‘Your man Callson is dead, so the LAPD are going to be about as interested in his theory as I am in yours. You’ve got Klein, you’ve got Wilzon – the case is finished.’

She looked at the map, at the scene where a sticky note should have been.

‘He was in a tub of acid,’ she said. ‘He was shot in the face.’

‘We got people being shot in the face all over the city.’

‘He’s a victim, regardless of where he came fr–’

‘Don’t play that weepy shit with me.’

She pressed her teeth together, rage pulsing in her throat.

‘Klein went down for possession,’ she said.

‘So?’

‘He was just a pothead in the wrong place at the wrong time –’

‘I don’t give a shit, Kader. Okay?’

He yelled the words at her this time and, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a few of the men – out on the floor – look their way. The argument on the Stalker team died down. Everyone was listening. Aware of it, Hayesfield lowered his voice but lost none of his steel: ‘I got thirty-seven unsolved homicides where we can’t get witnesses to cooperate with us because they’re so shit-scared of gang reprisals. One in three of the murders we actually proceed with is getting kicked back to me by the DA because they don’t think we’ve got enough evidence. We’re digging week-old gunshot victims out of rock houses, we’ve got ODs absolutely everywhere, I’ve got drugs on every block and bodies on every sidewalk. I haven’t got enough cops to deal with that, let alone this son of a bitch who’s running around breaking into people’s homes, raping and murdering anything with a heartbeat and then disappearing into the night like David fucking Copperfield. I mean, I assume you’ve heard of the Night Stalker, Kader? I just want to be sure here, because I know you didn’t make the cut, so maybe you’re struggling to understand the sheer scale of the manhunt we’ve got going on here, but if you think – given everything I just said – that I’m going back to Santos today with one less closed case than I had yesterday, you’re out of your fucking mind. So do me a favour: save the Sherlock Holmes shit for playtime, when you get home to your kid. The case is done. Forget it – or clear your desk.’

She got up – so angry she could barely breathe – and headed out, ignoring amused looks from the men closest to Hayesfield’s office. Two tables down from her, Greg Landa had wheeled himself away from his desk and was singing ‘Jolene’ again, smiling as he did, except he’d changed the words of the chorus to I’m begging you, please don’t fuck this case. Some of the others laughed.