She still didn’t understand Matt Walsh and wished Adrian was here. There was very little chit-chat with Matt and so she realised she didn’t know anything about his life. They had worked together for a few months now and she didn’t know if he was married or if he had children. He was completely closed, all business and nothing else, and it made it hard for her to trust him. The only real conversations they had had together were about Adrian’s behaviour on both this and previous cases. She had to be the adult and get to know him better if she was going to end up being partnered with him. At the moment, the thought of that filled her with dread.

Chapter Forty-Eight

It was early evening and the sun had already started to fade when Adrian woke again. The street outside was washed with grey light. He didn’t feel rested. His sleep had been plagued with voices and with the ever-present pain in his body. In his dreams, he could feel himself clinging onto sleep, trying to stay inside the dream.

He was thirsty again when he finally opened his eyes. He got up slowly, his bones creaking into action, trying to ignore the places where it hurt most. His body jarred as he walked down the stairs. With every breath, his lungs pressed against his sore ribs, a sharp pain shooting through him.

He walked past a mirror but was too afraid to look, as though it would be written on his face, what he had been part of. Inside the fridge the smell of leftover Indian made his stomach turn again. He looked at the beer, but he didn’t want alcohol. As much as he wanted to be drunk, he also wanted to be sober, to keep his wits about him. He pulled out a carton of juice and opened it, his lip stinging as the citric acid infiltrated his cuts.

The doorbell rang and Adrian felt his whole body tense. Was it them? Were they back? They knew where he lived, he knew that much. Struggling to breathe, he grabbed a knife from the block on the kitchen worktop and held it out in front of him, unsure of who he was planning to use it on if anyone burst through the door. He half thought he might just cut his own throat if it was them.

The bell rang again, followed by hard thumping. Adrian’s heart beat faster. He backed against the wall with the knife pointed at the front door as the banging continued, the handle slipping around as his palms got sweatier.

‘Adrian,’ Imogen called. ‘I know you’re in there; I can see the lights on!’