Choked

3

It should have been the happiest time of her life. But it had turned into the worst.

Marina Esposito opened her eyes slowly. Shock flooded her system. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. She gradually pushed herself up on to her elbows, trying to blink away the images before her. Failing.

It was as if she had gone to sleep and woken up in some hellish post-apocalyptic landscape. The cottage, the garden behind it, the stretch of Suffolk coastline before it, had all gone. The comforting, safe rural environment replaced by ruins, flames.

She tried to pull herself into a sitting position, willed her mind to catch up with her body’s movements, but felt nothing but blankness in her head. It was too much to process, like she had just woken up and dragged a nightmare with her into the day. But she felt the heat on her face, her skin, the dust in her eyes. The gravel of the pathway she was lying on painfully imprinted on her hands and arms, her face. And she knew, subconsciously, that it must be real.

She blinked again, trying to corral her mind into some kind of rational order, to remember what had happened, why she was there.

The cottage where they had all been staying. The …

She looked at the blazing ruin before her and realised that that was the cottage.

‘Oh God … ’

She dragged herself slowly to her feet, ignoring the painful gravel rash, the grazed skin, her head spinning. Adrenalin began to pump round her system. She felt her heart speeding up, tripping along faster than her chest could contain it. She stood on unsteady legs, swaying, looking at the burning cottage before her. Slowly, as though her legs were made from concrete, she made her way towards it, crunching on gravel and shingle, breathing heavily through her mouth, her mind racing to catch up with her body.

A few days away before returning to work. That was all it had been. After the wedding and the honeymoon. Just herself, Phil and his parents.

And their three-year-old daughter.

‘No … oh no, oh fuck, no … ’

She looked again at the burning ruin before her, walked quicker.

Spending Easter in Suffolk. Aldeburgh, on the coast. Snape Maltings music festival nearby, a large stretch of beach, pubs and restaurants. A way of saying thank you to Don and Eileen for looking after Josephina.

And now this.

Marina was almost running in her haste to get there. She looked at the cottage, tried to make out shapes, called for her family.

‘Phil … Phil … oh God … Eileen, Don … ’

Nothing. Her only reply the sound of the flames, intensifying as she got nearer.

Her heart was ready to break through her ribcage.

There was a blazing car in front of the cottage. Marina didn’t recognise it. Not theirs. Not Don and Eileen’s. She dismissed it from her mind, kept going, moving towards the cottage. She hadn’t realised how far away she had been.

Part of her mind was asking the question: why was she not in the cottage? Why wasn’t she with the rest of them? Another part of her mind dismissed it. More important things to do. More important questions to answer.

She heard voices behind her, becoming louder. She ignored them. Heard footsteps running towards her. Ignored them too. Staying focused on the cottage. Moving towards it. Her world narrowed down to that burning ruin. To saving her family.

She had almost reached the car when she was grabbed from behind.

‘Get away from there! You mental?’

She shook the hands off her, kept going. They grabbed her again.

‘It’s not safe, you’ll be killed. Come on … ’

The hands pulled her back, stopped her from moving forward, separating her from her family.

She tried to shake them off again, but they gripped harder.

‘Please, stay back … see sense … ’

Desperation and adrenalin gave her strength. She turned, saw a man about her own age, concern and fear in his eyes, his hands grappling with her shoulders. She shook him off, broke free from his grasp.

As she reached the car, she felt the heat on her face and body. It was so bright it forced her eyes to close, so powerful it knocked her back like a physical presence. She squinted through the flames. Tried to make out anyone else. Reality rippled through the heat haze.

She heard the man’s voice behind her once more.

‘Get back! The car’s going to … ’

She felt hands on her body, the sensation of being pushed roughly to the ground. Then a sudden burst of searing heat, like she was being devoured by a miniature sun, accompanied by a sound so loud it must have shattered her eardrums.

Then nothing.

Just blackness.

4

They had given him his own curtains. That was something. Curtains and a window. But not a view. That was asking too much.

