He searched the hashtag #OneSixtySix. It was gaining momentum, and not all the tweets were the brainless squawks of the angry masses. The case was generating serious discussion. Some of the posts were even written in full sentences.

He found a bench and slumped down. His legs and back had started to ache. He stubbed out the cigarette in a tissue and dropped it into his pocket. There was a message from Sam.

Dad, Gemma says she’s really sorry. Didn’t know you were on the Graphite murder thing. Hope we didn’t cause you any problems. Sam.

The ache in his back began to creep higher. He dug his fingers into the muscles at the base of his neck, pushing the pain around. Two young women walked past, deep in conversation. Not so long ago he would have avoided looking directly at them. These days it didn’t matter; the age-gap was such that they didn’t seem to notice that he was there at all.

He wondered what Gemma was like. Considerate? Selfish? Had she really been sorry when she saw the photo splashed all over the national press? Or were she and Sam laughing about it now, giggling over their phones, oblivious to the damage they’d done?

New friends, new romances, a new life. What bliss it was in that dawn to be alive… Sam was a young man, and Joe desperately wanted his son’s time in Edinburgh to be bliss, the kind spent in the company of caring people. Wholesome, decent people. He repeated the words to himself. They sounded inadequate, yet he could think of none better. Jason Beverage and Craig Shaw? He doubted that their youths had been blissful.

He sat there and watched the ducks, knowing that he had to ring Rita. Follow your own road, and let the people talk! Where was that from? Dante. Were there any ducks in the Divine Comedy? Dante, ducks? Where would ducks go? Down in the ‘Inferno’, or up with the innocents? He looked at the traces of slimy green shit on the edges of his shoes, and hoped the ones in York would be going all the way down. A quick search online didn’t help: Dante the Duck, apparently, was a video game.

Finally, having run out of excuses, he gave her a call.

‘Rita? Hi, how’s it going?’

‘We’ve done Turner’s house, office. Nothing yet. He’s getting the full treatment, though.’

She let out a long, audible sigh.

‘Any luck on the bike?’ he asked.

‘The tyre print matches. But so do half the bloody tyres in the world. They’re analysing the mud traces now.’

He gave it a second.

‘Sorry about the stuff with Twitter,’ he said. ‘It’s not what it looks like.’

‘Ah, screw that. Keep going, Joe. My super’s just talked to Andy Mills. He’s holding off on an internal, apparently.’

‘For how long? Did he say?’