Marie hurried down the street, her mind on her job, her sense of self-preservation entirely asleep. Then, struck by a sudden desire to finish the evening with a box of chocolates in front of the TV as she passed the newsagent on the corner, she wheeled round to return and almost cannoned into a man who was only a few feet behind her, his head down and shoulders hunched against the cold. Her heart leapt in shock. She’d had no notion anyone was that close.

He barged past her without a word and she was surprised by her relief when she entered the shop. Silly woman, she chided herself as she left a few minutes later, reassured by the empty street and the box of Ferrero Rocher tucked into her bag. Nothing more than a typical bad-mannered city encounter; what could be more normal than that?

She rounded the corner into the street where she and Marco lived, completely unaware that the man she’d almost bumped into was standing in the shadow of the house on the opposite corner, taking very careful note of Marie’s destination and wondering how many more times she’d be walking through her own front door.

16

Of course there wasn’t a legal parking space in the Minster Canal Basin. Cursing, Paula slotted the car into a disabled slot and propped a sign saying ‘police’ on the dashboard. It went against the grain, but then so did getting soaked to the skin on semi-official business. She consoled herself with the thought that not many disabled people would fancy negotiating the cobbles of the canal basin in monsoon conditions.

As she headed for Tony’s floating home, she wondered fleetingly whether she should have phoned ahead. He didn’t exactly have a vibrant social life, but it wasn’t unusual for him to take long walks through the city. They were, he’d told her, a cross between sociological observation and thinking time. ‘Watch and learn, that’s what psychologists need to do,’ he’d said in an uncharacteristically frank exchange about the way he approached his work. ‘And then you have to apply what you’ve learned to what you observe.’

‘You’re better at it than most,’ Paula had commented.

‘It’s not rocket science. It’s mostly common sense mixed up with a bit of compassion and empathy. You could do it, you know.’

She’d laughed. But he’d continued, absolutely serious. ‘You’re already doing it. I’ve watched you interviewing witnesses and suspects. You might not know the theory, but your practice stands comparison with most of the clinical psychologists I’ve seen in action. Maybe you should think about applying to the national faculty and training to be a police profiler.’

‘No way,’ she’d said. ‘I get my buzz from being on the front line. I don’t want to be a backroom person like you.’