That didn’t stop him staring out of it, though. Staring and thinking. Some days that was all he did, because he had nothing else to do. Just stare and think. There wasn’t much to look at. Sometimes he counted the pigeons. Tried to identify them by their markings. Individualise them. Anthropomorphise them even, give them names, assign character traits. That was when he knew he had been staring too long. He would be dressing them up in little waistcoats next. So instead he would sit on the bed, turn his attention inwards rather than outwards.

He would think about things he had read in books, the pencilled notes he had made in the margins. The books now sat permanently on his shelf. He didn’t take them down much any more. He had looked at them so often, he had memorised the bits he liked. The important bits.

One of the main things he thought about was time. It occupied his mind a lot, and he had read plenty of books on it, with all sorts of theories. How it wasn’t a straight line. How it twisted, stretched. How sometimes it seemed short but was actually long. How it would loop in on itself. How it could fool you into thinking it was one thing when it was really another.

He applied the things he had read to his own life, his own situation. The way it seemed short but was actually long. Although most days it was the opposite, seeming long but actually short. No, not most days: all days. And nights. The nights were worse than the days.

Because he kept having the same dream, over and over, night after night. For years, since he had first arrived. He would dream his own death. And it was always a slow death. Cancer, MS, Aids, something like that. Something he couldn’t stop, couldn’t cure. Parts of him would be taken away, bit by bit. His body would become a cage, with him trapped inside. Sometimes it took everything away and left only his voice. A small, weak voice screaming silently within. Ignored. Unheard.

When he woke up, the dream would still be with him, clinging, convincing him he was dead. He would have to force himself to believe he was alive. Then he would lie in the dark, hearing the groans and cries from beyond his door, and think about being dead. His body rotted, his mind dissipated. No longer existing. No thoughts, no life, no memories. Just nothing.

And then he would feel more alone than he had ever believed a human being could feel.

Eventually morning would come and another day would start: the same as the last one, the same as the next. Dragging a greater piece of the dream with him every time he woke, barely existing until he existed no more, until he eventually became nothing.

Now he was just a collection of memories. And memories, he knew, were as reliable as time. If you told someone a table was a chair and you told them long enough and loud enough, they would eventually believe you. And that was what had happened to his memories. They had told him what he had done. What had caused it. What had happened as a result. And even though he hadn’t believed them and had fought against them, pitted his own memories against theirs, theirs had been stronger and theirs had won. It had taken years, but eventually he had accepted what they said as truth. That their memories were his. That he had done what they said he had done.

It had been easier once he had let them implant their events into his mind. They had started to be nicer to him, talked about letting him go. Time might even have speeded up. But it may have just been time playing tricks on him once again.

Or not. Because the day had come. And it was today. No more staring at the curtains. No more sitting in his room with his memorised books, dreaming of living death.

He would be out. He would be free.

They all told him it was a good thing. That it must be what he wanted. And he had agreed with them. Because that was what they wanted to hear. And if they were pleased, he was pleased.

He heard keys in the door. Stood up. Stared straight ahead, at the wall. The door opened and two of them entered. One of them smiling.

‘Going home today, eh?’ the smiling one said.

He wanted to say I am home, but knew better. Instead he nodded.

Smiler laughed. ‘Won’t know what to do with yourself.’

Knowing a response was expected, he returned the laugh. ‘Bet I will.’

Smiler laughed again.

‘Get your things, then, come on,’ the other one said, yawning.

He knew their names and had even used them sometimes. But he would forget them as soon as he left. Because he wouldn’t need them any more.

He gave one last look round his cell. His home. He took in the curtains, the memorised books and the toiletries. ‘There’s nothing I want here,’ he said.

‘Suit yourself, then.’

He followed them out.

The door clanged shut behind them.

He walked off the wing, down the corridor and towards the gate, trying to think of the future and not the past. Hoping time wouldn’t play tricks any more and that a table would become a table again and not a chair.

Trying not to feel death in his every step.

5

Marina opened her eyes. She tried to focus, but there was too much light in the room, too much brightness. She closed her eyes to block it out, then opened them again, slowly this time.

