“I thought you didn’t believe in coincidences.” She turned to face him. “Look, I hear what you’re saying but we have no reason to suspect him of that. You can’t just go around accusing people of murder. We’ll take a closer look at his alibi and we’ll go back at three and talk to him then. And hopefully, his wife. If we’re still uneasy, we’ll raise the issue of a warrant with Mac. Happy?”

“And give him a chance to hide the evidence? Are you fucking mad?” French slammed his hand on her car roof. The violent, ugly sound surprised them both. “I knew you shouldn’t be at work. It’s too soon. It’s skewing your judgment.”

A white heat consumed Wildeve. “Don’t you dare.” The low throb of her anger was palpable, and it grew more intense. All-powerful. Her shout splintered the quiet of the street. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“Why not? It’s fucking true, isn’t it? Everyone thinks so.” He was shouting, too, spittle flying from the corners of his mouth. “This is not fucking playtime. This is life and death. You should be at home, before you condemn some other fucker to an early grave.”

His words were like punches. Hard. Fast. Brutal.

She was vaguely aware of a woman walking past, craning her neck to watch them. A desire—hot and immediate—to claw at the skin of his face took hold. She wanted to hurt him. To make him feel pain.

And then DC French’s mobile began to ring.

He stalked away from her, but she could still hear him, loud and overbearing, brusque, full of his own self-importance.

“What is it, mate? I’m up to my eyes.”

He was in profile, and she studied the outline of his strong-featured face, his aquiline nose. He could have been a good-looking man, but arrogance made him ugly.

He’s a prick, Wild. We both know it.

The warmth of Adam’s voice nearly destroyed her. He’d have listened carefully to her point of view, not shouted at her as French had. Her fury wilted. Sadness, keen and quick, took its place.

French was pacing the pavement, but he stilled and the anger building in his eyes and in the lines around his thin lips began to slip, a landslide of emotion. The corners of his mouth twitched upward.

“You’ve got to be joking.”

He threw his head back and laughed, an extravagant, over-the-top sound from deep in his stomach.

“I knew it. I fucking knew it.”

A pause. And then he threw her a sly, hungry look. “Oh yes,” he said. “It will give me the greatest of pleasure.”

When he had cut the call, he swaggered back to Wildeve. She knew from the confident strut of his body that this was bad news for her.

“Go on, then,” she said.