‘Where are you working?’

‘Maureen’s Salon, on the high street. Hair stylist. But right now I’m going down the West End.’ A ready smile took over her face. ‘Window-shopping to begin with. A spot of dinner. A few drinks. And then a club. Husband-hunting. Lovely.’

He pulled a name from his memory. ‘Delia?’

‘Yes?’

‘I didn’t know you were …’

‘What?’

‘Divorced. Tommy never said.’

‘A year last Thursday.’ She patted her hair while looking in the hallway mirror. ‘I’m so glad you’ve come round, Inspector Hobbes.’

‘You don’t need to call me—’

‘Only I’m awful worried about Tommy. See, he’s not been himself lately.’

Hobbes nodded. ‘He’s in, then?’

‘He’s watching tele.’

She led the inspector to the living room and whispered at the doorway, ‘Now don’t let him talk improper to you. He’s been terrible for that, lately.’

‘I won’t. Thank you.’

The doorbell rang. It was a signal for Delia Fairfax to pull on a coat. ‘That’ll be Gladys. She’s on the prowl as well.’

‘Good luck.’

She smiled one last time and left the house.

Hobbes looked through into the living room. He could see Fairfax sitting down in front of the television, his back to the door. If he’d heard any of the conversation in the hallway, he’d made no reaction to it. The screen flickered with an afternoon chat show. The remains of egg and chips sat on a little table at his side, with an open can of lager.

Fairfax suddenly made a noise. ‘Oh, please! Everyone knows what the capital of Brazil is! Idiot.’

Hobbes entered the room. One of the chat show’s guests was being asked a series of general knowledge questions. ‘Tommy? It’s me.’

‘It’s Rio! Rio de Janeiro! Come on! It’s for charity, for fuck’s sake.’

‘Tommy?’

‘Yeah.’ It was more a grunt than a word. ‘Get me another one, will you?’ He held out the now empty can of lager. ‘Fridge. Kitchen.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Fuck.’ For the first time Fairfax looked up at his superior officer. ‘What the fuck?’

‘You’ve had enough.’

‘Really? Is that all you’ve got to say?’

‘Pretty much. Except that it’s Brasilia.’

‘What is?’

‘The capital of Brazil. Brasilia.’

‘You’re making that up. You’re having me on.’

Hobbes shrugged.

Fairfax glared at him. ‘What’re you trying to do? Humiliate me?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Then what the hell are you doing here?’

‘Seeing how you are, Tommy.’

‘Well, now you’ve seen. So piss off.’ The younger man’s gaze returned to the screen. ‘Ah, I’ve missed it now – I’ve missed the bloody answer.’

Hobbes studied his colleague for a moment.

Fairfax had changed in these last few weeks. ‘Compassionate leave’, they called it, a catch-all phrase covering so many different kinds of hurt. It can tip the balance, being taken off duty like that; it can make an officer doubt what they’re doing. Too much time to think, that was the problem. Some people come back stronger from it, while others sink into despair. Detective Constable Tom Fairfax had taken the latter course. His once immaculate appearance had given way to coarseness and untidiness. His usually neat and ever-present stubble had grown out into a rough beard, and instead of the smart jackets, shirts and ties he used to wear, he was now sitting around in tracksuit bottoms and an old cardigan, with beer stains down his vest. His hair was unwashed and it needed a trim.