DC Turner’s hand was on her shoulder, gripping it none too gently, and before she really knew what was happening, she was being propelled out of the room. Just before the door slammed shut, she saw the two guards moving in towards Reave, and she caught the expression on his face; he was furious, points of colour high on his cheeks. And then the view was cut off.

‘What …?’

Abruptly, Heather realized her legs weren’t holding her up properly, and she fell against the wall. DC Turner was glaring at her and rubbing the back of his neck.

‘I think that’s going to be your lot, Miss Evans.’

‘I … what happened?’ It was difficult to breathe – she felt roughly the same as the time a car had turned a corner unexpectedly on Peckham High Street and nearly run her over. His sudden eruption from calm boredom to violent rage had made her dizzy.

‘You pissed him off.’ Turner shrugged. ‘You can’t predict people like that, love, so don’t feel bad about it.’

‘But we were getting somewhere!’

‘It costs money, stuff like this. Did you know that? I didn’t expect you would.’ He curled his lip, then made an effort to arrange his features into a sympathetic expression. ‘Me watching over you, those guards in there. We’ve all got better things we could be doing – me especially, given we’ve got another nutter like him on the loose.’

‘Hey, you people asked me to do this.’ Heather pushed herself away from the wall. ‘Where is DI Parker? I want to talk to him about it.’

Turner laughed and gestured down the corridor. ‘Now, DI Parker definitely has better things to be doing than talking to you, I’m afraid. It’s time to go.’

‘Can I at least get those printouts back?’

Turner sighed dramatically again, and Heather wondered how well he’d be sighing if she slammed her elbow into his nose. The incident at the newspaper loomed large in her thoughts – the sound of gagging, blood dripping onto a biscuit-coloured carpet – and she clenched her fists instead.

‘If he hasn’t torn them up, you’re welcome to them.’

An hour or so later, as Heather sat in a bar in Lewisham nursing a shot of whisky to calm her nerves, DI Parker called. She cleared her throat and answered, willing herself to sound cool and professional.

‘I was sorry not to see you today, DI Parker. Belmarsh is a lot more appealing with you in it. Plus your mate Turner is a waste of skin.’

‘How did it go? With Reave?’

‘You mean you don’t know?’

There was a beat of silence before Parker replied.

‘You’ve got to expect him to be temperamental. Difficult to understand. But even how he reacts to things can be useful to us.’