Emma just watched him, barely touching hers. “I took a look at your injuries while you were sleeping. You got beaten up pretty good. Your eye is fine—it looks worse than it is. It looks like you have swelling around your ribs, but from what I could see, I don’t think they’re broken. You were lucky.” Emma sighed. “But you’re fighting off a fever. That cut on your forehead’s deep. Should have had stitches straightaway. It might be infected.”

Robin said nothing, just unscrewed the top of the water bottle and upended the whole thing into his mouth.

Emma said nothing else, picking at her own bag of chips.

Over the next few hours, Robin finished his lunch? Dinner? And he packed up his things. Emma helped him as much as she could, but it was still slow going. His body was seizing up, and every movement seemed to be in slow motion. Every movement seemed to require a buildup and a cooldown, as though running on a motor.

Emma seemed shocked by every move.

He didn’t have much scattered around the room but he wanted to make sure he had everything. There were the important things—his notebook, his laptop. The things he could use to carry on searching for an answer. An answer to what happened to the Standedge Five. Because going home wasn’t a sign of defeat. It was a tactical retreat.

“Are you ready?” Emma said, as he finished up and put his bag and backpack on the bed.

Robin slowly nodded.

This wasn’t the end. Because Matthew McConnell was going to pay for how he’d used him. Robin Ferringham was once a man who would roll over and admit defeat, but not anymore. He swore to himself, to Sam, he was going to find that son of a bitch.

He was going to find Matthew McConnell.

Chapter Forty-Eight

Two months later...

Robin got home, anticipating the usual evening of a Pot Noodle, a television box set and some quiet. Maybe he would spend some time in the study if he felt like it. Not that he’d felt like it in about two weeks now.

As soon as he was through the door, he threw off his company branded T-shirt. The clucking chicken on his breast always burned his skin, some kind of rash brought on by the material used, like some kind of religious torment. It symbolized his hatred well.