Harri turned onto Mount Pleasant, a residential street on the edge of town. When she’d first moved to Stoke-on-Trent, the sprawl of little towns that formed the city had confused her. There were six that made up the federation of Stoke-on-Trent – Burslem, Fenton, Hanley, Longton, Stoke and Tunstall – each with their own planning policies, which meant the city often felt like an uncoordinated sprawl. And then there was Newcastle-under-Lyme, which was sometimes described as part of Stoke by ill-informed outsiders, simply because it had merged with the larger conurbation over the years. But Newcastle locals were proud of their distinct identity and most people tended to view the satellite town as a more upmarket place to live.

Harri drove halfway along the run of well-kept semis. Seven-seater family cars dominated the street, parked outside beautiful pre-war houses. Harri pictured families inside, gathered around the television, and immediately gave herself a telling-off for romanticizing what she didn’t have. These imaginary families were just as likely to be in separate rooms, lost in their own digital worlds, spending time with distant strangers, rather than the people they lived with, who were now only tied to them by an accident of genetics and financial necessity.

God, that’s bleak, she thought, as she stopped outside the address Sabih had given her. She texted him, and a short while later he emerged from the house and waved to a group of men who’d gathered in the hallway. He hurried to the car with a frown on his face, and jumped into the passenger seat.

Harri smelled the whiskey immediately.

‘I hope you know what you’ve done,’ he said, a slight slur shaving the edges from his words. ‘I was winning.’

‘Sorry,’ Harri responded. ‘I might need a warrant card.’

‘I wasn’t even supposed to have my phone on.’ He settled into his seat. ‘My cousin is very strict about poker night. He says I’ll have to pay a fine.’

‘Again: sorry.’

He fixed Harri with the intense, unpredictable stare only drunks can muster. She had no idea whether he was going to turn angry or happy.

‘They should never have let you go. You were a bloody good cop.’

Matey. He was going to get matey.

‘I know,’ she replied.

‘I know you know. But sometimes you need to know that others know what you know, so that you know. In here.’ He patted his chest, and made a fist, which Harri thought was meant to symbolize a heart. ‘You get me?’

‘I get you,’ she replied, reaching into the door pocket beside her. ‘Have a couple of these.’ She handed him a packet of gum.

‘I’m hurt,’ he said. ‘My breath is as fresh as . . .’ He blew on his palm and inhaled. ‘Damn!’ He opened the pack and popped a handful of pieces in his mouth. ‘Thanks. So, where are we going?’

‘To hospital,’ Harri replied, putting the car in gear.

Chapter 17

It was a five-minute drive to the hospital, and Harri used the time to tell Sabih what she’d learned from Margery Allen.