Paul glanced around as he waited, to divert himself from imagining Tom Glover’s reaction on the other end, but couldn’t help listening to the one-sided call. He didn’t say exactly . . . Shall I ask him? . . . Oh . . . Oh, I see . . . Sorry, Inspector. Should I tell him to come back another time? Paul thought about storming over and grabbing the phone, forcing Glover to answer to him rather than relay messages through this uncomprehending colleague. But the officer hung up.

“DI Glover says he’ll see you.”

Paul raked a hand through his damp hair as he was led along a route he already knew. There were only small changes: new names gleaming on doors, a fresh carpet. The more familiar details became heightened: the slippery wood of the banister, the glare of the strip lights, the creaking weight of Glover’s office door.

As Paul entered, Tom Glover stood up from behind his desk and whipped off his glasses. His eyes looked aged, and unmistakably guarded, but his suit was as well tailored to his trim frame as it had always been. In contrast Paul was shell-shocked and clammy, specks of blood on his jeans. As if he was still the unraveling man who’d practically crawled out of this station twenty years ago.

“Paul.” Glover’s tone was questioning. Freya’s case was obviously not yet on his radar, despite what Paul had disclosed to the two surprised PCs after he’d asked Steph for a moment alone with them.

Unless Glover was pretending not to know. When Paul had been put on “indefinite leave” from his department, and had spent months self-destructing, then drifting, and finally recovering, he’d often got the sense that his former boss was keeping tabs on him. That he knew far more about his life than he would let on when he called to “see how you are, old friend.” But that feeling had faded as Paul had got himself together, found the dull safety of an office job, married Steph, had Freya, and finally allowed himself to be happy.

Now that he was back in Glover’s office, though, watching him select a facial expression from his disturbingly cold to overly warm range, Paul wondered if he’d been foolish to assume he’d lost interest in him.

“It’s been a long time!” Glover clasped his hand, clearly opting for warmth. “How are you?”

“I’m not good. I mean, I have been. It’s not what you think . . .” Paul shook himself. Get to the point. “My daughter’s missing.”

Glover slid his glasses back on, appearing genuinely startled. “Christ, Paul. When you say missing . . . ?”