His whirling thoughts accompanied him along the motorway and distracted him from his approach to Nottingham. Then, suddenly, his destination seemed to be moving toward him, rather than the other way round, and he was falling into a once-familiar part of the city, becoming enclosed by dilapidated buildings and burned-out social clubs. Perhaps it was the years that had passed, or the life Paul now lived, but the estate seemed sadder than ever. Paint peeled off the houses like flaking eczema; the whole place reeked of blocked drains.

He parked where he could and sat for a moment, afraid that as soon as he got out he’d be someone else. Someone capable of causing irreversible damage. He thought of Freya, of Steph, of the clean smell of home and the breeze along the Thames. Until he felt calm enough to get out of the car.

As he discreetly followed his phone’s directions, his eyes sought blonde ponytails, navy Puffa jackets, sneakers with mint-green soles. Instead he saw the landmarks of his former life, like objects from a dream: the streets he’d stalk at night when insomnia plagued him; the corner where a phone booth had once stood, from which he would call in his updates to Glover. He passed the closed-down pub where Sanderson used to drink, and Paul, too, once he’d managed to befriend him. Countless hours spent trying to get his target drunk, trying to tease out confessions, hints, anything. Some nights, when he could, Paul would take Nathalie there alone. They’d play dominoes in the back room, shooting smiles at one another, touching knees beneath the table. And Paul would forget, too often, to ask her things relevant to the investigation. Would forget he had any other purpose but to try to make her happier for a few hours.

Pain seeped across his chest. He rammed his fist against it and counted his breaths. He couldn’t have a panic attack now. Couldn’t run away, like his mind was shouting at him to do. Chin up, he used to tell Freya at half-time in soccer, if her head was dropping with defeat. He saw her pushing her fringe out of her eyes, straightening her blue-team bib, never one to give up without a fight.

She’d had permanently grazed knees at that age. When Paul thought of her childhood, he thought of endless jungle animal plasters. He imagined sticking one over his thrashing heart now, his messed-up head. Patch yourself up and press on.

The outer fringes of the estate were less familiar. He found himself in a maze of sleepy terraces, punctuated by shops that weren’t obviously either open or closed. Then Google Maps told him, matter-of-factly, that he’d reached his destination. An unassuming cul-de-sac with a faded no ball games sign. Paul took a deep breath and pulled up his hood, trying to remember how to become invisible.