Now what? She hasn’t thought much past this point. She’s more convinced than ever that something is wrong and yet . . . how to convey that to anyone who’ll give a damn? She can imagine the response she’d get from Doggett.

There’s a gentle click, and the gates to the block of flats in front of her swing silently open. A Mercedes swings round the corner and sails past her. She ducks through the gates as they swing closed, but the concierge has his head out of the door before she’s made it past the first block. “Excuse me, love? Are you visiting someone?”

“Tyler. Flat 123.”

“Popular fellow.” The concierge turns and a large black guy steps out of the office behind him. It’s the fire officer, Enfield.

“You’re looking for DS Tyler?” he asks her.

Rabbani nods.

“Apparently he left about twenty minutes ago.”

She introduces herself and then thanks the concierge for his help. The man hovers for a moment and then slips back into his office, clearly put out that he’s not to be included in the drama.

“Do you know where he is? He’s not answering his phone.”

Enfield shakes his head. “I’ve been trying to reach him myself.” He scratches his neck with a massive hand and Rabbani swallows, determined not to stare at his muscles. Well, not too obviously, anyway.

“There was another fire last night,” he tells her. “Adam was injured.”

“Injured? How?”

Enfield frowns at her. “You’re the girl from the church,” he says as though suddenly recognizing her.

She lets the girl comment go. “What do you mean, ‘injured’?”

“Nothing too serious. He probably shouldn’t be driving, though.”

“Maybe I should speak to the DI,” she says.

Suddenly Enfield is in front of her. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” He has his hand on her arm now. She pulls it away sharply.

“Why not?”

“The arsonist. I think he’s one of yours.”

Her voice, when she finds it, comes out in a rasp. “Police?”

“I managed to trace the blog.”

“What blog?”

Enfield looks at her closely. “Maybe we should talk to DCI Jordan. Adam’s probably already with her. Why don’t you come with me? I can give you a lift.”

She wants to tell him to stop calling the sarge Adam. It’s Tyler. Or Detective Sergeant Tyler. But not Adam. No one calls him Adam. There’s something about this guy that’s off, the way he thinks about everything so carefully before he says it.

He gestures toward the gate as though inviting her to go ahead of him.

Rabbani starts to speak, to tell him she’ll make her own way to the station, but suddenly her throat is on fire again and she’s coughing and rasping and doubling over.

He puts his massive hand on her back. “You look like you need to sit down. Look, my car’s just over here.”