After leaving Streatham Motors, the rest of Hawkins’ day had been spent locating and questioning Vladimir Kask’s remaining staff. All were Eastern European, some translating for others, none able to provide any practical information about their former colleague. Even Kowalski’s ex-housemates struggled to give her anything beyond his passions for German hip hop and Arsenal football club, and the fact he was a terrible cook. There was underlying caginess throughout, which Hawkins put down to fear of police xenophobia, but she was convinced that none of them knew what Joel had been doing in Brixton.

She left the car park, and was within sight of the front door when her mobile rang. She stopped and stood for a few seconds, staring up into the infinite blackness, willing the call not to be work-related as she fumbled in her coat. Freeing the handset, she checked the display.

Brian Sturridge.

She swore, only now remembering the appointment she had missed. Two hours ago.

Sturridge – the Met counsellor who had helped her more than anyone to deal with the results of almost becoming a statistic at the hands of a serial killer she hadn’t seen coming – would be understandably concerned. Their sessions were mandatory, written into her job description and enforced by the DCS. Until Brian signed her off, regardless of whether the appointments helped or not, her post was at risk.

So she went.

At first, she had paid minimum lip service to the counsellor’s well-intentioned attempts to coax her into talking about the attack, almost a year ago now. But gradually, meeting by arduous meeting, and following an outburst she latterly came to regret, something had started to change. Instead of leaving his office so wound up that it often took her hours to relax, Hawkins had begun looking forward to their appointments, actually feeling her mood dip in the preceding days, and rise throughout the session and afterwards.

Except today, with the buzzing distraction of a big new case, their engagement had gone clean out of her head.

But she also had more immediate problems.

She let the call go to voicemail, silently promising to call Brian back as soon as domestic bliss was reinstated.

She pocketed her mobile and went into the house, immediately hearing movement from the kitchen, where she found Maguire hunched over the hob, wearing his most comfortable jogging bottoms and a tight-fitting, ribbed black jumper.

‘Hello.’ She kept her tone neutral.

His mumbled response wasn’t promising.

Hawkins put her bag down. ‘What are you making?’

‘Bolognese.’

‘Great.’ She waited, tapping a rhythm on the bench with her nails. ‘How was work?’

Mike glanced up, his expression mildly bemused, probably wondering if she was gearing up for an apology. ‘Not bad. Turned a small-time supplier for the Angel Mob today. Even managed to cram in a little shopping afterwards. Got you something real nice, not that I’m hinting.’