This time, Hayesfield didn’t say anything. Instead, he peered out through the blinds, as if searching the squad room for something, and then tapped on the glass. A few of the detectives on the floor looked up from their desks, including a well-groomed, grey-haired Latino man in his late forties, who Jo knew was called Gary Perez. He was the one Hayesfield was trying to alert. And then, as Perez got up and started coming towards the office, she remembered something else: Perez had been one of the detectives Callson had told her he’d worked with before at the Sheriff’s Department. He’s a good kid, Gary, Callson had said. Decent. Principled.

‘Bring that copy of the Times,’ Hayesfield shouted at Perez.

Perez double-backed, looking confused, and scooped a copy of the LA Times off his desk. When he got to the doorway of Hayesfield’s office, he nodded at Jo and then reached across her and gave the paper to the lieutenant.

It was yesterday’s edition.

‘Perez, you said last night that you worked with Ray Callson, right?’

Perez looked between them again, thrown.

‘Right?’ Hayesfield pushed.

‘Ray?’ Perez said. ‘Yeah, we worked on a body dump last year. The vic was left on Lake Hollywood Drive, but she lived up in Santa Clarita, so Callson called me and –’

‘You rate him?’

‘Callson?’ Perez nodded. ‘Yeah, he was good police.’

Hayesfield had begun to leaf through the Times and, as he found the page that he was looking for, something registered with Jo, something that Perez had just said.

Callson was a good cop. Was.

Hayesfield laid the paper down in front of her and pointed to a column on the right-hand side, halfway in. COP ‘COULDN’T LIVE WITHOUT LOVE OF HIS LIFE’. Jo saw the words, the opening paragraph, but barely took any of it in. She looked up at Hayesfield, at Perez – still standing in the doorway – and back to the article. No. Ray’s wife, Georgette, had died in a nursing home in Hancock Park over the weekend. When staff had found her, they’d found Callson too. Jo looked at Perez again, and he shrugged at her, still not understanding what was going on. No, this can’t be true.

Callson had been found lying next to his wife, holding her hand.

He’d deliberately overdosed on sleeping pills.

‘You can go.’ Hayesfield’s voice brought her back, and she saw Perez leave, taking the newspaper with him. ‘The case is cleared, Kader.’

Callson is dead.

The sadness lingered for a second, and then the anger took over. It filled her head like the impact of an explosion – static, noise, heat – and she shot a look at Hayesfield, one he immediately saw the animosity in. His own expression tightened.

‘You got something you want to say, Kader?’

She didn’t respond.

‘You don’t think I’ve got the balls to fire you – is that it?’

Again, she said nothing.