Pharaoh nods. ‘She’s bright as a button, I know that much. Best little girl I haven’t given birth to. And yeah, she’s got something about her. But, look, you and Roisin, whatever’s going on … oh shite …’

She turns away, answering the phone. Assistant Chief Constable Julie Graves has woken to the news of a murder on her patch, and wants to know why she wasn’t informed earlier; ideally, before it happened. Pharaoh switches on her ‘talking to the brass’ voice, and McAvoy gives her some space, mooching off to go and stare at a different patch of nothing.

He can’t help but let the memories come. They arrive as a blur: random scraps of things hidden, buried, concealed. He remembers the fairground graveyard; the great expanse of rusting metal and smashed lights and leering faces grinning out from the side of abandoned circus rides. He remembers the half-brothers, and the man who hurt him. Remembers the empty eyes, the blade cutting him to the bone. And then his mind is full of Roisin, telling him it’s over, that the feud is done, the bad man is dead, that they don’t ever need to think about it any more. He feels sick as he remembers how easily he let himself be silenced. He’d done as he was bid. Turned his thoughts to the future, to family, to being all he could be. Became the police officer he always hoped he could be, and more importantly, became the kind of man Roisin could love forever.

‘You’re ringing, sarge.’

McAvoy hadn’t heard Daniells approach. Hadn’t heard his phone buzzing away in his pocket. He gives Daniells a befuddled little smile and snatches the phone from his pocket. It slips from his hand and clatters down onto the grass. Daniells bends to retrieve it just as McAvoy does the same and there is a clash of heads.

‘Oh you fucker!’ growls Daniells, clutching his temple and wincing, stars in his eyes. He thrusts the phone to McAvoy. Screws up his eyes. Regains his composure. ‘Sorry, sarge, just slipped out …’

McAvoy takes the phone, cheeks burning. Answers without even looking at the screen, a ringing in his ears.

‘Aector, that you, pal?’

McAvoy closes his eyes. Forces himself not to swear. Lucas Barrington is one of the coxswains of Rescue Humber: a private lifeboat service with its HQ a couple of hundred yards from McAvoy’s front door. The crew have spent the last year trying to persuade him to sign up for the call-out crew. He’s resisted their overtures but is bitterly regretting giving Lucas his mobile number. He believes quite fervently that McAvoy should drop all other investigations and assist him and ‘the lads’ in finding out who has been breaking into the boathouse.

‘Lucas,’ he says, wishing he’d glanced at the caller ID before answering. ‘Not the best moment, I’m afraid …’

‘Never is, never bloody is,’ says Barrington, moodily. ‘Saw you leave this morning. Tried to flag you down but you must have had your mind on something else.’