Lucy was adamant about that, at least. If the Greater Manchester Police were going to make life difficult for her now, and they would in some shape or form, she was damned if she was going to make it easy for them. Besides, she owed Shallicker. Twice now, he’d saved her life. That wouldn’t always give him a pass – he was a brute criminal, a murderer – but on this occasion, his target had been the Ripsaw Man. She could hardly judge him for that.

‘I must take you at your word, of course,’ Nehwal said coolly. ‘But if it ever comes to light that your father was involved …’

‘Do you seriously think he would be?’ Lucy interrupted. ‘He’s a top dog, isn’t he? Haven’t you just said that he’s virtually immune from prosecution? Is he then going to endanger all that by killing someone right in front of a police officer’s eyes?’

Nehwal considered this long and hard. She still didn’t seem happy. ‘I know you’re not supposed to be on duty at present. But you’re not going anywhere, okay.’

It wasn’t a question.

‘I need to go to the hospital,’ Lucy said.

‘The medics have patched you up, so it can wait.’ Nehwal edged away. ‘Given that you’ve already, very inconveniently, started forgetting things, I want everything that’s happened this last couple of days written down quickly … before you forget that too.’

Lucy nodded resignedly as the DSU stalked off.

With Sister Cassie still making statements, Lucy drove back towards the nick alone, swinging by her bungalow at Cuthbertson Court first, just to freshen up a little. A shower and a quick change of clothes later, she was heading out again, when her landline began to ring.

One glance at the clock showed that it was almost three in the morning. Clearly, this wasn’t the kind of call she could just ignore.

‘Sorry about the hour,’ Frank McCracken said. ‘But I’ve been trying you on your mobile, and I was getting worried.’

‘You don’t need to worry about me,’ Lucy replied. ‘Though I must admit, I’m surprised to hear that you’re still alive.’

McCracken was on the penthouse suite balcony at the Astarte Hotel, a large malt whisky and soda in his hand. The entire city centre was spread below him, its glittering streets and ritzy premises, the shops, bars, nightclubs, the temples of finance, the trendy boutiques, the high-class restaurants. It was quiet now, but the traffic would soon be thronging again, the commercial life of Manchester throbbing to its own tireless, ever-prosperous beat. It was a heady moment to look down on it from such a height; it almost made him giddy.

‘Yes, I’m alive,’ he replied. ‘And likely to stay that way for some time. You see, I’ve handled things at my end, Lucy. I’m just wondering how you’re doing?’