His eyes searched hers across the table, and his breathing increased, as if the answer was swelling in his throat. He wanted to tell her.

Hawkins leaned forwards, softer now. ‘Why did you run? That’s all I want to know.’

The watcher’s pupils continued their fitful dance.

She pressed, ‘Maybe I can help.’

She waited, feeling like a TV presenter who had handed over to a colleague, but the camera hadn’t cut away. The seconds stretched, and still they stared at each other, but Hawkins was determined not to let him off. Chris shifted nervously beside her, clearly feeling the tension. But the watcher cracked first, swallowing.

Preparing to speak.

‘No comment.’

‘Fine.’ She stood abruptly, watched him recoil. ‘Since you haven’t expressed a preference either way, I’ll organize some legal representation for you. You’ll need it if we decide to press charges for assaulting a previously identified police officer. It’ll also come in handy when you’re ready to explain what you were doing outside the building on Cavendish Square.’

She flashed a look at Chris to let him know they were leaving, and both detectives retreated to the hallway. Hawkins nodded at their appointed officer, who looked like he hadn’t moved a muscle since they went in, and led her trainee a few yards along the corridor.

‘This guy’s shitting himself.’ She ran fingers through her hair, pulling it back off her face. ‘Probably because he’s a fully paid-up member of the bloody spiritualist club; thinks he’s facing eternal damnation if he betrays whichever supposed power he worships.’

Chris frowned. ‘But you didn’t ask him about that.’

‘No.’ She lowered her voice, conscious that the recently plastered walls might not be as thick as they looked. ‘Because it could be something else, and I don’t want to give him an excuse.’

‘Oh, I see. What next?’

‘Let’s leave him to think about it,’ she said. ‘Check in with the guys at Becke House, see whether his prints are on file and if not, how they’re doing with tracing his route, either today or the time White saw him before.’

‘Got it.’

Chris turned to leave, but Hawkins stopped him. ‘This guy’s our only lead at the moment, and something smells wrong. Tell them I don’t care if it takes all night, but I want to know who he is.’

41

Hawkins pulled away from the lights and hit the button to lower her window, stopping it a couple of inches down. She leaned over, feeling the breeze hit her face, its icy blast doing less than she’d hoped to combat the tiredness dragging at her eyelids.

She spotted a bus stop, signalling as she pulled in, rolling her shoulders and rubbing the back of her neck.

Maybe eighteen-hour days weren’t sustainable any more.

These days, she felt more like ninety-nine than thirty-six.