Kincaid points to the screen, his voice hushed. ‘“Colleagues spoke about her ‘deep and abiding’ interest in spiritualism and say she put her faith in New Age healing practices instead of conventional medicines …”’

McAvoy turns to Kincaid, so close their noses almost touch. ‘Jesus, it was there all along.’

‘You don’t know for certain,’ says Kincaid, shaking his head.

‘You just want to preserve your neat little story,’ spits McAvoy.

‘It helps you out too, boy,’ says Kincaid.

‘I don’t care about me. My boy’s safe. My wife’s safe. My daughter’s safe. Whatever happens, this man needs to be arrested. God knows how many he might have killed.’

‘I’m calling my guv,’ says Kincaid, angrily. ‘Don’t do a fucking thing …’

‘I’m calling mine,’ says McAvoy, punching Pharaoh’s number. ‘He at least needs to be questioned.’

‘No,’ says Kincaid, eyes flashing temper. ‘No, you’re going to mess things up.’

McAvoy turns his back on Kincaid. Curses as the call goes straight to voicemail. Rings Andy Daniells, struggling to hear as Kincaid launches into a furious rant to his own boss.

‘… silly bollocks here is going to fuck it up … thinks he’s got an accomplice, or another killer, but won’t do the sensible fucking thing …’

‘Andy?’

‘Now then, sarge. You after the boss? I think she and your good lady have gone all Thelma and Louise on us. Bit of good news though, I’ve got the preliminaries through from the pathologist. Seems the tongue wasn’t excised, so much as split. Cut down the middle, like a snake’s …’

McAvoy swallows. Forces himself to stay calm. ‘Andy, just stop. Where’s Trish?’

‘She’s speaking to a potential love interest of the victim’s,’ says Daniells, more slowly. ‘Estate agent, lives out Fitling way. Tried her myself a moment ago but the reception’s awful out there. You might want to give your good lady’s mobile a go, I think they’re making an outing of it, though the ACC will go fucking spare if she hears me say that …’

McAvoy feels his legs go out from under him. ‘Seth Brimley?’ he asks, weakly.

‘That’s the chap,’ says Daniells, brightly. ‘You OK, sarge?’

And McAvoy is suddenly pushing past Kincaid and vaulting the headless man, feet pounding up the darkened stairwell, sprinting towards the light.

‘All units,’ he’s shouting, into the mobile. ‘All fucking units, now!’

THIRTY-NINE

Eight months ago

An X-shaped building.

Grey, stained almost black by the ceaseless rain.

The sky an endless smear of damp graphite and charcoal.

A pink corridor, paper peeling, ceiling curved. Rubble in open doorways, floorboards peeking out from beneath frayed trenches in the linoleum.

Smashed glass, here. Graffiti sprayed haphazardly on plaster, on wood, on stone.

Papa Teague holds the phone to his ear as he walks softly down the hallway, his other hand white-knuckled around the handle of a slash hook.

‘I can’t hear you, Danior … the fecking echoes in here … Jaysus, but I turned left four times, chavva …’

He passes an open doorway. Glimpses a white, metal surgical bed, abandoned in the centre of an unlit room. Paper hangs in torn strips from the wall. Changing his position, he spies a wheelchair, abandoned in the furthest corner, as if some invisible occupant had been left there and told to face the wall.