“And now you’ve had a chance to watch me work, where do you think that solve rate comes from?”

Richie looked uncomfortable. Clearly he had asked himself the same question, and hadn’t managed to come up with an answer.

“Is it because I’m the smartest guy in the squad room?”

He did something between a shrug and a wriggle. “How would I know?”

“In other words, no. Is it because I’m some kind of psychic wonder boy, like you see on TV?”

“Like I said. I wouldn’t—”

“You wouldn’t know. Right. Then let me say it for you: my brain and my instincts are no better than anyone else’s.”

“I didn’t say that.”

In the thin morning light his face looked pinched and anxious, desperately young. “I know. It’s true just the same: I’m no genius. I would have liked to be. For a while, when I started out, I was sure I was something special. Not a doubt in my mind.”

Richie watched me, wary, trying to work out if he was getting told off here. He said, “When … ?”

“When did I figure out that I’m not Superboy?”

“I guess. Yeah.”

The hills were hidden in mist, just snatches of green appearing and disappearing. There was no way to tell where land ended and sky began. “Probably a lot later than I should have,” I said. “There wasn’t one moment that sticks out. Let’s just say I got older and wiser, and it became obvious. I made a few mistakes I shouldn’t have made, missed a few things that Superboy would have spotted. Most of all, I worked with a couple of guys along the way who were the real thing: what I wanted to be. And it turns out I’m just about smart enough to spot the difference when it’s right in front of my nose. Smart enough to see how smart I’m not, I guess.”

Richie said nothing, but he was paying attention. That alertness was rising in his face, edging out the rest; he almost looked like a cop again. I said, “It was a nasty surprise, finding out that I was nothing special. But like I said to you before, you work with what you’ve got on hand. Otherwise you might as well buy yourself a one-way ticket on the train to failure.”

Richie said, “Then the solve rate … ?”

“The solve rate,” I said. “My solve rate is what it is for two reasons: because I work my arse off, and because I keep control. Over situations, over witnesses, over suspects, and most of all, over myself. If you’re good enough at that, you can compensate for just about anything else. If you’re not, Richie, if you lose control, then it doesn’t matter how much of a genius you are: you might as well go home. Forget your tie, forget your interrogation technique, forget all the things we’ve talked about over the last couple of weeks. They’re just symptoms. Get down to the core of it, and every single thing I’ve said to you boils down to control. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”