Bendall Lane lock-up garages, Sheffield Custody Suite, Northern General Hospital – they told it all, filling in the gaps in his memories while he hugged his wife and the hospital staff made sure he was okay. The fog of confusion had been replaced by a storm of anger and depression and regret, but also embarrassment. He wanted to sleep, and he wanted to talk alone with his wife. He wanted to be back home, and he wanted to be out there hunting for Josie. He wanted to curl into an inert ball, and he wanted to pound the world into splinters. But those surrounding him wanted black spots in their own knowledge erased, starting with events seemingly aeons ago, way back in the dead hours…

‘Please, Nick, let’s go back to the part about America,’ Miller said.

‘That’s where Fitch is at the minute. A business meeting. He was my old pal from school, part of our crew—’

‘A biker gang, right?’ the DS said.

Nick wasn’t sure how they already knew that, but didn’t enquire. ‘Yeah. I hadn’t seen Fitch for years, but I knew he ran a company. Found him on Facebook and messaged him. Said I was after a job. He messaged back and said we should have a chat about it. I didn’t want to wait until he got back, and I said I’d call him in America the next day about nine in the evening, when his meetings were over. But 9 p.m. in Washington is about three in the morning over here.’

Anna touched his hand and smiled at him. Right then he understood why she seemed so happy. His addled brain hadn’t clicked on, but now he knew: the police had had a theory that he was involved. They weren’t just seeking his help here, they were trying to find anomalies that would prove his guilt. But Anna had refused to believe it and his story upheld her claims. She had defended him, despite their rocky times over the last half-year. He squeezed her hand right back and returned her smile.

The detectives were unimpressed by the magical moment between husband and wife. The DS said, ‘We confirmed the job loss with your landscaping boss. But we’ll be chatting to Fitch Angeles soon to get his story. So, after your phone call, then what happened?’

2.58 a.m.

He opens the patio door, lights a cigarette, and steps out, and spots movement. Shifting black shapes that paranoia paints as intruders in his garden and then logic tells him that cannot be, surely. In the next millisecond his brain picks a side and he’s shouting, ‘Who the hell are you?’ before he really even realises it.