She emerged from the station and crossed the car park. It was still raining and she saw there were fewer reporters now, those who remained mostly sheltering in their cars. For that, at least, she had to be thankful. She suddenly felt tired. They weren’t making progress in this case and, if she was being honest, Zac didn’t fit the profile of an assassin. He was too small-time for that. If he was involved, he had to be working for someone. Nothing else made sense. She pulled on her seat belt and started the engine. The windscreen wipers flicked into life and the inside of the car began to steam up. She turned up the fan and sat waiting for the windscreen to clear, her mind running over the events of the day. If Raymond did find traces of Zac’s DNA or even a fingerprint on the cartridge Zac might talk, in return for a reduced charge. It had to be better than putting him away for a murder he’d committed but hadn’t orchestrated.

The windscreen was clear now and she drew out of the car park past the reporters and headed for home. As she drove she thought about her sister and wondered if Jude had broken the news of the baby to Frank, her husband. Would he be pleased? Clare thought he would but she understood her sister’s misgivings. The rain grew lighter and the wipers squeaked across the windscreen. She flicked them to the intermittent setting and blinked away the tiredness she felt. By the time she pulled into her drive the rain was off and her heart rose. The DCI’s old Ford Focus was parked in front of the door and she could see there were lights on. From inside she heard Benjy’s volley of barks and she stepped out of the car, thankful to be home.

Al greeted her with a cool glass of Chablis. ‘I’ve a fish pie in the oven,’ he said. ‘I’ll just put the veg on.’

Over dinner he talked about his conference. ‘Some interesting bits,’ he said, ‘but it could easily have been squeezed into two days.’ He speared a prawn. ‘How about you? How’s the case going?’

‘Oh, you know.’

‘No, but I know that face. Is it not going well?’

She shook her head. ‘I arrested someone today. Still waiting on forensics. He may be our man but, if he is, I reckon someone’s paid him to do it.’

‘Any idea who?’

‘Not a clue. And to make matters worse, Tony McAvettie’s installed himself in my office.’

The DCI picked up the wine bottle and topped up Clare’s glass. ‘Drink up,’ he said. ‘Sounds like you need it.’

After dinner Clare lay on the sofa, her head in his lap, a companionable silence between them. She said, ‘I like this.’

‘What?’