Fairfax made a dismissive noise.

‘I don’t think you’re a good cop. In fact, in many ways, I think you’re a fuck-up.’

‘Jesus. And the same to you.’

‘But I believe you have the potential to do better one day. But here’s the thing …’

Now Fairfax looked at him.

‘What are you, Tommy? Twenty-seven?’

‘Twenty-eight.’

‘You’ll need to buckle down. And work hard. But one day you’ll shame us all.’

‘Oh, yeah? How do you work that out?’

‘I used to know a copper just like you, name of Collingworth. By all accounts, he started out as a first-grade twat, like yourself.’

‘If you think you can—’

‘But then a change came over him. He got down to work, serious work. Made chief inspector. That’s when I knew him. He was the man who taught me the ropes. Near strangled me with them, mind, if I did wrong.’

A flicker of light came into Fairfax’s eyes. ‘I’ve heard you mention his name before.’

‘Sure. I still follow his advice.’

‘What happened to him? You still see him?’

Hobbes paused. He’d started off honest, so thought it best to carry on in the same manner. ‘They threw him off the force, corruption charges.’

Fairfax laughed. ‘That must have hurt.’

‘Sure. He messed up. Which pissed me off, no end.’

‘So, what are you saying?’

‘I’m not certain. But in those years, when I knew him, there was none better.’

Both men were quiet for a moment. And then Fairfax said, ‘It’s a fuckin’ knife-edge, that’s what it is. Good, or bad, black or white.’

‘And which way to go.’

‘Ah, fuck it. Fuck it all.’ Fairfax reached for a cigarette, lit it, then nodded at the folder on the table. ‘What’s all this palaver, then?’

Hobbes opened the folder and placed the first photograph on the table. He went over the story of Leonard Graves, as he laid out further images, talking about the old man’s final position, the pills, the suicide, and then the fifteen dresses they had found around the house, and even in the garden shed.

Fairfax stared at the photographs without speaking.

Hobbes tapped at one image. ‘This is the cellar of the house. I cleared some rubbish away from the wall and found these words scrawled there: R.I.P. Adeline. And a patch of the floor, which had been re-concreted at some point.’

There was still no reaction.

Hobbes carried on: ‘So I ordered the floor to be dug up. I really did think a body would be buried there. But I was wrong.’ He placed the next photograph on the table, showing the final results of what the team had found underneath the cellar. ‘Another dress. The same dress as the others. Number sixteen. Buried here inside an old curtain, less than two feet down, along with a pair of shoes and a scarf. The same thing. The same bloody thing, Tommy! The same effigy, whatever it was. Buried. A dress. Torn, just here on the midriff. The exact same place. Probably stained with blood, or a blood substitute. We can’t tell, it’s too old – the cloth’s too ragged and worn.’ He considered a thought. ‘It’s been there for a long time, that’s for certain, but for how many years, I can’t say.’