Aaron knew that was possible: sometimes there was simply no choice. He didn’t really expect Joel to stand up to Darby Sabini if the man made it a matter of physical threat, or to DDI Colthorne if the prospect of another prosecution for a longer sentence was on the table. He wouldn’t expect that of anyone.

He hoped Joel was all right, for the sake of what they’d had and what might have been. He very much hoped the man took his message of trust as he intended it: a statement in principle, not a rebuke if he’d faltered.

Or maybe Joel hadn’t caved, and Colthorne was lying, but even then, Aaron didn’t see there was any way out for himself. He hadn’t found any sort of proof against Colthorne to back up his suspicions—except the accusation that Joel had made to Sabini, but he didn’t want to find himself in a situation where he and Colthorne exchanged accusations. He knew who’d lose.

And, in truth, he wasn’t sure he could face the fight. He knew all too well how it would go. He had involved himself in private affairs in his official capacity; he had brought an obvious charlatan into a police investigation; he had spent a lot of his free time with Joel, with all that implied. It could be so easily twisted into a web of corruption and villainy, and the mud Colthorne threw would stick. Sergeant Hollis was noticeably avoiding Aaron, which indicated where he thought his bread was buttered.

The sensible thing to do would be to sign the resignation, take the private shame to avoid the public humiliation and then find something to do with the rest of his life.

He didn’t want that, or at least, not like this. A reckoning with his profession was probably long overdue, but he wanted it to be on his terms. He didn’t want to leave as a tainted man; his reputation mattered to him. And mostly, he did not want to see Colthorne carry on his merry way, unchecked and unpunished. That could not stand. He just had no idea how to prevent it.

So he stared at the walls, feeling them close in around him, feeling his neck muscles cramp, feeling his options narrowing and his life with it, until there was a knock at the door.

He answered for lack of better ideas, and was faced with a boy who shoved an envelope into his hand. It was a telegram, and it read SHAFIS NOW DONT BE FOLLOWED.

***

IT WAS ONLY MID AFTERNOON. Aaron knocked at the restaurant door, and was quickly admitted by Rahim Mohammed. It felt extremely cloak and dagger.

“Your friends are here, Mr. Fowler,” Rahim said. “Let me bring you a drink.”