‘That’s not something I would have to consider passing on to your superiors, Detective,’ Dr Artaud lies. ‘I don’t believe that would constitute breaking any laws.’

‘Look, I didn’t even meet her while investigating the case. The first time I saw her was to inform her that her husband was dead. I gave her my card and she called me a couple of weeks later. So it would hardly be a conflict of interest if anything had happened between us, which it didn’t.’

He also lies.

It’s a pandemic.

Detective Sergeant Pace has three sessions left with Dr Artaud. Three hours to convince him that there is nothing psychologically wrong with him and that he is capable of continuing in his position, that he isn’t fragile. Three short hours to avoid talking about those black flames he can’t seem to get away from. Three more sit-downs to circumvent any discussion of his paranoia. Or that thing that he thinks is following him.

‘It can’t be that bad. I’m not sat behind a desk; I’m working a case right now.’ Pace pleads a little too forcefully.

‘The thing on Chelsea Bridge?’

‘No, no. That’s nothing to do with me. Mine is a lot less interesting, I’m afraid.’

Artaud crosses out something on his notepad.

‘Okay, let’s talk some more about where you grew up.’

‘Hinton Hollow? Small village in Berkshire. Very typical, I’d say.’

It isn’t.

‘You know, one of those places where everybody knows everybody.’

That’s true.

‘There’s a real sense of community.’

That, too.

‘It was a great place to grow up.’

He lies.

And he can’t stop. Because he doesn’t want to share that, either. It wasn’t his choice to come here. He was made to do it. So he lies about his childhood and the small town he came from.

Artaud listens to the lies and writes down: Ran away from something. Needed to escape.

62

234 – WITNESS

This stop, Embankment.

Next stop, death.

Mind the gap.

The witness walks through the underground barriers for the last time. When he free-falls for that split second, when his third vertebrae snaps and his airways are clamped shut, when his life can’t even be bothered to flash before his eyes, he still has £16.30 left on his Oyster card.

He walks across the bridge to the South Bank. This is not his side of the river. This is for Nobody.

He stops and looks across the river at a ship called Wellington and recalls a drunken, one-way conversation with a guy in a bar lecturing about how Great Britain is no longer great. He spoke fondly about ships and bridges and how we just don’t build anything ourselves anymore.

His welcome to England.