Priest leant against the wall, one foot up, arms folded, whistling a tune that had stuck in his head. ‘The Drugs Don’t Work’ by The Verve. Police officers bustled past, some cast him a wary look but otherwise no one paid much attention to him. It was late – they’d come here straight from visiting Rose and Dennis – and the station was quiet. Things wouldn’t begin to get rowdy until past midnight when the drinkers would start to pile in.

The door to interview room four opened and Rowlinson appeared, shaking his head.

‘She needs proper help, Priest,’ he said, closing the door behind him. ‘I mean professional help.’

‘She has dissociative amnesia. The trauma of her childhood is partially suppressed, but you’re right: she needs help.’

Rowlinson looked down. ‘I can’t let you see her. You know that.’

‘Five minutes.’

‘No.’

‘Three.’

‘Priest—’ Rowlinson looked back up, the disapproval was embedded deep in his face. Priest waited until he finally relented, as they both knew he would.

‘Two.’

*

Priest sat down carefully in the seat opposite Elinor Fox. She looked like an injured bird, terrified at not being able to fly. Half a plastic cup of tea in front of her and a blanket over her shoulders. There were bags under her eyes and her skin was deathly pale.

He remembered the church, the sound and smell of burning. And the last moment before he had passed out. His last memory had been of Jessica. He wondered if somehow Fox knew that.

‘What happened to Michael?’ she said, soft and croaky, her throat was swollen from the smoke inhalation.

‘Karl Jones is dead.’

She nodded, relieved. ‘And what about . . .’

‘Georgie Someday is still very much alive. No thanks to you.’

‘I just wanted to scare her.’

‘We both know that isn’t true. You knew she is susceptible to venom.’

Fox shook her head. ‘No. The fish would have died straightaway. She was never in any danger.’

‘Then why?’

She looked at him, and for a moment the old Fox was back. The bright, penetrating eyes and the seductive smile. ‘For you, honey.’

‘Because I mentioned a red-haired girl?’

She nodded, sadly. The brightness faded. Priest got up.

‘It wasn’t Georgie,’ he said. ‘It’s never been Georgie.’

She looked up, startled. ‘Then wh—The woman who came in when you stole the note from me.’ She paused. ‘But you came back for me, to the church. To save me.’

He didn’t reply, but made for the door, all the while not taking his eyes off her. He had intended it to be a warning. He wanted her to see his disapproval; he wanted her to feel as ashamed as he was for sleeping with her.

But she just stared back, nonplussed. When he got to the door, she called out. ‘Charlie, this isn’t over.’

He looked at her one final time.

‘Yes. It is.’

*