‘Fine,’ said Fleet. ‘Once Nicky’s safe, you can punish me however you see fit. But in the meantime, you know I’m the one with the best chance of finding her. It’s going to take days for whoever you bring in to replace me to get up to speed. Which I realise would suit Webb and the rest of them just fine, but we’re talking about a double murder here, Roger. A killer who’s evaded capture for twenty-two years. Who, if you want my opinion, isn’t done with killing yet.’

Burton looked up then. Fleet held his gaze, trying not to think about the implications of what he’d just said for the chances of them finding Nicky alive.

The superintendent dragged both palms across his face. The man that emerged appeared thin and grey, and for the first time since Fleet had entered the office, it struck him that Burton looked even worse than he had when Fleet had last seen him. The previous time, Fleet had put it down to the stress of meeting with Apte and Webb, but there was clearly something else eating at him. Whether it was the same sense of guilt that was gnawing at Fleet, he couldn’t be sure. Burton was in his office on a Saturday morning, and it hadn’t even crossed Fleet’s mind to try the superintendent at home, so maybe it was simply the years of overwork catching up with him. But for the first time, Fleet wondered if it might actually be something more serious.

‘Do you know what your problem is, Detective Inspector?’ Burton spoke to the surface of his desk, then raised his eyes, and for all his wan appearance, there remained a steel to his demeanour. ‘Your problem is, you’ve got no idea what policing actually is. Oh, you think you do. You think it’s simple. Right versus wrong. Innocent versus guilty. You just follow that damn intuition of yours and assume everything will turn out fine.’

The superintendent made no attempt to disguise his scorn. Fleet, in response, held his tongue, knowing that whatever Burton had to say, there was no sense in interrupting him until he’d got it off his chest.

‘What you’ve never seemed to comprehend, Detective Inspector, is that politics is policing. Do you think I like kowtowing to some scruffy, jumped-up millennial who can’t put his phone down for more than three seconds? Or knowing that, when he ends up as political roadkill – which he inevitably will – somebody else just like him will scurry out of the nearest hole to take his place?’

The superintendent left a silence, almost like a dare, and then sniffed when Fleet continued to say nothing. He raised his hand to his face again, this time pinching at the bridge of his nose.