‘It’s not that simple any more, Nathan.’ He inclines his head towards George. ‘You went to the police, after all. What’s to say you won’t try again? I can’t very well have you talking to someone less …’ He pauses, searching for the word. ‘Less understanding than George, here.’

At the mention of George’s name, Barclay eyes him with an et tu, Brute? look laced with contempt. George wants to apologise. To tell him he was trying to help the girl, but he knows how hollow that will sound. Barclay is breathing loudly through his nose, lips twitching as if he’s swallowed something live and wriggling.

‘This is all I have. What more could you possibly want?’

‘I want you gone,’ Locke says with as much emotion as if he were ordering a pint at the bar.

George watches as parallel troughs crease Barclay’s forehead. Leave the man be, for God’s sake, he thinks. He’s already lost too much in the last twenty-four hours, more than he realises. He has no more to give. Then Locke explains. A gun beyond the door. Only one bullet in case he gets any ideas. Paper and pen to leave his daughter a note. The only way to secure her freedom.

George watches as Barclay goes from denial right through to acceptance It takes no more than two minutes. One hundred and twenty seconds to deconstruct a man, to break him down to his basest level, where all that matters is a father’s love.

The door closes behind Nathan Barclay and, even before he hears the shot, George realises that his eyes have misted over. Sees for the first time that James Bolton is holding a camera, and wonders why. It seems so out of place here. He swallows hard, tensing himself for the sound. Praying it doesn’t come. Knowing it’ll take a lot more than a few prayers to make this right.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Porter watched from the back of the room as Deputy Commissioner Adam Nesbitt scanned his notes. Wouldn’t do for the star of the show to forget his lines at a press conference. Nesbitt looked up, caught his eye and beckoned him over. Porter weaved amongst the reporters looking for seats, and headed for where Nesbitt was tucked away in a corner, now studying his phone.

‘Sir?’ Porter said as he approached. ‘You wanted to see me?’

‘Ah yes, Porter.’ Nesbitt looked over Porter’s shoulder as he spoke, making sure the journalists were out of earshot. ‘When’s your appointment with the counsellor?’

‘Three this afternoon, sir.’ Porter wasn’t a fan of the sessions, but they were mandatory for any officer involved in an incident like that.