Delia Fairfax was fretting at his side. ‘I need your help.’

‘Of course. But what’s the real trouble?’

She stared at him, her eyes filled with worry. Then she bent down to the bed and peeled back the bedclothes: there were bloodstains on the sheets.

Hobbes tested them. They were dry, but still retaining some of their colour. Probably a few hours old.

‘Did Tommy come in last night?’

‘No, I don’t think so. He must’ve come in this morning, after I’d left for work. The towels in the bathroom are also …’ Her voice trailed off.

Hobbes wondered how much to tell her. ‘I saw him around seven, yesterday evening.’

‘You did? How was he? Did he look—’

‘He was drunk, Delia. Very drunk. He made a bit of a fool of himself in front of a constable.’

‘Oh, he wouldn’t like that.’ Her face showed her concern. ‘I know my boy.’

Hobbes looked again at the bloodstain. ‘There’s not much of it,’ he said. ‘Maybe he got into a fight.’

‘Aye, I can picture that easily enough. The silly fool.’

‘A couple of blows, that’s all. I think he’s all right.’ Hobbes stood up straight. ‘I’ll see what I can do. Does he have a favourite pub, a local?’

‘No. Not really. He doesn’t have many friends. Not drinking buddies. But …’

‘Yes, what is it?’

Delia’s shoe was nudging at a copy of Mayfair that was poking out from under the bed. ‘I really don’t know why he needs these things when he has a girlfriend.’

‘He does?’

‘Oh, yes, well, on and off, you know? Meg, she’s called. An older woman …’

Hobbes was taken aback. ‘Meg? Are you sure?’

‘She’s one of your lot, I think. She’s been round a number of times. But I don’t know where she lives.’

‘I’ll find her. Yes, maybe she knows something.’

‘Thank you, Inspector Hobbes.’

‘Henry … please.’

‘Tommy always said you were a good man.’

‘He did?’

‘Nothing but praise. Nothing but! When he wasn’t calling you an idiot, that is.’

‘Right. Fair enough.’

Hobbes said his goodbyes to Delia, promising once more to do what he could for her son. But, in truth, he wasn’t sure what action to take. And as he drove along, he was overcome with a fearsome jealousy, which he could hardly explain.

No, that can’t be it. There has to be some other explanation.

Christ, but she’s too old for him …

Was he jealous that Fairfax and Latimer had got together, however that might be, and did this mean he had feelings for Latimer? Or was this a more universal emotion? How come other people can find love, or at least comfort, with each other while he—

A car hooted its horn at him.

He had veered a little towards the opposite lane.

And why the hell hasn’t Meg told me about this? That rankled.

The Graves case flickered away from his mind. And he thought of Glenda, and Martin. His family. It was almost enough to make him stop the car and take his pain out on the nearest troublemaker, some poor sod. But, no, he drove on. It was all he could do, following roads and turnings he barely saw. The rain had started again with a vengeance, pelting the windscreen. It sounded like he was under attack from some unseen enemy. And with the rain came a sudden darkness.