But Whitestone nodded. ‘I know what she means. You don’t have to be defined by the worst things that happen to you. No matter how hard it is, it doesn’t have to be the whole story.’ She smiled. ‘I look at him, Max, and he’s still my boy. It’s still him. Still my Just. That doesn’t change and it will never change. He’s still my baby.’ She laughed, took off her glasses and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘That sounds corny.’

‘It sounds true,’ I said.

I indicated her laptop on the dining table. ‘Can I show you something?’

‘Go ahead.’

I went online.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ I said. ‘Look.’

On the screen was a logo of two white figures – a human and, by his side, a dog.

‘Someone goes blind in this country every hour,’ I said. ‘But the guide dog service help thousands of people – the blind and partially sighted – every year. They train the dog – a cross between a Lab and a Golden Retriever works best – and then the dog stays with you for six or seven years until they retire. Some people have eight dogs in a lifetime. And I think you and Justin . . .’

‘It’s something to think about, Max.’

I scrolled down the page. There were images of dogs who seemed to combine great beauty with intense seriousness.

‘We will not rest until people who are blind or partially sighted can enjoy the same freedom of movement as everyone else,’ I read.

‘Max?’

I looked at her.

‘You’ve done enough,’ she said.

We stared at each other.

And I saw that she knew. Perhaps she did not know everything about the night that Jackson Rose and I came to the Angel to confront the leader of the Dog Town Boys. But she knew enough. Of course she knew. DCI Pat Whitestone is the best homicide detective in West End Central.

‘We’ll be all right,’ she said, staring out of the window. ‘The pair of us.’

I nodded to the window. It was one of those strange moments when the city seems totally empty.

‘It’s a good neighbourhood,’ I said.

‘It is now,’ said Pat Whitestone.

I drove back to West End Central, just about resisting the urge to put on the blues-and-twos. I parked my BMW X5 under the big blue light outside 27 Savile Row and, too impatient for the lift, I ran all the way to the top floor.

But MIR-1 was empty.

I looked at my phone but there were no messages. That was all right. I was happy to be spared a text message. It really wasn’t necessary. Because I got it. The day grew cool, the shadows long, and soon the lights would be coming on in the big Georgian houses of Canonbury Square.

And Tara Jones was already home.

37

Then summer was done with us.