‘It’s not in there either,’ he said quietly, pointing to the murder book, his hands opening and closing as he talked, like he was restless, or frustrated. ‘What we just talked about, I mean. I haven’t put in my suspicions about Klein not working alone. To be frank, no one gives much of a shit about anyone except the Night Stalker at the moment, plus it’s the same old story at our place as I’m sure it is at yours: we’re way down on our clearance rate because we’re so understaffed and crimes aren’t getting solved. So, if I go to my LT and float this idea in front of him – that Klein was just a support act; that whatever he did in that motel room, he either did with someone else, or did because someone else made him, and that I need more time to push it all the way to the finish line – I’m going to get ignored, or reprimanded, or most likely laughed out of the room. And you know, I’m just …’ His words ground to a halt. ‘I’m exhausted.’

This was what she’d seen when she’d first met Callson: the slowness he’d had in his stride, the weight he carried, it wasn’t a physical impairment, but damage that was deeper, more difficult to shift. He was tired because something was hurting him.

He smiled again. ‘Sorry. I’m maybe being too honest here.’

‘It’s okay,’ Jo said.

‘It’s just, after all these years, I’ve learned a few things, and one of them is the ability to call a person right, to get an accurate read on them.’ He used his fingers to flatten his moustache again. ‘And this case, it’ll need someone like you to take it on.’

She frowned at him.

‘Someone tough,’ he said, ‘but someone who cares.’

‘What do you mean, “take it on”?’