At least her family has gone. How they all managed to get in she has no idea. There were twelve of them at one point, with Sandra looking over in disgust. Well, fuck her! At least Rabbani has people who care. Though if her mother really cared, she might not have spent quite so long cursing her, cursing the force, and insisting Ghulam give her a second opinion—as if a neurologist knows anything about lungs! She could have died with embarrassment. Rabbani hits the button on her mobile for what must be the twentieth time and waits for the line to connect. It’s not like there’s anything else to do. Besides, she won’t be able to sleep until she’s talked to him. She’s not expecting him to answer any more this time than the last twenty times, so she doesn’t even have the phone to her ear when she hears his tinny voice barking up from her lap. “Tyler.”

She fumbles the phone as she hurries to bring it up to her ear. “It’s Mina. I mean, Constable Rabbani. Sir,” she adds.

“Rabbani?”

“Why don’t you answer your bloody phone? I’ve been ringing you half the night!” She speaks without thinking, her frustration bubbling over onto the first person she’s spoken to in hours. She’s about to apologize, but using her voice so much sends her off into another coughing fit.

When she has recovered, he says, “My phone died. I’ve had it charging. Just switched it on.”

“You shouldn’t speak on them things when they’re plugged in, you know. My cousin knew this guy once whose phone blew up and—” Again she has to cough, but it gives her a chance to think. What is she talking about? Why does he make her so bloody nervous? She takes a sip of water. Sandra is watching her again. Rabbani stares at the woman until she turns back to the TV. “Still there?” she asks.

“Sure,” he says.

“Good. I need to tell you something.” And she lays it out for him, the overheard conversation between Wentworth and Thorogood. “He basically accused the vicar of being involved. Which pretty much implies he was involved as well, right? Or at the very least, that he knows something.”

“Yes, but involved in what? Gerald’s death or the fires?”

“Maybe both.” She clears her throat again before she can go on. “Anyway, one of them locked me in. Left me there to . . .” She can’t let herself think about that now. “They told me you were the one that got me out. Thanks, Sarge.” She probably should have started with that.

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” he says, although he doesn’t particularly sound it. “Rabbani, why are you telling me all this? You need to speak to DI Doggett. I’m not on the case anymore.”