‘Father Steiner? I don’t suppose … Could you write in it? Just … I don’t know. From Father Steiner or something? It would …’ Ben shrugged. ‘It would mean a lot to me.’

The chaplain’s smile broadened. ‘I’d be delighted to,’ he said. He patted his robes, as though frisking himself to try to locate a pen.

Ben produced one from his blazer pocket. ‘Here,’ he said.

The chaplain took the book and the pen, and moved to sit down on the nearest pew. He tapped the pen against his chin, gazing up towards the altar, then bent towards the open pages. ‘Dear Ben,’ he spoke aloud, as he wrote. ‘I hope this book serves to offer you some inspiration. Fondly, Father George Steiner.’

He finished with a flourish, then folded the pen into the book, and passed them both back to Ben.

Ben opened the book and looked down at the inscription, pleased. And Callum, he knew, would be pleased, too.

Thursday 24 October, 9.45 p.m.

Fleet’s first thought, when he saw the figure slumped outside his bedsit’s door, was of the intruder in the CCTV footage from Callum Richardson’s living room, their hollow eyes staring up at the camera. Your turn to hide, said a voice in Fleet’s head, and he felt a cool prickle at the base of his neck.

‘Hello?’ he said.

Whoever it was raised their head.

‘Rob? Is that you?’

It was late, and the bulb in the communal hallway barely added to the feeble light seeping in through the window from the streetlamp outside, meaning Fleet could see the figure’s silhouette and nothing more. Yet he would have recognised that voice anywhere.

‘Holly? Jesus. You almost gave me a heart attack. What are you …’

But he got not further. His ex-wife had clambered to her feet and into the light, and before Fleet could finish his sentence, she started to cry.

‘Here,’ Fleet said, as he handed Holly a mug of tea. He was out of milk, so he’d added a spoon of sugar instead. Holly accepted it without appearing to notice.

‘Thanks,’ she said, and she smiled at him weakly, cradling the cup in both hands.

Fleet touched her cheek with the backs of his fingers. ‘You’re freezing. How long were you sitting out there?’

‘Not long. A couple of hours?’

‘A couple of hours?’

‘I went for a walk, and it started to rain again, and by that point I was closer to here than I was to home, so …’

‘You walked here all the way from the house?’

‘It’s not that far.’

‘It’s five miles. And it’s dark outside. And you’re not even wearing a coat.’ Fleet moved his hand to Holly’s arm. ‘Jesus, you’re wet through. Here.’ He took off his suit jacket and draped it around his ex-wife’s shoulders.