‘The man that said no. They told me to keep it as a souvenir. Thought about taking it to the police, at first, but there’d be no proof they gave it to me. Probably no easy way to find out who the chap even is. I don’t know why I kept it, to be honest. I only looked at it one more time, a year after it all happened, to remind myself that I made the right choice not ending up like him.’

Porter lifted the flap up, so old that there was no hint of stickiness where the adhesive used to be, and drew out the single photograph from inside. He recognised the surroundings before he even looked at the face. The jacket, folded neatly so as not to crease it. The single sheet of paper positioned squarely on top of the garment. Finally, he looked at the face. Nathan Barclay’s eyes were closed; his head hung forward, lips slightly parted. There was no mistaking his peaceful expression for that of a man taking a power nap, though. You only had to look at the dark spray on the cabinet behind him to know his eyes wouldn’t be opening again.

Porter passed the picture across to Styles. Nathan Barclay’s suicide had just become a lot more interesting.

Alexander Locke watched Charles Jasper scuttle across the driveway and climb into his car. He heard the rustle of fabric from behind him, where James Bolton reclined against the sofa. The big man took up half of the available space on the three-seater, and looked around the room as if he was casing the place. Locke didn’t often allow people who worked for him into his home. Bolton had only been here twice before, and with good reason. Men like James Bolton drew trouble to themselves like one of those ultraviolet lights that lures in flies. Sometimes that trouble was from business rivals; other days, like today, it was the authorities. Locke felt himself becoming irritated at Bolton’s indifference to the mess he’d contributed to, even now, days after the shitstorm at Taylor Fisheries.

‘What the hell have you got to say for yourself, then?’ Locke snapped at him, cracks showing through his usually cool demeanour.

Bolton sighed, rolling his eyes like a naughty child. ‘Storm in a teacup, boss.’

‘I’d hardly call a dead police officer a storm in a bloody teacup. What happened in there?’

‘Mr Carter just got too big for his boots is what happened. Tried to do to me what I ended up doing to him.’

Locke scoffed. ‘Carter? That scrawny little shit tried to take you out?’