She could probably get into Adrian’s place through the back if she wanted to, but he wasn’t at home and so there was no point. She looked at her phone again, but there had been no activity. This is bullshit. She was going to save herself the humiliation of ringing him again just to have her call ignored.

She didn’t understand his need for conflict. She could go to a pub if she wanted, flirt with some guy and get into some kind of disagreement with his girlfriend who she could pretend she hadn’t seen before, knowing full well that it was never about the flirting, more about the fight afterwards. There were worse ways to blow off steam, she supposed, but it wasn’t something she could ever imagine herself doing to relieve stress. For Adrian, it seemed to be the only way.

She got back into her car after a few minutes of waiting for him to turn the corner and walk towards her with his cheesy smile, telling her he was happy to see her and all was forgiven. The same when she pulled out of his street – she just expected Adrian to be walking right there. He wasn’t.

That familiar feeling of anger mixed with dread settled inside her. Anger that he was ignoring her, out somewhere getting drunk, mixed with the fear that the reason he wasn’t in touch was because he was lying dead somewhere. Try not to overreact. Imogen drove back to her flat; she would deal with Adrian in the morning.

Chapter Forty-Four

Dazed from the blow to the head, Adrian tried to get to his feet. It was so dark. There was a man there, but Adrian couldn’t make his face out. As Adrian tried to pull himself up, the man kicked him, hard. He kicked Adrian again. A steel-toed boot crashed into Adrian’s rib and he screamed out in pain.

‘Shut up, pig,’ the man hissed.

This wasn’t random, Adrian realised. He knew Adrian was a police officer. Did Adrian recognise the voice? Had the man seen that little video clip of him rescuing Angela Corrigan online? Is that how he knew he was police?

The man grabbed Adrian by the collar and punched him in the face before spitting at him. Adrian felt warm, wet saliva on his face, mixed with his own blood from where his face had hit the pavement. He was dazed. His nose, taking the brunt of the impact and still sore from earlier where Corrigan had smashed it into the kitchen counter, was starting to swell.

Still holding Adrian’s collar, the man pulled Adrian towards the foot of the concrete stairs that led up to the Exeter St Thomas station platform. Parked next to the bottom of the stairs was a white van with the side door open.