Carlin sped along the motorway in his unmarked car through a torrential downpour. Wipers on full speed, windows fogged, dash vents blowing hot air on the glass. Vehicles swung out of his way when he loomed behind them, siren howling, flashing strobes buried in the grille. He had a window down for the wind and rain to sober him up. He tried Lynch’s phone but it was off. He tried his apartment and his voicemail picked up. He left a message informing him of the case’s developments and told him to call back immediately. He didn’t mention the surveillance photos he’d been sent. That would be a face-to-face conversation. For now, the case took precedence.

A sign for a service station appeared and he pulled in and rushed to the toilets. Prostatitis playing havoc with his plumbing. After standing far too long at the urinal and in sweat-inducing pain, he splashed his face with cold water, swallowed painkillers and bought a first-aid kit from a shop in the concourse, quickly smoking a cigarette as he rushed back to his car through the rain. He was recklessly merging back into the motorway while wrapping a bandage around his aching and discoloured hand 189when a call came in on the radio. He picked up and a man said over background traffic: ‘We got it.’

In the windowless security suite of the Northern Sea, Carlin and three detectives stood drinking coffee and watching silent surveillance video of the hotel restaurant.