Her face, those eyes in the glow of the beam …

He made his way to Regent Street and crossed over, enjoying the night air. The fog had lifted since this morning, but remnants still remained, clinging on, giving the streets a spectral feel, and surrounding the neon signs with halos of mist. His head cleared a little, as he walked back to the police station on Savile Row. He always felt the change of mood as he crossed the road, leaving the glare of Soho behind, the shouts and cries of the hawkers, the whispered entreaties of the girls plying their trade from doorways. In contrast, a young couple strolled by, arm in arm, dressed in the new mod fashion, a riot of colour in the drab back lanes and alleys.

Glenda. Glenda Jones.

And he wondered what kind of woman ended up working in a cinema that showed dirty movies. Perhaps he should just forget her.

He took the stairs up to the second floor of the nick and entered the bullpen. The night shift had settled in, and he listened to a couple of officers chatting about a robbery with battery on Brewer Street. Every fourth word was an expletive. He retrieved the file from his desk, and quickly looked up Glenda’s address. The beer gave him courage, and he thought of himself as a bold young man just finishing his first week as a detective, goddamn it, yes, why not? He had as much right as anybody!

She must’ve seen everything there is to see … those films …

As he walked back along the corridor, he passed the room where the viewing party had taken place earlier. A light was flickering under the doorway. The beam of the projector and all the promises that it held.

Because he’d never, not really, not fully …

A few fumbles at a cold bus stop.

And since moving to London, well …

Quietly, he opened the door and peered inside.

A film was playing on the screen.

Only one man was watching.

Hobbes froze to the spot, his hand on the door jamb.

He could see the man’s face.

It was Detective Inspector Collingworth.

Hobbes hadn’t spoken to him yet, not one word. But he knew the man had a fearsome reputation. The warnings had been freely given not to get on his wrong side.

A stocky well-built man, shaped like a barrel. Long, thick swept-back hair, slick with Brylcreem. A face prematurely lined. A misshapen nose, ruined by drink and one too many punch-ups. They said he’d taken down villains single-handedly, no back-up. And done the same to recalcitrant cops. A working-class bruiser wrapped in a detective’s ill-fitting suit. That was his reputation. But just now that brutal face took on a different aspect.

Hobbes was shocked.

Jack Collingworth’s eyes glistened in the light, staring ahead.

Tears ran down the grooves of flesh.

He was crying.