Sod ’em. Sod ’em all. He grabbed the pile of documents on his desk, plus duplicate case files for both murders, and headed for the doors, pointedly returning the stare of anyone who dared to look at him.

34

He spent most of the time it took to drive up the A46 to York switching from one radio station to another. Rock, jazz, pop, classical… couldn’t quite find what he wanted. He knew it would only take one piece of music to sort him out, not so much a matter of soothing the savage breast as restoring the balance of his sanity. It had been out of kilter for a while, and the threat of an internal investigation wasn’t helping.

By the time he pulled into the first car park on York University’s sprawling campus, he still hadn’t found the magical song. Perhaps the right music for his current predicament simply hadn’t been written. If that were the case, he really was in trouble.

The car park was protected by a barrier.

‘Detective Sergeant Joe Romano, Leeds CID,’ he said into the intercom.

‘Who is it concerning, please?’

‘Crime.’

‘Do you have an appointment, Sir?’

‘I have a warrant card. The last time I checked the statutes, that was enough.’

Having pointlessly annoyed a random member of the security staff, it crossed his mind that she might have seen the tweet, and name-checked him: boozy cop Romano out carousing with a witness. It was probably all over the internet by now.

‘I’m here to see Dr Megan Vicary, Department of Psychology,’ he added.

‘I will just check that, Sir.’

He bit his tongue and waited, knowing that however long he was kept waiting, it was his rightful punishment for thoughtless arrogance. As he sat there, he considered calling Rita. But over in Kirklees they’d be getting stuck into Turner by now, which was as good an excuse as any for not having to offer her a grovelling apology. He checked his messages. Nothing from her. Perhaps best if it stayed that way for a while.

Finally, the barrier lifted and he was spared further humiliation.

Megan was in their usual meeting spot, sitting on a bench under a willow tree, a cloud of cigarette smoke hanging around her. She wasn’t far off, almost close enough to shout, but there was a lot of water in the way.

The university campus was built around a large artificial lake that meandered across several acres of sculptured grassland, decorated by covered walkways and bridges, and populated by a large community of geese and ducks. Dotted along the lake’s edge were low-rise residence blocks and faculty buildings, all prefab concrete and wooden panels. It was the same functional sixties architecture as the Brown Cow in Batley, only here, surrounded by trees, grass, and with the gentle flutter of the breeze on the water’s surface, the effect was charming, almost dream-like.