“I don’t know it’s happening. That’s the damned thing. I’ll have to prove it from scratch, and looking into him is an unappealing prospect. Even raising it, if it gets back to him— Oh God, this is a nightmare.”

“I’m sorry to have dropped this on you.”

“Not your fault.”

Wildsmith exhaled hard. Aaron caught the waft of gin. “I don’t suppose I can do much, but if you’d care to take the night off—well, you’re here already.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you’d like to just sit here and drink gin for a while, feel free. Or tea? Or I think I have cocoa, and there’s definitely toast. Well, it’s currently bread, but it could become toast. And you could tell me all about it if that would help—strict confidence—or talk about something else, or sit in silence. Whatever makes you feel better.”

Aaron stared at him. “Why?”

“Because you look like you need it? You’ve had what sounds like hell’s own responsibility dumped on your shoulders out of nowhere, you seem quite upset, and if I were you, I wouldn’t want to be alone right now. I’ve been alone when I didn’t want to be, and I didn’t like it. So if it helps, you’re welcome to be not alone with me.”

Aaron shut his eyes. He’d found Wildsmith by turn bewildering, provocative, alarming, infuriating, arousing. He thought this kindness might be the most devastating facet yet.

“Thank you,” he managed. “But you missed something. I am upset and afraid and alone, but I’m also angry. I am bloody angry.” He felt the truth of it rising as he spoke. “This isn’t right. It is not how it should be. That man took an oath, and he takes a salary, and if he’s a cuckoo in the nest, I am damned well going to deal with him, starting tomorrow.”

“Good for you,” Wildsmith said forcibly. “Oh, good for you.”

He held out his glass. Aaron clinked it with his own, the proxy touch sending the tiniest shudder up his arm.

“And you needn’t apologise,” he said. “I knew something was wrong, and I haven’t been facing it. If you’ve identified the source of the rot, I’m grateful.”

Wildsmith winced. “Does it make sense that I simultaneously bloody hope I’m right, and bloody hope I’m wrong?”

“I will be looking into it properly,” Aaron assured him. “I’m not just going to take your word for it. But I’ve yet to see you be wrong.”

“Stick around, boyo.”

“About graphology.”

“I’ll grant you that. So, Detective Sergeant. Does this mean you’ve concluded you can trust me?”