Before she could stop herself, Hawkins was out of bed, leaving the room, determined to have this out whether he liked it or not. She crossed the landing at pace, inner voices debating merits of the grand entrance versus the soft approach. Diplomacy lost.

She rammed down the handle and stepped into the spare room, making sure she made enough noise to wake him.

‘So you’re copping out with separate beds again?’ she snapped at the darkness, noting a dull orange glow from the street light outside, wondering why he hadn’t bothered to draw the curtains.

Nothing.

‘Fine.’ Hawkins turned and flicked on the light, glad now that she still hadn’t swapped the bulb for an energy saving alternative. ‘The hard way it is.’

Light burst around her, forcing her eyes shut. She waited blind, anticipating a dismayed grunt as her slumbering adversary reacted to the Gestapo tactic.

There was no grunt.

‘Mike?’ Hawkins squinted through the red and orange haze, just able to determine the outline of the spare bed against the far wall.

Empty.

It took a few seconds for her fatigued, irritated brain to lap the house. Kitchen: just the cat. Two bedrooms: both unoccupied. She hadn’t checked the sofa as she passed through the darkened front room, but why would he choose that when there was the option of a bed?

For a second panic reared, the way it sometimes did when you spent your days dealing with psychopaths of inexplicable motivation. But as her vision cleared, to leave her staring at the neatly made covers of an unoccupied divan, Hawkins knew what was going on.

She switched the light off and stumbled round the bed, now fighting the opposite effect of sudden darkness, to the window. She stood looking down at the communal car park behind the house, having parked the Alfa out on the road to save time. Her gaze slid along the line, past number 7’s battered red Focus, number 5’s ridiculous van-cum-minibus and minuscule silver Peugeot, and number 3’s battered old Merc. She craned her neck, bumping her head on the glass in an attempt to see right into the corner, looking for Mike’s car.

Tightness rose in her throat, accompanied by a flicker of distress. He might still be working, of course, but something told her that wasn’t it. The 4x4’s long body and high-sides were normally visible out of this window, but tonight all she saw was the last foot or so of an empty space.

Which meant the Range Rover wasn’t here.

And neither was Mike.

34

‘For fuck’s sake.’ Hawkins banged the steering wheel, having hit another dead end, again without passing flat 18. She yanked on the handbrake and sat for a moment, trying to mentally retrace her route through the maze of intersecting roads. The numbering system here spat in the face of logic, but there couldn’t be many turns she hadn’t tried.