Bolton’s chest heaved up and down, thirsty for air as if he’d been running. His voice was barely a whisper, the gentlest Porter had ever heard him speak. ‘Accident … . she was … didn’t … didn’t mean …’ His body tensed, eyes doing a last barrel roll, mouth open, framing his last word. Porter felt Bolton’s huge frame relax, tension melting out of his limbs as he gave up the fight. Porter stared at him, at the half-open mouth, wondering what might have come out of it if he’d had just a few more seconds. He checked for a pulse. Nothing.

‘Fuck.’

He spat the word out as he stood up. He went to wipe his hand on his trousers again, the one that had been pressed to Bolton’s neck. His palm was a watery red as if he’d been hand-painting, and he knelt down towards the water, wafting his hand back and forward like a modern-day Macbeth. He stood up and looked back at Bolton. You got off easy, he thought, too easy. He looked out at the river, the white snail trail churned up by the boat all but faded. Locke. Whether he had anything to do with Natasha now or not, not even he could wriggle out of the mess at the warehouse.

Porter told Kaye and Everett to stay with the body, and climbed the ladder. Where would Locke go? A man of his resources had likely planned for this day for years. Mary popped into his head. She was either Locke’s unwitting accomplice for helping stitch up Bolton, or the big man’s enemy for betraying him. Either way, Porter needed to speak to her, and there was no time like the present.

GEORGE – APRIL 1983

George has fallen headfirst down the rabbit hole and wonders if there’s any way back. It’s all he can do to scrape himself up from the tarmac and follow them inside. The bigger of the two men is a few feet ahead, the girl draped over his shoulder. Her hands dangle down, swinging loosely to pat him on the back with every step climbed. He hadn’t even checked for a pulse before he scooped her up. Then again, with the angle she’s been twisted at, maybe it’s better if she doesn’t have one, for her sake. Picturing how she had fallen, rotated at the waist like a discarded Barbie doll, gives him palpitations.

The smaller man brings up the rear, parking George’s car, checking the street one last time, shutting the door behind him as he joins them inside her flat. The masks are off now, but he wishes they’d stayed on. He has the distinct impression that these two aren’t a fan of policemen even under normal circumstances, and this evening is as far from normal as he’s ever known.