‘What is it?’ asked Chandler as he opened up the slat of Heath’s cell.

Immediately Heath pressed up close to it.

‘I’m hurt. I think one of my ribs is busted.’

‘You didn’t complain about it before.’

‘I did to the other two. They didn’t bother to check me over. I get that you can lock me up without any evidence – that kinda shit you’ve been doing for years – but I’m finding it hard to breathe in here.’

His plea was bracketed by a hand clasped to his side, against his bloodied clothes, pain riddling his voice. Chandler couldn’t tell if it was an act or not.

‘Leave it with me,’ said Chandler.

‘Are you gonna get someone?’ barked Heath.

‘I said leave it with me, Mr Barwell.’

Chandler turned to leave. He passed cell three. Despite Heath’s outburst there hadn’t been a peep from it. Curious to witness the reaction of his new guest and overtaken by an odd foreboding that somehow Gabriel had disappeared again, he opened the slat and peered in. To his relief his prisoner was curled up on the bed, staring at the wall in the direction of cell number one as if he expected Heath to burst through the reinforced brick. A pathetic creature, stricken with fear. He too looked injured but hadn’t complained.

Chandler was torn. If he allowed them treatment he would lose valuable time for questioning but denying medical help might invite a lawsuit against the force and prejudice any eventual murder trial. There was only one choice.

‘After you call Doctor Harlan, call off the roadblocks,’ he told Nick, weighing up whether he could leave him to escort the doctor in to treat Heath while he questioned Gabriel. He quickly decided it was too much of a risk to leave an elderly doctor and a rookie officer alone with a potential serial killer.

Chandler left a message on Mitch’s answerphone, informing him that they had Gabriel in the cells. It took less than five seconds for Mitch to call back.

‘Don’t do anything with the prisoner, Sergeant Jenkins. Hold him until I get back. Don’t let him out of your sight.’

There was a fury in the voice that Chandler remembered well, a rage at being beaten to the punch, at being outmanoeuvred. Chandler thought of himself as a morally upright, do-unto-others kind of guy, but hearing Mitch suffer provided an intoxicating burst of energy.

Mitch was a good twenty minutes away. Doctor Harlan Adams showed up in little over two. His house was barely two hundred metres from the station, but still the local physician was out of breath on entry, leaning on the reception desk, his gut heaving as if it were one huge lung.

‘So what we got?’ he asked between rasped breaths.

‘Sure you don’t need a few minutes?’

The doctor waved this off as nonsense so Chandler carried on.