Fatigue ripples through Archer as she sits on the edge of a hospital bed in a curtained cubicle in the A&E department of the Whittington Hospital. Despite that, she is eager to move on and get back to work. She hasn’t finished with Jamie Blackwell yet.

The pain from her wounds is slow to subside. Her hand throbs. It has been cleaned, stitched with nine sutures, and bandaged. The side of her head and her neck are both tender, her lip is cut and swollen. She swallows a second lot of painkillers and washes away the chalky residue with a swill of tepid water from a flimsy plastic beaker.

She is wearing an over-bleached hospital gown that feels like sandpaper on her skin. The black dress – her death gown – has been removed and taken away in an evidence bag.

Beyond the private space is the squeaking tread of rubber soles and the calming voices of nurses talking to patients. She hears a drunk man who seems to be complaining but his words are incomprehensible, and a distressed older lady telling a nurse she doesn’t want to be a bother.

Archer is eager to get out of here. She wonders about Grandad and hopes no one has told him she is here. She is about to call the nurse when she notices the stainless-steel cabinet opposite her bed depicting her distorted reflection. She appears small, almost child-like, and has a jarring sense of her younger self looking back at her. She shudders and looks away as a cold wave of a déjà vu engulfs her.

This isn’t the first time she’s sat alone in a room after a stand-off with a killer.

That was eighteen years ago.

Ancient history.

She wishes.

The fatigue claws at her willpower, weakening her resolve. She lies back, closes her eyes and jolts as the image of Jamie Blackwell’s face burns behind her eyes. She bolts up, grimacing at the sharp pains from her protesting body and catches her breath.

The curtain of her cubicle opens and the nurse who treated her earlier peers in and smiles. ‘How are you doing?’

‘Better, thank you,’ she lies.

‘Good. You have a visitor.’

She pulls the curtain open further to reveal DCI Pierce, who is carrying a canvas tote bag. Pierce thanks the nurse and steps inside.

Archer flinches in pain as she shifts to face the DCI.

Pierce clears her throat. ‘How are you?’

Archer opens her mouth to speak but isn’t sure what to say. For some reason the words won’t come.

‘Silly question,’ says Pierce as she looks around the cubicle. ‘I’ve always hated hospitals. Spent so much time in them when I was young.’

Archer doesn’t know what to say to that and Pierce doesn’t elaborate.

‘Can I get you anything? A coffee or a tea?’ asks Pierce.

Archer shakes her head and asks, ‘How is Jordan?’