She saw curtains. Thin, patterned in a style she couldn’t identify. She looked round. She was in a small room. No, not a room, a cubicle. There was a beige wall with a small sink against it. She looked down and realised she was on a hospital stretcher. For a few seconds her consciousness floated adrift from her memory, then the two came crashing together. She jerked upright.

The cottage … the fire …

‘Whoa, hey, it’s OK … ’

She felt hands on her shoulders. Firm, not harsh. Not forcing her down, just holding her in place.

‘Where am I?’

‘Ipswich General. A and E.’

The voice sounded familiar. Warm and friendly. Another thought hit her. ‘Phil, where’s Phil …?’

‘It’s OK,’ said the voice again.

Marina focused, managed to look at the face of the speaker. She made out dark skin and lightened hair, a denim jacket and a T-shirt. Her friend and work colleague, Detective Constable Anni Hepburn.

‘Anni … what—’

‘Just lie back, Marina. Lie back.’

Marina didn’t want to do so, but she trusted her friend. She looked at Anni’s face once more. Her features were taut, drawn. No trace of the usual good humour there.

‘What’s happened? Where’s Phil? Josephina?’

‘Just … just take a minute. Just … relax, yeah?’ Anni didn’t seem to know what to say.

Marina picked up on the unease and tried to sit up once more. Her bones ached and pain cranked through her body. She lay back down again.

‘What’s happened? Tell me … ’

Anni sighed and looked round as if for support. Finding none, she turned back to Marina. ‘You were picked up outside a cottage in Aldeburgh in Suffolk. Last night.’

Marina nodded, her head swimming. ‘We went there for the weekend.’

Anni looked at her. ‘It was in flames … ’

The brightness of the room couldn’t touch the darkness of Anni’s words.

‘Flames … ’ Parts of Marina’s memory returned to her, like garishly coloured jigsaw pieces against a dark matt background. ‘Flames.’

‘You tried to run towards it,’ Anni said. ‘A guy passing by pulled you away. If he hadn’t … ’

Marina closed her eyes, the jigsaw pieces slotting slowly together. ‘The … the rest of them?’ Her breath caught. She tried to resist forming the words in her mouth, but knew they had to emerge sometime. Knew she would have to hear the answers to her questions. ‘Are they …?’

Anni sighed. Marina watched her.

‘I know that look,’ she said, apprehension and fear overriding tiredness, giving her a voice. ‘Phil does it. The one you put on when you’re delivering bad news. Telling someone their son or daughter’s been killed. Doing the death knock. I know … ’ Her voice trailed away. ‘Oh God.’

‘It’s … Are you ready for this, Marina? I mean, you’ve just—’

‘I don’t know, Anni. Am I? Am I ever going to be ready for this?’ Her voice snapping, harsh. She sighed. ‘Sorry. Just … just tell me.’

‘Phil’s … alive.’

Her initial reaction was a huge wave of relief, spreading over her. Phil’s alive. But she stopped herself from being too relieved. The hesitation in Anni’s voice …

‘Alive?’ she said.

Anni swallowed. ‘Yes.’ Another sigh.

‘Can I see him?’

‘Not at the moment. He’s … ’

‘What?’

‘Unconscious.’

‘Oh God.’

‘We’re … still waiting for him to come round.’

Anni’s words hit her like a wrecking ball. She tried to process what she’d heard, but her head was a cyclone, the words spinning round and round.

‘And … and … ’ She couldn’t bring herself to say the name. Josephina. Her daughter.

‘Eileen’s fine,’ said Anni quickly. ‘Not too badly damaged. She was lucky.’ Her voice dropped. Knowing she had to say the words. Not wanting to even hear them herself. ‘Don wasn’t so lucky.’

The cyclone spun all the harder. ‘What? Don … ’

Anni looked straight into Marina’s eyes. Held them. ‘He’s … he’s dead, Marina.’

The cyclone peaked. Picked up Marina’s thoughts, her emotions, spun them. She felt like her head would explode. It was too much to cope with. Too much to process all at once. But there was one question she needed the answer to. The one question she had avoided asking.

