Recouping the cat’s loyalty was a simple case of getting home a bit earlier, to regain the mantle of chief food-giver.

Unfortunately, solving the case, and charming Mike out of the spare bedroom, wouldn’t be so easily achieved.

27

Hawkins sat back from her desk, yawning hard.

She checked the time in the corner of her laptop screen, surprised to find that, since retreating to her office at the end of shift, aiming to focus on her remaining caseload, she had filled an hour catching up on work-related email. She could have done that from her mobile, or even her living room, of course, but that hadn’t been her intention.

Anything to stave off going home.

Unleashed, her mind clicked back into undesired territory: the reason she was effectively hiding at work again.

Mike.

For some reason, the two of them couldn’t occupy the same room at the moment without tearing strips off each other. The worst part was that Hawkins couldn’t convince herself she didn’t have to shoulder at least half the blame. Now it seemed they weren’t on speaking terms.

Hardly ideal with only weeks left till Christmas.

She had woken that morning to the sound of the front door being closed, Maguire’s early night clearly having been geared towards a swift exit the next day; up and out of the house before Hawkins had even stirred. Had she come round fast enough to don a dressing gown, and save herself the embarrassment of chasing him towards the car park in her nightshirt and knickers, she might have considered doing so, but at that particular moment, Hawkins had found the short doze she could afford more valuable.

She was still trying to decide whether Mike had closed the door any harder than he usually did, in an attempt to wake her. Make his point.

She forced her mind back on to work.

The case was proving to be investigative quicksand. The more they dug, the more confusing and distorted things became. They barely had a grip on the killer’s method, let alone his motivation, and every new element uncovered refused to mesh with its predecessors.

The past twenty-four hours had produced next to no progress. Amala and Aaron had spent the day revisiting the deceased’s family and friends, asking subtle questions about the victims’ religious sensibilities, trying to unearth any spiritual beliefs, inherited or otherwise, that might have taken them to Cold Christmas church. Unsurprisingly, there were varying degrees of faith among the assorted parties, but none of the dead were known to have paid more than a passing interest in any religion. Geographical and linguistic barriers had prevented the two sergeants from finding out much about Joel Kowalski’s formative years, but creed didn’t seem to play a big part in any of the lives lost.