‘An audience of one?’

‘Yes, maybe! Think about it! It makes sense, right?’

‘Sure. A kind of sense.’

‘I’m not hearing much from you, theory wise.’

He laughed. ‘True.’

They took Shooters Hill Road, along the edge of Greenwich Park. The trees were losing their greenery, getting ready for the colder months ahead.

The talk stayed on Rosamund Kepple. Latimer said, ‘The wound in her stomach wasn’t deep, and she’s had a few stitches. Casualty took care of it. I stayed with her in the waiting room, but she wouldn’t talk to me, not a word.’

‘Nothing more about the night flesh?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Mary Estelle claims it’s a kind of madness, passed down in the blood.’

‘God, that’s one fucked-up family.’

Hobbes nodded. ‘I know Rosamund’s got more to tell us. If we could just—’

‘Let’s bring her in, treat her mean for an hour or two.’

‘I’m not sure that would work. Too much armour.’

‘There’s always a weak spot.’

‘Hmm.’

He fell silent. Latimer met his mood and drove on for a while without speaking. Along Deptford High Street, he said, ‘Oh, by the way, I saw Fairfax last night.’

‘Tommy? Did you?’

‘Yeah, it was weird. He turned up at the crime scene.’

‘You mean …’

‘Richmond Park, where Nicholas Graves was found.’

‘What was he doing there?’

‘He wouldn’t say.’

‘But this means he must be—’

‘Let’s not jump to—’

‘He must want to come back. What do you think?’

‘Maybe. But listen, Meg, he wasn’t looking too good.’

‘No?’ She pulled up at a red light and turned to Hobbes. ‘In what way?’

‘He was drunk. I mean, really pissed up. Stumbling about, ranting and the like.’ He decided not to say anything about the dead dog in the woods.

‘Poor Tommy.’

‘I think he’s done for.’

‘Don’t say that.’

‘Meg, we need to replace him.’

‘No, no, just no!’

‘Meg …’

‘What now?’

‘Green light.’

‘Oh, right, sure.’

The car behind was honking its horn. Latimer shouted, ‘Christ, I’m moving, I’m moving! Fuckin’ twat!’

Hobbes tried to laugh it off.

‘No one can hear you, only me.’

‘Oh, bloody hell, Hobbes. I can’t believe you’ve given up on Tommy.’

‘I haven’t given up. But he’s digging himself into the ground.’

Latimer made a noise. It wasn’t a nice sound. Hobbes thought of arguing further, but knew it wasn’t worth it. His detective sergeant must have agreed, for she concentrated all her efforts on the traffic.

When they got to Peckham, he directed her to Cavalier Road and they parked across from the Edwardian block of flats.

‘What now?’

‘We wait. If you don’t mind.’

‘What is this place?’

‘This is where my son is living.’ After a moment: ‘It’s a squat.’

‘Right. Some of them aren’t too bad, I’ve heard. But others, well, they’re shitholes.’

‘This one is weird. It’s locked up, virtually impenetrable. Cut off. The residents are up to something, but I don’t know what it is, and I don’t know how to find out.’