He pushes his hair back from his face. Breathes in the salt and diesel of the water’s edge; the wet grass and newly fallen leaves. He stares past the big square of overgrown grass to the dark smudge of woodland that becomes the country park. Remembers the pain of metal cutting through flesh, through bone. Thinks of the man who survived so many years below ground, and who climbed free to wreak vengeance on the blood of Papa Teague.

A pain in his hand. He looks down. He’d forgotten he was holding the mobile phone. Has squeezed it so hard that the glass has cracked and a shard had punctured his skin. He stares at it. Leaves it. Watches a tiny trickle of red snake down to his wrist.

He thinks again of Valentine’s voice: the sheer bloody sorrow and regret.

‘I can be there by the morning,’ he’d said. ‘We all can. Turn over every rock and stone until we find him. Say the word, Aector, I’ll talk to Daddy, whatever you need …’

McAvoy had ended the call without a word. Had told Roisin to take Lilah somewhere safe. Hadn’t been able to take his hands from his pockets to return her embraces – her desperate clutches at his clothes, his skin. Hadn’t been able to look at her. Stared, wordlessly, at the water while she threw clothes in a bag and begged him to tell her what he was going to do. She’d begged him to call Trish. To ring Helen Tremberg in London. To use every single person who owes him a kindness to do whatever was in their power to find their boy. She’d begun talking in her own native tongue: dark prayers and promises and vows of bloody vengeance. He’d kept himself still and straight-backed until she bundled Lilah out the door and into his car. She’d hesitated, desperate to come back in and search his eyes for some sign of hope; of love. At the window, he’d given the tiniest shake of his head. And then she was gone. Only then did he allow himself to disintegrate. He came apart as if made of tiny pixels: a portrait in pointillism. Just lay on the living-room floor, wrapped up in his coat, and thought about his son. Reached out with his mind, trying to project words of comfort, or promise, into the air. Begged for strength. It took every ounce of energy he had to get himself upright.

He pulls his phone from his pocket. Looks at all the missed calls. Plays back the most recent message from the assistant chief constable.

‘Sergeant, I’m expecting you here at eleven thirty for receipt of the Osman warning and I’m concerned that neither yourself nor Trish have returned my numerous calls. It’s a matter of great importance and I …’

He ends the call. He’s not time for bureaucratic box-ticking nonsense now. He’s a police officer – there’s always a threat to his life.

‘Aector, is that you skulking …’