The Crow was simply planning on slapping him. That was Lance’s most naive thought. A slap would have been a blessing compared to the crack of skull on skull as he ploughed into Janet. The Crow might be deluded, and Janet might have taken him by surprise, but the man/bird knew how to fight.

Lance heard groaning and realised Janet was badly hurt beneath him. He tried to move and realised he couldn’t. His arms and legs felt like lead, and when he opened his eyes, the world had become a too-bright haze, accompanied by a high-pitch squealing.

Janet Monroe – of course … Lance joined the dots too late. They’d changed her name so no one realised she was a police officer. It had all been a set-up, her up on the roof. Trying to force the killer’s hand. And it had. Only The Crow had been a step ahead of them all, deflecting their attention to someone else.

Lance stopped fighting the desire to close his eyes, letting his head drop onto Janet’s shoulder, feeling roughness against his face and then a slithering. Rope, he thought, trying to recall if The Crow had explained what he’d planned to do with it. If only he’d got hold of Callanach earlier. Explained what he’d seen. If only … Now there was a phrase fit for a headstone. Concussion intervened.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

17 March

The coleslaw was vinegary and the bread was hard, but Ava was forcing the ham salad sandwich down anyway. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten and her stomach was a painful knot. Either she was hungry or she’d finally succumbed to the classic DCI peptic ulcer. RJ Bott was recovering from his Royal Shakespeare asthma performance, but he wasn’t going to be putting in an appearance in an interview room until the following morning, which was the earliest the doctors would allow it. Meanwhile, they’d arrested the bookie Bott had gone into business with, offering odds on whether or not suicides would happen or be avoided, and Bott’s detestable website and blog had been taken down by the tech team.

She knew she should go home. There was an opportunity for sleep that might not come around again for a couple of days, yet it felt wrong not to be at the station while so much remained unresolved. Work – as self-destructive as it was – could provide the only respite from her frustration.

DI Graham walked in carrying his laptop and a mug of coffee, which he put in front of her.

‘You got him, then,’ he commented.

‘We’ve arrested him,’ Ava corrected. ‘We’ll have got him when he’s serving multiple life sentences. For now, he’s lounging in a hospital bed, being brought easy-to-swallow, low-sodium meals and having his pulse taken every few hours.’