He had wondered so many times if their marriage, their relationship, could ever be healed after what had happened. Now, after seeing her, the prognosis was as uncertain as it had been yesterday or last week. And the thing was, he didn’t even know if he wanted them to get back together. Of course, he wanted her to be well. He wanted Bonnie to have a mum. But could he imagine them being together again as husband and wife? Maybe. But just maybe.

He turned on the engine and watched the windscreen wipers fight against the raindrops. He pressed play on the CD player and The Cure’s ‘The Same Deep Water as You’ came on, a song that always soothed him. He smiled and ran a hand through his hair. I probably need to see a therapist, he thought. Talk through my feelings. Listen to music other than The Cure. He clenched his jaw. A therapist? A psychiatrist, more like. And as the rain slowed to a rhythmic drumming on the glass, he remembered what Gill had said. Over the past months he had conducted a thousand imaginary conversations with her, but had never dreamt on their first encounter they would talk about one of his cases.

What she had said though. It was like a break in the clouds. She had always been good at that, shining a light through the fog. And as the rain slowed and he reversed out of his parking space, he realised how keenly he had felt her absence from his life. How much he had missed her.

‘What are we looking for, sir?’

Carmella pulled a chair up to his desk as Patrick tapped at the keyboard.

He concentrated on the screen. ‘I’m looking for women who were committed to secure units for harming or abducting children.’

He felt rather than saw Carmella’s stare, knowing exactly what she’d be thinking. Women like your wife. And maybe she would be thinking why he hadn’t thought of it before. But, of course, they hadn’t known that the person who’d taken Liam – and, they had to assume, Frankie and Isabel – had been female, and as soon as Bowie had given them that explosive piece of information they’d set off after Denise, straight down an investigative cul-de-sac.

As Patrick entered search terms into the HOLMES database, he felt a presence behind him and heard an unwelcome voice.

‘Don’t tell me,’ Winkler said, ‘you’re about to crack this case wide open.’

‘Fuck off, Adrian,’ Patrick said without turning round.

‘Ooh. Someone’s prickly. In a bad mood, are we?’

Patrick gripped the arms of his chair, counting to five beneath his breath.

‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Winkler said. ‘Don’t want to disturb the great brains of the Met. Beside, I’ve got some proper investigating to do.’

After he was gone, Patrick shook his head. ‘It’s not just me, is it, Carmella?’