‘So here’s the thing, Dan,’ he said, and I could almost hear the air part as he jabbed a finger at his mouthpiece. ‘Sometimes distance makes people brave. They start thinking like it’s traditional warfare and they can run away. Before you give in to that impulse, I got some information a chivalrous guy like yourself should have.’

Chivalrous? Does everyone know my weak spot?

‘Yeah? What’s that, counsellor?’

‘Your lady friend. The cop on the trolley. If I don’t hear from you by nightfall, she goes in the freezer. We just wheel her right in there. And once in, she’s not coming out. I had a plate bolted over the safety latch. After that, I set my dogs on you. You shot the cops and my bodyguards shot you. Simple.’

Looks like chivalry might soon be dead along with Detective Deacon. The bodies just keep stacking up like sandbags.

I spend a futile moment wishing that things were normal again. If this were a normal week, I would be meeting Zeb for karaoke later. The little mensch loves the karaoke bar. Barry Manilow is his speciality, if you can believe that.

Oh Mandy, you came and I came, you were fakin’.

I think he might have screwed up the words a little.

Karaoke, says Ghost Zeb into his sleeve, the way he does when he’s in one of his moods. Not likely since you abandoned the search for me to save Princess Supercop. I’m as good as dead.

Don’t be like that. I haven’t abandoned you, but I’m on the clock with Deacon. They’re going to ice her, man.

That makes two of us, says Ghost Zeb. Why don’t you do something about my problem, since you’re just sitting there? Have you even thought of a plan yet?

I roll my eyes, which must look strange to the old lady in the seat opposite giving me the glare treatment.

I’m a little preoccupied at the moment.

Not so preoccupied that your brain doesn’t have a few spare cells to conjure me up.

Okay, okay. I have been thinking about this, as you perfectly well know. Let me make a call.

Make your call, Judas.

Hey, Judas wasn’t Irish.

Just make the call.

One call then I’m back on Deacon.

It takes me a minute to remember Corporal Tommy Fletcher’s number. I punch it in carefully, big fingers little buttons.

From what I hear, Irish Mike Madden has family in Ireland. Maybe Tommy can do a little recon, get us some leverage.

It’s a start, I suppose, says Zeb, unwilling to give up his sulk. But don’t think you’re off the hook. If you don’t find the real me, I’m gonna move into your temporal lobe permanently.

Great. Another ultimatum, just what I need.

Tommy answers when I’m on the point of hanging up.