‘Follow-up,’ says Daniells, handing her another piece of paper. The photo is the same. ‘CID spokesman repeating the call for witnesses. It happened the Friday before – some time between eleven a.m. and four p.m. Broad daylight. That’s why the copper said—’

‘That the assailant would have been covered in blood, yes,’ reads Pharaoh. She hands the paper back to Daniells. ‘Helen is pulling some strings for me,’ she says, briskly. ‘She can liaise with you. Call her up and tell her about this, see if it matches the other active investigations …’

Daniells nods. ‘She knows about the Scunthorpe one, yes?’

Pharaoh glares at him. ‘Yes, Andy. And yes, you are absolutely right to be thinking what you’re thinking. But for now, let’s keep it all as “thoughts” rather than “words”, yes?’

Daniells nods. Pulls a face that says ‘rather you than me’.

‘Anything else?’ she asks, tiredness in her voice. She’d like a nap, and a cuddle, and maybe a cheeseburger washed down with a Pinot Noir.

‘House was going up for rent,’ says Daniells, looking at his notes. ‘Sign wasn’t up yet but according to her daughter the cold was getting too much for her. Gave her notice a week or so before. She had arthritis. Didn’t have anywhere lined up to go but her search history shows retirement villages in Spain and Portugal, and also a couple of cheap properties in Bulgaria.’

‘Can’t say I blame her,’ muses Pharaoh. ‘You spoke to the estate agent then?’

‘One of the office staff. Offices at Withernsea.’

Pharaoh puts out her hand for Daniells’ sheaf of papers. Takes them and stuffs them in her bag. On her desk, the phone rings. She picks it up like a sharpshooter going for their gun. ‘Hector?’

‘Trish, you’re due with the assistant chief …’

‘Aw bollocks,’ mutters Pharaoh, and slams the phone down in its cradle. Looks up at Daniells. ‘If I were to just walk out, and go home, and email my resignation letter, do you think people would accept it and leave me alone?’

Daniells smiles. ‘You’d miss us. And we need you.’

‘You’re a tonic,’ says Pharaoh, wistfully. ‘Trouble is, you’re not gin.’

The phone rings again. Daniells picks it up this time. ‘I’m sorry, this is a terrible line, I’m afraid the detective superintendent just stepped out …’

‘You’re a good lad,’ says Pharaoh sitting back in her chair and closing her eyes.

‘Sorry, boss, it’s reception.’

‘Go on,’ mutters Pharaoh, opening an eye.

Daniells winces in advance. ‘There’s a lady called Roisin to see you.’

A slow smile spreads across Pharaoh’s face. She cracks her knuckles.

‘Tell them I’ll be right down.’

TWENTY-NINE

Twelve years ago

McAvoy feels the song beneath him. Feels the warmth of it; the soft, insistent tug. He finds himself bobbing in black water, the push-and-pull of small, silver-tipped waves turning him, carrying him. He lets himself be borne aloft. Has no strength with which to fight. There is just the dizziness, the empty, bled-white sensation of being steered by another’s will.