‘Hector, where the fuck … I’ve been calling … what’s going on? You were there and then …’

‘Trish, please, I’ll explain later – something I found, something from before …’ He can’t seem to find the right words to explain himself. Takes a hand from the wheel to pinch the bridge of his nose. Sweat is running into his eyes. He can’t seem to get his fingers to do what he wants them to do. Every cell in his body seems to be exploding and reforming – his bones feeling too big for his flesh.

‘Hector, slow down, slow down,’ she says, her voice soothing. She’s comforted plenty of hysterical people over the years. She’s good at calming people down.

‘She’s not answering … one of her charms, her bracelet, I mean. Out in the field at the back of the house – it doesn’t make sense, he was supposed to be dead – but if he wasn’t … and I mean, maybe I knew, deep down, but I didn’t want to know, because if I knew, what would that make her? And what would it make me? And how could I make sense of it all? Trish, I’m so fucking scared … why won’t she answer …?’

He stops, unsure of what he has said and what he still needs to explain. Glances at the clock on the dashboard. Swings the car past the derelict restaurant and the grimy, rain-streaked scrapyard, sitting either side of the muddy stretch of water where the River Hull meets the Humber. He’s nearly home. Half a mile, maybe. Half a mile, and he’ll know.

‘Hector, please, just slow down. Whatever you think is happening, we can solve it together. You’re my sergeant, my friend, my best officer, and you need to be all those things right now. I’ve had several urgent messages from the ACC, they need us in – they need to talk to you. Where are you? Tell me what’s happening.’

Her voice breaks up, the line dropping in and out. He can picture her, face furious despite the gentleness of her tone. Can see her glaring into the hard wind at the crime scene in Holderness, finger in her ear, sunglasses damp with rain, black cigarette moving up and down like a dog’s tail.

A beeping, in his ear. Another call, coming through. He hangs up on Pharaoh without another word.

‘Ro …’ he begins, without looking at the screen.

‘Is that Sergeant McAvoy? Hello, yes, I received a message … asking me to contact you – I own the property at Stone Creek, you wanted to talk to me about a tenant, I believe. Um, how can I …?’

‘Christ, not now …!’ spits McAvoy, ending the call and slamming down the phone. Then, to nobody in particular, he prays, a roar, so loud it hurts his throat: ‘Please!’

His heart is beating so fast it’s turning the world into a blur of indecipherable patterns and colours. Woodland, to his left. The brown-and-silver surface of the estuary beyond. Playing fields and barbed wire and allotments to his right. The rugby club. Houses now. Grand affairs, hidden behind trees and red brick walls. Big Victorian mansion houses, chopped into flats and barnacled with satellite dishes.