‘He didn’t ask to see me?’

‘No.’

‘I could’ve—’

‘He never mentioned you.’

‘I could’ve helped him. Given him money. If that’s what he needs.’

She started to speak, then stopped. In the silence Hobbes went over it in his mind: his son had taken the split badly, but then again, Martin took everything badly, having left home earlier this year, in the spring.

He’d only been sixteen, when he’d left.

Seventeen now.

Seventeen years old. What kind of trouble could he be in?

Despite his years on the force witnessing the simple way in which people slipped over into criminality, often by accident, DI Hobbes held an entirely innocent picture of Martin in his mind: it could never be dismissed, no matter who or what contrived to disprove it.

‘And then he came back a second time?’

Glenda nodded.

‘How was he?’

‘At first I thought he was better. But then I saw him up close …’

She hesitated. Hobbes could see the worry playing at her eyes.

‘What is it?’

‘He looked ill.’

‘Ill? In what way?’

Her head shook and she bit at her lip.

‘Glenda, please.’

Now she looked at him again. ‘Tired, grey skin. Unwashed. His clothes smelt bad.’

‘That doesn’t mean he’s ill.’

‘No, no. But his hands …’

Hobbes started to feel uneasy. But he said quietly, ‘Go on.’

‘He showed them to me, deliberately, like this …’ She held both hands in front of her. ‘And I could see that his fingers were … discoloured.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘They looked like they’d been …’

‘What is it, Glenda?’

‘They looked like they’d been dipped in ink. In blue ink.’ She paused. ‘All ten fingers. Dipped in ink nearly up to the first knuckle.’

‘Do you mean his hands were damaged in some way? Or were they … They weren’t tattooed, were they?’

‘No, it wasn’t that—’

‘It must be one or the other.’ His voice was insistent.

‘Henry, don’t shout, please.’

‘I just need to … I need to understand.’

Glenda looked him steadily in the eye and said, ‘He had blue fingertips. That’s it. That’s all I saw. And then he lowered his arms again.’

‘He showed you this on purpose?’

‘Oh, yes. He was proud. Or defiant. You know that look he gets?’

Yes, Hobbes knew it all too well.

For a moment neither spoke. He wanted to argue, to uncover every detail. Treat her like a witness. Christ. But their old house was used to such things, the raised voices. And the long silences that followed. Hobbes imagined all the words said in anger over the years, and the words of love. And he had to wonder which side had come out on top.

The same wallpaper, the same furniture: he never had got round to redecorating.

His mind focused. ‘You think it’s some kind of infection?’

‘Maybe, yes. That’s all I can think.’

‘He’s in pain.’

‘No, I don’t think so. Not physical pain, anyway.’

Hobbes felt the onset of darkness. A flicker at the edge.