‘A month, maybe two,’ said Bolton, the decision made yesterday, long before Anderson’s call. Bolton had argued against it. He had never run from anything or anyone in his life, and the idea of starting now incensed him. He looked across to where his boss sat in the corner, but Locke’s eyes were fixed on his phone, and Bolton’s half-scowl was wasted. Locke, smooth talker and pragmatist that he was, had won him over. He would stay at a villa Locke owned outside the town of Ponta Delgada, the largest town on São Miguel Island, which in turn was the largest island of the Azores. He had spent a week there three years ago at Locke’s invitation, so he knew he would want for nothing. Locke looked after his own.

‘How can I reach you if I need you?’ asked Patchett.

‘You don’t. You need anything, you call Mr Stenner. He’ll have a way to reach me.’

‘You need me to do anything while you’re gone?’

Bolton thought for a second and nodded. ‘The other locations, I need you to show your face once a week. As far as anyone knows I’m off on a business trip, that’s all. They find out anything else, I know it’s come from you, and you and I will have a little chat when I get back.’

Patchett shuddered. He’d seen what a little chat with Bolton could constitute, and would do everything he could to never be involved in one.

‘Yep, no worries. Done.’

Locke stood up, walking towards the window that looked out to the side of the building. ‘If you two are quite finished your chit-chat, we have other pressing matters to attend to. Our friend Detective Porter, for one. I think—’

He stopped, mid-sentence. All three men glanced towards the door – a thud from beyond it, loud steps echoing. It burst open a second later, and Anderson filled the frame, sweat on his head like condensation, soaking through his shirt in a patch just above the upmost curve of his gut. Bolton stared at him, saw something in his eyes that reminded him of a cornered animal.

‘I’ll call you when we’re done, Mr Anderson, and as you can see,’ he said, folding his arms, ‘we’re not done.’

Anderson was breathing heavily. Even a short dash like the twenty yards back into the building took its toll. ‘James Bolton,’ he said, sucking in a deep breath. No going back now. Last roll of the dice. ‘You’re under arrest for the murders or Michael Gibson and Owen Carter, and the attempted murder of Eve Simmons.’

Bolton stared at him impassively. ‘We’re still a few months short of April Fools’, Detective.’