asleep, face down on the pillow, knees drawn up as if he were about to crawl away. Simon laughed.

“Yes,” Cat said. “They keep me going. Sam is so sharp, he susses too much.”

“But you have told them?”

“As much as they need to know. Which is probably all there is to tell.”

Simon went to the fridge and found a bottle of white wine.

“No,” Cat said, “I’m not. Not just now.”

He put the bottle back and went to the kettle. “They can’t take everything but I can, you know,” he said.

Cat leaned her head back and closed her eyes. She looks older, Simon thought, like Sam. Her face has changed, too. Something like this happens and we slip down a rung or two and we can never go back. He wanted to draw her.

“Peppermint tea,” she said. “It’s in the blue jar.”