Rowley had been denied a final killing. The mother was injured, not seriously. And the girl was unscathed. Rowley was a trained marksman. However disturbed he was, he could never have missed her. Not at that range. He must have deliberately aimed away.

On arrest, he had said nothing. He had not spoken a word or looked directly at any of them. The whole thing had been over in some highly charged but also highly disciplined minutes.

Time went on. Ellie left the room. Came back. Smiled at Simon again. Answered the phone. Went back to her computer. After a further few minutes she had got up and put the light on. It was a gusty, wet day of low sulphurous-looking cloud. The autumn had changed.

Ellie glanced up. “Sorry about this.” She smiled.

They had had Chris Deerbon’s funeral the previous day, in this rain, this wind, this gloom. Cat had made her own decision. The service had been in the lady chapel of the cathedral, which was full—but it was small. The notices had said “Family” but patients and colleagues had come and they had all been glad of it. Sam had walked, white-faced and serious, up to the front, and stood beside his father’s coffin to read a short prayer. And, for once, Hannah had made no fuss, demanded no attention, but only looked at him intently. He had asked to do it, Cat had said. The whole occasion had seemed over too quickly. Weird and unreal. Any moment, Simon had thought, Chris would be there, after all, standing among them and none of it would have happened, this would be someone else’s funeral, a stupid mistake.

Cat had gone with Chris’s mother and brother to the crematorium. Richard and Judith had taken the children back to Hallam House. There was no wake.

Simon had watched them all leave at the side door and then walked, through the rain, back to work.

He sat on the hard chair in the Chief’s outer office and the funeral was in his head, his nephew’s white face, his father’s sudden look of old age, Cat’s eyes heavy with weeping, the smell of the candles being snuffed out by the verger, the sound of the footsteps of the bearers on the stone floor. Chris. Simon had had such a good, such an easy relationship with his brother-in-law, who had been part of his life for so long; they had been friends and family, like brothers but without the strain of being siblings. And Chris had been the best husband to Cat, the best father, the best doctor. The best.

“Simon?”

He looked up, startled for a second, before pulling himself together ready for a battering.

He didn’t get it. Nor was anything said. Not explicitly.

“I knew I was right to trust you,” the Chief said with a wicked smile.

“Thank you.” Simon grinned back. “I had a hunch about the wedding fair. But as soon as I’d taken the armed chaps off the cathedral, and rushed them to the hotel, panic set in. Not about the royals. About you. And your reaction.”

“We had thanks and compliments from the Lord Lieutenant and thanks from the Prince’s office. The cathedral couldn’t have gone more smoothly, though I’m glad we don’t have that sort of thing often, it puts a huge strain on the system. How are the team?”

“Shaken. Can’t get their heads round it. But Rowley never put a foot wrong you know, there was nothing. Not a thing.”

“So how do you account for this? Your desk sergeant has a visit from a man called Matty Lowe who said he’d been attacked. Then he saw Rowley at the Jug Fair and recognised him. Rowley was his assailant. Mr Lowe went into Lafferton station wanting to talk to you but ended up with DS Whiteside.”

“I didn’t know anything about this.”

“No,” said the Chief drily. “Whiteside claims you refused to listen to him.”

Seventy-eight

There were no messages on his answerphone when he got back to the flat. He opened the windows—it was a mild autumn night, cloudy and still. The lights were on in the cathedral for a service.

He rang Cat.

“I’m fine, Dad and Judith have been here all day and Judith is staying a couple of nights. It’s not for me, it’s the children—they need a lot of extra attention. Sam’s gone silent. He might need you, but not yet. Go away, Si, you need a break.”

“If you’re sure c”

“I am. I’ll need you too, but for now it’s OK. I’m numb. Really. Go.”

He was about to ring off, then said, “Listen. Clive Rowley.”

“What about him?”

“There’s one word everyone has used about him—I’ve used it—it seems to be the defining word.”

“What’s that?”

“Loner.”

“Does it fit?”

“Oh yes. But—is that the word you’d use to define me?”

There was a long silence.

It had struck him just now as he had run up the stairs to the flat. Loner. He had been longing for his own space, his beautiful rooms, his haven, his peace and solitude.

Loner.

“Well, there are loners and loners. Obviously.”

“You know what I mean.”

“If you’re asking me are you a weird loner and likely to turn into a maniac with a gun or a serial killer, then no. No, of course you’re not. Or a crazy recluse or one of those people who go along the street talking to themselves. No.”

She was talking seriously. She had not made light of his question.

“Is this really worrying you or is it just the aftermath of the gun business?”

“I don’t know,” he said truthfully.

“If it’s the latter I’m not surprised. If you’re really worried c listen, don’t take this the wrong way, love, but I’m not sure I’m the right person to talk to about it.”

“You think I ought to see a shrink?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t need to.”

“Stop it. I can’t take it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You asked. It’s been a bad night. Helen Creedy rang me.

“What was she thinking of?”

“She didn’t know about Chris. Not everyone does. Why would they? I had to listen, I couldn’t tell her, but I’m pretty much drained. Her son Tom killed himself.” She paused, gulped and then said, “Anyway—if it doesn’t worry you, then it’s fine. If it does, do something about it. That’s good advice about quite a lot of things, from warts on the nose to liking your own company. Make the most of your time off.”

Seventy-nine

The roads to North Wales were easy for the first fifty miles, after which Simon ran into a series of hold-ups and an accident which created a particularly long detour. He switched the car radio from channel to channel until he found some news, started to listen to a long report on police corruption and switched to Mozart. It was dark and wet and, after half an hour, he heard a weather forecast which indicated that the area he was heading for would be subject to a higher than usual rainfall with gales and the likelihood of landslips.

He pulled into a garage which had a dismal café attached, drank a decent coffee, bit into a disgusting sandwich and had a sudden picture of himself, sitting alone at this plastic table in front of squeezy bottles of ketchup. The windows were steamed up but outside the weather was worsening.

He drank up, left most of the sandwich and ran through the rain. His plan was madness: he would have to retrace part of the route and probably stay somewhere overnight. He didn’t care.

Right, he thought. It’s the right thing.

He put a Bruce Springsteen disc into the player and drew away from the forecourt and out onto the road.

He stopped once more and then, an hour later, found a large corporate hotel off the motorway. It was bright, warm and dry, he had a clean room, two large whiskies and a good steak, before dialling the farmhouse number.

“Hi. Me.”

“Where are you? I hope you haven’t gone to North Wales, the forecast is seriously bad.”

“I heard it, so I turned round.”

She sounded relieved. “What will you do?”