—

DCI Jordan is seated behind a desk talking into her mobile while simultaneously issuing silent instructions to the rest of the room. She looks tired and ill, but then she always does. Her uniform is creased and her hair has been hurriedly pulled into a ponytail, leaving odd strands of gray waving out from her head like panicked drowning victims. She pauses as whoever is on the other end of the phone takes over the conversation, and sips black coffee from a polystyrene cup. Around her the SOCOs and technicians buzz like drones round the queen.

It’s not unusual to see Jordan at a crime scene; she’s known for her hands-on approach to command, sitting in on interviews, occasionally visiting suspects in their cells. She’s the sort of detective chief inspector the ranks consider a pain in the bloody arse.

But Tyler has his own theory: she regrets taking the promotion. Her office is a constant reminder of her own entrapment, a self-inflicted ball and chain. She’ll do anything, even take paperwork to the public library, to avoid shutting herself away in a room she considers her own eight-foot-square, plushly carpeted cell. It occurs to him she probably had to fight for this case herself. Something this high-profile, the chances are good that Superintendent Stevens is already breathing down her neck. That’s probably him on the other end of the phone.

If she’s surprised to see Tyler with Doggett, she shows no sign of it. She notes his presence and then looks down at a report on her desk. “Yes, sir,” she says into the mobile. She clicks her fingers three times in quick succession to attract the attention of a young constable hovering nearby and throws a manila folder at her. The constable fumbles the catch but saves the contents before they reach the floor. “I agree, sir. One hundred per cen—” The last word is cut off as the superintendent again takes control of the conversation. She takes another gulp of coffee, her face betraying nothing of how she feels. “Yes, sir. I’ll certainly—” She stops abruptly and presses the call-cancel button, showing none of the frustration she must be feeling at being cut off in mid-sentence.

“Is it him?” she asks without looking up, still tapping away at the screen of her smartphone.

Doggett says, “Seems likely.”

Jordan slips her phone into her jacket pocket, picks up the cup of coffee, and stands. She passes the cup to Tyler to hold as she rummages in her pockets for something and says, “DS Tyler, with me.”

He follows her out of the cabin, and together they walk behind the mobile incident room, out of sight of any cameras trained on them from the gate. She pulls out a silver cigarette case, flips open the lid, and extracts a smoke. She offers him the case just as she always does, and he declines, just as he always does.

“What do you know about Gerald Cartwright?” she asks, flipping open a metallic lighter that matches the case.