‘Bit late, isn’t it?’

The voice drifts across to McAvoy on a damp gust of wind. An accent, perhaps. A touch of the West Country to the vowels. He wonders which of the half-brothers he is addressing. Wonders, again, whether the signs declaring the presence of a guard dog are just for show.

‘Humberside Police,’ says McAvoy, trying again. ‘I’m rather hoping to speak to Michael or Padua. Or both.’

‘This would be official business, would it? In the middle of the night? On your own.’

There’s scorn to the stranger’s words – the suggestion that he’s already caught him out in a lie. McAvoy stands still, wishing he had the strength of character to cross to the van and simply extend a hand. He knows himself to be good at calming down volatile situations and has always been good at calming down those ready for a fight, but such actions have always been cloaked in the officialdom of his uniform. He’s done what the job has required. Here, now, he feels like a fraud.

‘If we could perhaps have a chat …’

‘If I could perhaps shoot you where you stand.’

This time there’s no room for doubt. It’s a direct threat; the tone of voice absolute. This is a man used to giving orders and having people do as instructed. This is a man quite willing to make good on a threat.

‘My name is Aector McAvoy,’ he says, allowing a little steel to enter his own voice. ‘I’m here looking for a missing girl. Roisin Teague. I’m told you’re family.’

There’s silence, for a time. Rain falls on metal, on glass, upon the earth. McAvoy shifts his position as a chain of cold rain dribbles down his neck. His eyes have started to better make shapes from the complex slabs of darkness. He can just about make out the man who stands at the side of the big van. Can almost decipher the shape of the slumped, small figure in the passenger seat.

‘You really a copper?’

‘I promise,’ says McAvoy, and for a moment he experiences a real surge of hope. He’s made a connection. Stood his ground. Been firm but fair. This man will invite him to come in out of the rain. He will see the sincerity in McAvoy’s eyes and decide he is a man to trust. He will allow him into his confidence and he will take him to where Roisin is safe and dry and blameless. And all will be well. He’ll have done the right thing. He’ll be a good man and a good police officer, and he’ll have learned how to do so in perpetuity.

‘A police constable, yes, and I’m sorry for the rather unorthodox circumstances, but it’s really very important that we talk …’

The quality of the air seems to change. One moment, McAvoy’s words are being whipped away like paper gulls. The next they collide with something solid: damp clothing, flesh, bone.

And then there is a face inches from his own. A man with a pale face and dark eyes and a putrid-smelling cigarette clamped between crooked white teeth: a gleaming smile of silver arcing down towards him from out of the wet black air.