‘She blames me.’

Quinn shrugs. ‘I’m not sure blame is right. You were the architect of her fall from grace.’

‘She blames me, DI Quinn, let’s not beat around the bush.’

‘Yeah . . . she blames you.’

‘She needs to get over it. We have five murders and who knows how many more to come.’

‘Very true. I’m going to make another coffee. Can I get you one?’

‘I’d rather you didn’t, thanks.’

‘That bad, was it?’

‘Words cannot describe . . .’

Quinn chuckles and heads to the kitchen. It occurs to Archer that she hasn’t heard from Dom. She was supposed to contact him last night – and didn’t. She bites her lip, takes out her phone and calls him. After a few rings it goes straight to voicemail.

She sighs.

‘Hey. It’s me. Listen, I’m so sorry about last night. It was my first day and I got caught up in this new case. I lost track . . . I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I promise . . . call me . . . bye.’

She thinks it odd that Dom didn’t call to wish her luck on her first day. Perhaps he was busy, although she can’t but help feel irritated by his lack of consideration.

Chapter 11

11

HE SITS IN HIS CAR parked in the shadows close to the monolithic Aylesbury Estate in South East London. The architecture is bleak yet it has a hypnotic beauty, a glorious disrepair and sense of abandonment that only he can appreciate. For a moment it makes him forget his hands are squeezing the steering wheel, his nails digging deep into the leather piercing its soft skin.

He wishes he was far away right now, in a better place, where he could be appreciated.

Where his art could be appreciated.

And adored.

Approximately thirty hours have passed since the reveal of his first exhibition and a minuscule part of him is pleased because all has gone as he expected – yet he cannot help but feel pitifully unsatisfied. He knows it’s early days and his best work is still to come but he cannot shift this sense of despair that comes with the misinterpretation that is being generated through the press.

Lies and more lies.

Fake news written by barbarians and philistines. What do they know? What could they possibly understand about great art? He feels a tightening in his chest and takes a deep breath.

Calm. Calm. Calm.

It isn’t his fault. If anything, it was that fool Derek Manly and his incompetent buffoons destroying the central cabinet in his exhibition. A third of it gone and the full impact of the piece lost. He had watched in dismay as his beautiful creation toppled to the ground and smashed to pieces. His heart had leapt into his mouth and he had felt a burning rage like none he has felt in a long time.