Tyler sipped his tea and listened to a muffled conversation with DI Forde. Somewhere else in the office, a desk phone rang.

He turned his attention back to the mirror. He’d taken off his tie and untucked his shirt. The bottom of it was an ordinance survey map of creases and lines. He’d kicked his shoes off, too, and the man in the mirror looked all the smaller for it.

“Sorry, back,” Sinead said, once the other conversation ended. “What were you saying?”

“Nothing much,” Tyler replied. “I’m getting the early train tomorrow. You still going to be able to pick me up?”

“Eh, aye. I think so. It’s all kicked off here, so I just… Dave? Can you get that phone? If it’s Hamza, tell him I’ll call… Cheers.”

“Sounds busy,” Tyler said.

“You can say that again.”

She told him about Hamza’s grim discovery at Jazmin McAllister’s. The DS was on his way to Skye now to break the news to her parents—one of the shittiest jobs in a career positively riddled with them.

“Jesus. That’s rough,” Tyler said. “Is there anything I can do to help from down here?”

Sinead’s response didn’t make sense at first, until he realised it wasn’t directed at him. “Tell her I’ll call her back in two minutes.”

“You’re busy,” Tyler said.

“What? No. No, it’s fine. Just Shona calling. She’s been over the body. Jazmin’s, I… What? Yes, sir. It’s on my desk. Blue folder.”

Tyler waited. The man in the mirror watched him.

“Sorry, Ty, what were you saying?”

“Just asking what I can do to help. How can I make myself useful?”

“Don’t be daft. You take it easy,” Sinead said. “We’re fine here.”

“You don’t sound fine. You sound rushed off your feet. Just give me something to do. I can help!”

“Rest! Put your feet up!” Sinead insisted. Another phone burst into life in the background. “I have to run. I’ll call you later. Love you.”

The phone went dead before he could say it back.

“I can be useful,” he said again, more quietly this time.

And the man in the mirror mocked him with his silence.

* * *

Mrs Maitland, Billy’s solicitor, stretched in her seat to see the printout that Heather had produced from the folder.

“Who’s Darren Priestley?” she asked.

“Teenage lad. Right mouthy bastard, by all accounts. Bit of a wind-up merchant,” Logan explained. “Ended up getting a couple of slaps from his Biology teacher for taking things too far. Didn’t he, Billy?”

“That’s… That was different,” Billy protested. “He was…”

“What? Asking for it?” Heather prompted. “Deserving it?”

“You say you’re not a violent man, Billy, and yet this report would say otherwise, would it not?” Logan asked.

“It was… It was a mistake. He kept pushing. I didn’t… I reacted badly.”