He drew hard. The smoke hit him at the back of the throat, then somewhere behind the eyes, a nasty, visceral pain, fleeting but intense, like the thinnest of blades passing through his brain. Smoking suddenly felt like the most ridiculous thing one could imagine doing. Which it wasn’t, obviously: the most ridiculous thing was having dinner with a murderer.

The other officers were now in a huddle, whispering to each other. Then the fourth of them came back around the other side of the pub.

‘No sign of her car, guv.’

‘She’s not friggin’ here!’ Rita said.

Joe ignored her.

‘She’s inside the pub now.’

‘Who says? WhatsApp? Jesus Christ!’

He watched Rita as she lit her own roll-up and inhaled so hard that a quarter of it turned to ash.

He took another long draw on his own, shuddering at the taste.

‘Gather round, gents.’ He dropped the barely smoked cigarette and ground it into the tarmac with his shoe. ‘Right. You all have a recent image of her. Get it fixed in your mind. At some point she’ll come out. Just stop her, nice and gentle. Rita’ll make the arrest.’

‘Why not now, guv?’ someone asked.

‘We already have enough to bring her in. But I want her to admit it, the whole narrative, stuff we can use, details she’ll find it difficult to retract later. We’re taking down a double murderer. Forget who the victims were. They were killed in cold blood. Let’s just get as much as we can from her now. You all have my number? Good.’

With that he was gone, marching up to the pub as if it were his first date, like a teenager out to impress, nervous, the confidence half fake and half bare optimism. Pure Joe Romano.

‘Right,’ Rita said, ‘there’s a door out the back. We need one of you there. And there’s another door from the kitchen a bit further round. Another body there. Two of you stay close to the front entrance with me. We OK?’

They were OK. They would’ve perched on the steeple of the parish church if it meant they could tell their kids that they’d taken down a multiple killer.

41

Inside the pub nothing had changed. Rugby League highlights on the muted TV up in the corner, Toby jugs still smiling, beer pumps standing to attention along the bar, waiting to go into battle in the cause of all that was good and wholesome in England.

He ordered a pint of Tetley’s. He knew she was here. But he didn’t look for her. He waited for the beer to arrive, then stood and admired it. A drink, tonight? Not a chance. This pint, which he could see was utter perfection, would remain untouched. Apart from, well, just an inch or two. To remind himself what he was missing.