‘They’re headed in the general direction of Portsmouth,’ she told him. ‘And they’re about fifteen seconds apart on the camera. It looks like pursuit to me.’

As soon as she rang off, Jonah dialled through to O’Malley, who was already on the correct side of town. ‘Get after them if you can.’

‘Thanks, chief,’ O’Malley said. ‘I’m sure I can close the gap, Lotus or no Lotus.’

‘We shouldn’t be too far behind you,’ Jonah said, picking up his coat. ‘We’re going to leave now.’

‘Do you have any thoughts about what Issa Benhawy is trying to do?’ Lightman asked him, after the call was done.

‘Lots of them,’ Jonah said grimly. ‘And none of them are good.’

‘Done,’ April said, leaning in through the driver’s door to pick up her suede handbag. The car was full of the smell of petrol, a scent Louise had always loved. ‘Need anything from the store?’

‘Vodka?’ Louise asked.

‘Hell yes!’ April replied, and manoeuvred herself back out of the car. She slammed the door hard enough to make Louise’s head ring. For some reason April seemed incapable of closing doors quietly.

Louise followed her progress across the petrol station forecourt, hugely relieved to trust her again. What April had told her about that strange moment in the club had rung true, not least because April had been endlessly loyal to her from the moment they’d met. She, unlike Niall, had proved herself over and over.

April passed by a young guy, probably only in his twenties, as she stalked her way in, and he stared after her with obvious admiration. The April effect.

Louise smiled, and then yawned. She was beginning to feel genuinely tired now. She guessed the adrenaline was finally wearing off. There was no longer any reason to feel keyed up. She was out of the city and accompanied by her best friend.

She cranked her seat backwards, and then shifted until she’d found a comfortable position. She felt as though she might, finally, sleep. Her eyes were half closed as she looked lazily at the rear-view mirror and watched an old Ford Fiesta pull into the station forecourt behind them. She could see the driver looking ahead as he pulled into the small queue of cars waiting to fill up. She caught his face just before he turned and vanished behind the bulk of a Qashqai. Sleepily, she thought she recognised him.

It was Issa, she realised, with a sudden jolt. What was Alex’s husband doing here?

Then she remembered that she had flirted with Alex. That she had, in all probability, gone home with him. That his death was her fault.

She turned to look behind her, and saw Issa climbing out of his car. There was something really wrong in his expression. Something that went beyond grief. And he was holding something under his jacket. Something bulky.