Doggett grunts. “Fine. But don’t leave it too long to talk to him.” He turns to go and then stops. “Oh,” he says, “I need you to pick me up from court in the morning. I’m giving evidence in the Kendrick case. I should be done by eleven.”

“That’s a bit of a late start, isn’t it?”

“He’s been here six years, son. I reckon he’ll keep a few more hours.” Doggett turns once again and heads toward the door. “Get yourself an early night, Sergeant. Sleep tight.” His voice echoes down the stairwell. “Don’t let the buggers bite.”

Tyler turns back to contemplate the empty wall.

—

The irritating buzz of a disk jockey reverberates across the plastic dashboard, down the driver’s door, and into Tyler’s right arm where it hangs out of the window. He has his shirtsleeve rolled to the elbow, the Vectra’s metallic paint warming his forearm. Somewhere, far behind in the queue, someone vents the day’s frustration by leaning on a car horn. The lights ahead change to green. The traffic fails to move.

On the radio the DJ discusses star signs with the guest astrologist. He finds himself listening for his own. Gemini—a good week for new relationships, with Mercury ascendant; both romance and work hold opportunities for new beginnings. Christ! His mother would have loved that. She was into all that crap for a while. Horoscopes and crystals, patchouli oil and cosmic shopping. Maybe that’s why she left when she did. Maybe she saw a premonition of what was to come.

The traffic lights complete another cycle; red, red and amber, green, amber, red. Still nobody moves. Another horn sounds.

What the hell is he going to do?

He needs to think it through, but he can’t focus on anything. The green man on the crossing light has been knocked aslant, making it look like some drunken office worker off to enjoy the lazy evening. He finds the image strangely soporific as flashes of the day visit him like some bad acid trip: Oscar’s pale skin covered in those dark swirls of ink; the desiccated flesh of the corpse with its broken fingernails; the gray, mottled face of the portrait in the living room. A portrait that once hung in the attic. Why does that seem so significant?

Again the lights blink their pattern. Why didn’t he tell Doggett? That was his moment. The longer this goes on, the worse it gets. It’s not unheard-of to come across someone you know while working a case, especially in a city like Sheffield. A place that’s more like an overgrown village, where you’re never more than three Facebook friends away from every new acquaintance. But there are procedures for this sort of thing. You’re supposed to disclose the information, not just bury your head in the sand.