‘They’ve got him, then?’ the woman asked, casting a suspicious glance at Joe.

‘Got someone, by the looks of things.’

‘Should’ve bloody let him go,’ the man in the suit said.

With that he nodded to the woman behind the counter, turned, and made his way back to his Vauxhall Mokka.

They both watched him go.

‘You all right, Sergeant?’

‘Yeah. How’s it going, Kath?’

‘Same old. Nice photo, by the way,’ she said with the beginnings of a smile that never quite materialized.

About nine months ago, Joe had investigated a fire that had gutted Kathy’s Hot Butties. There hadn’t been any evidence of arson, and the fact that she’d spent the insurance money on a refit with identical equipment hardly suggested criminal conspiracy on a grand scale.

Since then he’d kept on good terms with her, not least because the bacon was so good. She was about his age, thin and pale-faced, with heavy make-up around her eyes.

‘What next, friggin’ death squads?’ she said, still watching as the bloke got into his car. ‘Any kids that’ve been in a bit of bother, their mums’ll be shittin’ the’sens.’

He nodded as he handed over a fiver, noting that her face was more pinched than normal, that the thin hint of irony which normally ran through her voice was missing.

‘The murders are getting absolute priority.’

‘They’ve got him, have they?’

‘Dunno. We’ll see.’

He wanted to say more, to convince her that everything was being done to catch the killer. He wanted to convince the mothers of all wayward sons that this would stop, that a death is a death, whatever people took it upon themselves to say as they tapped away at their bloody mobile phones, that no one has the right to kill. He couldn’t think of anything more worthwhile, more sacred, than honouring a commitment to that.

As he walked back to his car, she watched him, then reached for her phone and found the picture on Twitter: DS Joe Romano and an unknown woman, both of them smiling, their heads touching, their eyes wide open and happy.

‘Lucky bitch.’

He sat in his car and made a start on his butty. He glanced at his phone. A WhatsApp from Chris. His hands were greasy, and the phone fell to the floor. But when he picked it up, his thumb swiped the ‘call’ button by mistake.

‘Shit!’

He looked for the stop button, but it was too late.

‘Hello? Joe? Is that you?’

‘Sorry,’ he said, swallowing a mouthful of bacon as fast as he could. ‘Wrong button.’

‘Oh. I’m just about to start a class.’

‘Right, yes. Sorry. Have you seen the news?’

‘The photo on Twitter? I just told everybody at work that it was a joke in bad taste, and that the photo was from months ago.’

‘And did they believe it?’

‘I don’t know. I guess.’