‘Jesus,’ whispers McAvoy, putting his palm over Fin’s tiny ear. ‘I’ll pick up the stuff, drop it off. No worries …’

‘I’m leaving anyway,’ says Bradley, brightly. ‘Detective sergeant, West Mercia. Can’t come soon enough, if I’m honest. I don’t feel particularly appreciated. My boss, Trish, she said I needed to have a fresh start and I trust her judgement. Been through some horrors. Did you hear? Husband’s had an aneurysm – isn’t likely to walk again. Finances are all over the place too. Sorry, I do blab when I get going. Don’t worry – I’m usually the soul of discretion. Take my secrets to the grave, as it were.’

McAvoy meets her stare. Holds it. ‘I really hope it all works out for you,’ he says, and means it.

She takes a moment. Doesn’t smile. ‘There are some personal letters she might want back,’ she says, at last. ‘I’m a softie at heart. When she came in and made the statement and I put two and two together …’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘Her notebook. It was taken as evidence. You can give it back to her. Maybe don’t tell her if you read it.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Lots of letters to “my darling Aector”. Written over the years. She’s had a thing for you for a long time. I’m not judging. Nice to see it’s all worked out. But you know how people can be.’

McAvoy blushes scarlet. Holds Fin so tightly that he lets out a little cry. McAvoy pats his back. Tries to stop himself coming apart: crumbling into ash and billowing away with the swirling snow.

‘That’s private,’ he says. ‘Of course I won’t read it.’

‘I believe you,’ says Bradley, with something like sadness. ‘Anyway, there are a couple of bin bags by my desk. I’ll mark them for your attention. I’m having some drinks at the Country Park Inn next Friday, if you can get a babysitter. Bring your lady.’

McAvoy doesn’t speak. Just wants to get his son in out of the cold. Wants to go and hold his wife. Wants to stop being Aector McAvoy and go live in the safe little bubble where the world can’t get to any of them.

‘I’ll try,’ he says. ‘Best of luck.’

‘And to you,’ she says. ‘You too, Fin,’ she says, smiling again. ‘Take care of Daddy.’

She turns away. Walks sure-footed across the car park. As she leaves, a snatch of melody, off-key but recognizable, carrying on the cold air. Classic Nina – the song they danced to at the wedding.

I Put a Spell on You …

THIRTY-SEVEN

Nine years ago

Four hundred yards past the sign declaring ‘PRIVATE PROPERTY’, is another, scrawled in a noticeably less kindly font. This one reads: ‘TURN THE FUCK AROUND’.

Papa Teague, at the wheel of the red Toyota Hi-Lux, allows himself a wry smile. Whether it is due to the bluntness of the sign, or simply a response to the nearness of his prize, he would not be able to say. He is not an educated man. He’s quick-witted, intuitive, begrudgingly literate, but his schooling was sporadic and his interest in the contents of weighty academic tomes is minimal. As such, Papa Teague has never heard about Pavlov’s dogs. He is unaware of the theory that carries the scientist’s name: the discovery that dogs could be made to salivate if they associated feeding time with the ringing of a bell. Were somebody to inform Papa Teague, he would be spectacularly unimpressed. He has owned Rottweilers that drool the moment they see him pulling on the leather gloves that he wears when he is taking care of what he always refers to as ‘some business in town’. The ‘business’ covers a multitude of sins, but the Rottweilers know that before the day is out, they will be licking blood from leather. Papa’s smile upon nearing the little farmhouse at the end of the track, is no less a work of classical conditioning. Once he passes the sign, he is only minutes away from pleasure. And Papa Teague takes his pleasures very seriously.