There’s a time and place, Zeb. And that wasn’t it.

I feel a sense of victory that I’m not proud of. My plan was full of holes, but nobody fell into them. Two birds with one bullet. Faber has paid the price for murdering Connie and Irish Mike is no longer on the hunt for Barrett’s killer. Home free.

That’s really great. I’m happy for you.

One thing at a time, Zeb. I still got problems.

One of my problems groans and attempts to sit up. I wedge my forearm under her head and try for a tender smile.

‘Hey, Ronnie. How you doing?’

‘Who the fuck are you? Joey Tribbiani? And what’s that weird look you’re giving me?’

I drop the tender smile. ‘Let’s get you off that trolley, Detective. The bust of your career is outside that door.’

Deacon flaps her palm against the freezer.

‘What? The locked steel door?’

I sit her upright, pulling my jacket tight around her shoulders.

‘Have a little faith, Deacon. It’s a freezer, not Fort Knox.’

There’s a seal around the porthole, which peels off easily once I get a nail underneath it. Most modern freezers have a safety latch on the inside in case anyone gets trapped, but just as Faber said there’s a plate welded over this one.

Still, it’s just a door with a basic lock. A lot less complicated than your average automobile door.

I reach down inside my pants.

‘What the hell are you doing?’

I pull out the slim jim taped to my leg. ‘For your information, I’m gonna jimmy-jang the lock. Thinking ahead, Ronnie. That’s the secret.’

‘Yeah, you’re a regular Nostradamus-seeing-into-the-future-motherfucker.’

This might not be the time to ask for a second date. I think I preferred Detective Ronelle Deacon when she was blue and frozen.

I feed the thin steel band into the door’s innards through the slit vacated by the seal. A good carjacker could pop this door in under a dozen seconds, but it takes me half a minute. I feel the latch cord tugging the steel band and I can’t resist a wink at Ronelle before I yank it open.

‘Show-off,’ she says, but she’s smiling and I think that maybe there’s a future where she’s not trying to kill me. Maybe.

Deacon tries to slap me off, but I carry her out into the kitchen. Freezer steam floods out behind us like London fog.

‘Christ,’ breathes the detective, and I realise that this is probably her first glimpse of carnage. ‘Whose fault is all of this? Ours?’

I prop her on a high-backed stool. ‘Goran was dealing drugs,’ I tell her. ‘She had a scam going with Faber ripping off dealers. Faber murdered my friend too.’ I clasp her shoulders firmly, making steady eye contact. ‘They were always heading towards this. None of it is our fault.’