He rested his hands on the ledge, bowing his head, the action slightly hitching the tails of his jacket. Catherine had thought it was something he only wore in court for show, and was a little surprised to find him thus attired even in his chambers, like an actor permanently in character. He was someone who had affected a middle-aged look since his twenties, a man out of time, if not a little out of fashion. He was not flamboyant or ostentatiously eccentric in his appearance; merely a little odd. He was a man apart from fashion, an intellectual who simply wouldn’t waste his time or his brainpower engaging in such superficialities. Or maybe his brainpower had engaged sufficiently to deduce that this might be a wise and imposing impression to give.

Usually, when he turned around, you could tell he had a response he was pleased with because there was an eager energy about his features, even if part of that response would involve pretending to look sorrowful, angry or confused. When he turned around right then, he merely looked old.

Old and suddenly very, very tired.

‘It’s about his son,’ Catherine had said to Wilson’s secretary. She had felt a little guilty about this, aware of the awful conclusion he would reach when informed that there were police here with this message. It was necessary, however. They needed to get instant access and couldn’t give him time to make any phone calls. Jim Sharp had called to make an appointment and hadn’t been seen since.

Her conscience was slightly assuaged by the thought that being forced to confront his worst fear would make it a little easier for Wilson to deal with merely the runner-up.

Wilson didn’t appear as though he was handling that one very well either.

He had looked dismayed at the sight of five people piling into his private office when he was perhaps expecting two, but that also was necessary. Catherine wanted to instantly convey that no matter his power, skill and connections, this was not something he would be able to contain.

It had also been made pretty clear to her that Fallan and the girl were not prepared to sit this one out, and given what they had uncovered, she felt they had earned their ticket in.

Wilson leaned against the windowsill, as though the four feet to his desk and the ample mahogany breadth of it were not a comfortable enough distance from his besieging visitors.

‘I didn’t know at the time,’ he said.

‘We’re hearing that a lot,’ said Fallan.