He leaves Denham collapsed in one of the reception chairs, unsure if the meeting has revealed anything substantial. The poker parties are hardly a revelation, but the fact Denham knew about them is interesting. What else did he know about? There’s something he isn’t saying. Tyler glances back through the window to see the man sitting alone, looking ashen and weary. If nothing else, perhaps he’s given him something to think about.

—

Tyler spends the rest of the afternoon at his desk going over the notes from the original investigation. It isn’t that he doesn’t trust Doggett. Not exactly. But he can’t shake the feeling the man has his own agenda. Why did he request Tyler on this case? He can’t bring himself to believe it was simply because Doggett knew his father, because he felt sorry for him in some way because of what happened with Bridger. And why is he so keen to keep him on the case now he knows he’s compromised? It doesn’t make sense. Tyler likes things to make sense.

He intends to spend the evening on the Internet, doing research into arsonists, but when he gets home Sally-Ann is waiting for him outside the main gate. She’s dressed for a night out—another long velvet dress, dark purple this time rather than black, although it still has long sleeves. At her neck she wears a thick choker with a repeated skull motif, and her hair is sculpted with some sort of product so that it sticks up wildly in short yellow peaks that make her look like Lisa Simpson all grown up.

“Now, I know you won’t have forgotten,” she tells him, “so I’m just going to assume you got held up at work. Am I right?”

“Largely,” he says.

“You were supposed to meet me an hour ago.”

“I thought that was Saturday?”

“It is Saturday!”

“Shit! Sorry. Look, maybe we could rearrange—”

“Nope. You’re taking me out, whether you’re up for it or not. You owe me at least six drinks for leaving me in that pub on my own for the last forty-five minutes. Besides, I feel like dancing.”

“Sal, this really isn’t a good time.”

“You’re not going to win this one, Adam, so save yourself the hassle and go and put your glad rags on.”

Tyler sighs heavily. “Fine, one drink.”

Despite her words, when they reach the Red Deer it’s Sally-Ann who insists on buying the drinks. Tyler finds them a table and tries to think of an opening for the conversation, but he realizes he knows very little about her. When she gets back he takes a sip of ale and starts with the one thing he can remember her telling him. “So what made you study art?”