A woman across the way was staring at him.

Had he been mumbling out loud?

He smiled at her, turned away. Hoped she would do the same.

He tried to read, concentrating on Mary Estelle’s story, but the meaning shifted in his mind and he could not grasp it.

The train moved on, in sight of the coast: sunlight thickening, but the clouds fierce and dark over the water.

Without realizing it, Hobbes had torn a page from the novel.

It was raining hard by the time they pulled into London’s Victoria. He rang DS Latimer from a phone box outside the entrance. He asked about Rosamund Kepple.

‘Nothing new, I’m afraid.’

‘Still silent?’

‘She hasn’t left her home since getting out of hospital. Her son’s been looking after her.’

‘David?’

‘Uh-huh. For whatever reason, she’s living in fear.’

‘Of what?’

‘Retribution, probably. For killing her own brother.’

‘You really think—’

‘I felt like battering her one time, I really did. But you know me …’

‘OK, don’t worry about it. I have some thoughts.’

‘I’ll see you in a bit, then.’

Hobbes checked his watch: half past three. He had a bite to eat at a station café and read a few more pages of the novel. He drank two cups of terrible coffee, hoping to burn away the feelings that had taken him over on the train. It did little good, putting a veil on it, nothing more. But now …

An idea was forming in his mind.

A different way of seeing the mystery of the Graves family and their history.

Page 192 of the novel gave the vision substance.

He made his way to the railway station’s car park. By the time he’d got back to Richmond, his head had cleared a little and his hands were firm on the wheel.

London was a welcome sickness after the seaside air of Margate: dark, overcrowded, noisy, vibrant, dangerous, a poem of good and ill.

Latimer greeted him at his desk. She was quick to speak. ‘Where have you been?’

He shook his head at her, not wanting to explain. His meeting with Collingworth was too personal.

‘You keeping secrets, Guv?’

‘Same as you.’

‘What does that mean?’

He didn’t really want to push it, but the feelings were too strong, too deep. They couldn’t be explained, not unless they were cut open.

‘I went round to Fairfax’s place last night.’

‘Oh, yes? Any luck?’

‘Tommy wasn’t there. But his mum’s worried.’

‘She’s always worried about something or other.’

Hobbes shifted some papers around on his desk. ‘Tommy’s working the Graves case on his own.’

‘Well … didn’t you want to involve him?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘But nothing, Guv. You started this.’

‘He’s going off the rails.’

Latimer gave him a cruel smile. ‘I don’t know what to make of you. There’s always something new going on, and poor Tommy—’

‘Yes. Poor Tommy.’ There was bitterness in his voice.

They looked at each other.

It took a while, and then he said quietly, ‘I know, Meg.’