Cover

Dedication

For Dan and Charlie

Prologue

In his dreams, he’s always back there, standing by the side of the road. His wet clothes stick to his skin; the cold seeps through to his core, rain running down his face, but he doesn’t notice.

The car is at an angle, two tyres off the tarmac, the passenger door open. And it’s on fire. He can smell the petrol, feel the heat of the flames on his skin, resilient, determined, arching up furiously to the darkened sky despite the downpour. There is no one else around. He knows he needs to leave, now, but he is rigid, frozen to the spot.

His body is shaking violently; the adrenaline is fading and the pain is creeping in – across his chest, down his left arm hanging useless at his side.

He takes a step backwards, his shoes sinking into the mud. Smoke stings his eyes. The figure in the driver’s seat moves, but he makes no effort to try and help them. He’s just watching.

Watching them burn.

Part 1

1

Friday

The house looks suburban. Dull even, Robin thinks, as he pulls up outside. Carefully tended hedges, a square of green lawn, a cheerful flower bed scattered with red and pink blooms. It looks so boringly normal that he wonders if he has the right place and checks the details again.

Fifty-six Wellington Crescent, he reads. Criminal damage, possible GBH. He looks at the house. Sure enough the front window is smashed, the glass broken into a tight spiderweb, a hole in the middle. A detective, let alone a detective sergeant, wouldn’t normally be called out to a deployment like this but it’s been a busy night, the PCs on Response and Patrol all out in town, breaking up early fights. He notes the cars parked outside: two in the driveway, another one blocking them in. An expensive Range Rover, an old Renault Clio with L plates and a Ford Fiesta. It’s anyone’s guess who – or what – he’s going to find inside.

He gets out of his own battered Volvo, then smooths down his clothes. Shirt crumpled from a long day at the station, and a trace of five o’clock shadow on his chin. He’s hungry, not had a chance to grab anything since lunch, and wonders how long this is going to take. Quick statement, a few photographs, then stop at the Indian on the way home? He’s already thinking of chicken karai and onion bhajis as he walks past the cars and rings the doorbell. As he does so he notices a pineapple sitting on the doorstep, and squints at it, confused, until the door is answered by an older woman in a turquoise Chinese-style silk robe and fluffy slippers. He holds up his warrant card.

‘Mrs Franklin? DS Robin Butler, I’m here about the window.’