‘Josephina … ’ Her voice small, fragile.

Another sigh from Anni. ‘We … we couldn’t find her.’

Marina stared at her friend.

‘Honestly, she wasn’t … There was no trace.’

6

The firefighters had all but finished and the cottage had burned itself down to charred, smoking remains. A charcoal-blackened skeleton with the life blazed out of it. Detective Sergeant Jessica James stared at it, hand over her eyes, squinting against the sun.

She had been briefed on the way from Ipswich. Holidaying copper and his family. Explosion. Fire. Probably a faulty gas supply, but maybe not.

‘Proceed with caution,’ her DCI had said. ‘One of our own, remember. Even if they’re not local.’

‘Brothers under the skin and all that,’ she had replied.

He had nodded. ‘Just be thorough. That’s all.’

And she would be. Probably nothing, just an unfortunate accident.

But …

A copper. Retribution? A villain nursing a bitter grudge against the guy who’d put him away, something like that? Fanciful, she would have said. The clichéd stuff of desperate TV cop dramas. That would never happen in real life. Not round here.

But then if she’d been asked a few years ago whether a sexually sadistic serial killer could terrorise Ipswich and get away with murdering five sex workers, she would have said the same. A clichéd TV cop show. Not in real life. Not round here. But it had happened. And she had no intention of being the one getting caught out if something like that happened again.

She ran her fingers through her hair, shook her head. Mentally blowing the cobwebs away. If she had known she was coming to work today, she wouldn’t have gone out drinking with the girls last night. Because those couple of drinks had turned into a couple more. Then a couple more. Then a curry, a half-remembered, slurry phone call home to say she’d be late, don’t wait up, then … what? Tiger Tiger? Dancing with some bloke? Flirting? Finally tumbling into bed at God knew what hour.

And now this. Called back in to work, her weekend off cancelled, and sent up to Aldeburgh. Knocking back mints, paracetamol and Evian all the way.

She crossed to a man giving orders to uniforms. Small, neatly dressed and holding a clipboard, he looked and acted like an Apprentice contestant focused on giving a hundred and ten per cent. More of a Sugary hopeful than a detective constable. But that was exactly what Deepak Shah was and it irritated her more than she let on.

‘What have we got, Deepak?’

Hearing her voice, he turned. ‘Early days, ma’am, but it looks like the fire started in the living room,’ he said, pointing helpfully to the front of the cottage. ‘We’ve got a couple of eyewitnesses say it was an explosion. Then it looks like the fire spread to the rest of the cottage.’

‘Any survivors?’

He nodded. ‘Only one dead. The father, it seems.’ He checked his clipboard. ‘He was in the room where the blast happened. Caught most of it. Died instantly. Two are critical. And there was one outside. She tried to get back in. That car stopped her.’ He pointed to a burnt-out wreck parked outside the cottage. ‘Explosion knocked her back. They’ve all been taken to the General in Ipswich.’

Jessica James nodded and tried not to let her irritation at Deepak’s organisation show. ‘Wasn’t there something about a baby?’

Deepak turned to her. The usual fussiness and officiousness were absent from his eyes. In their place was the professionalism she expected from her team, and something else as well. A kind of compassionate determinism. And that, she realised, was why she put up with him.

He shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘No sign.’

‘But there was definitely a baby there?’

‘Little girl,’ he said. ‘They booked a kid’s bed from the letting agency, for a three-year-old. We found some stuff, couple of toys, clothes, not much though. Might be a baby buggy in there.’ He pointed to the ruin once more. Three blue-suited people were making their way inside, stepping carefully. ‘Firefighters and forensics are still looking it over.’

‘Hope they’re careful,’ she said. ‘Mind what they’re standing on.’

Deepak didn’t reply.

Jessica James’s eye was drawn by an approaching car. It pulled up to the crime-scene tape that had been stretched across the gravel road that led down to the cottage. A uniform was standing there, stopping the car from going any further. It came to a halt and the driver emerged. Tall, burly, cropped head, dressed in a plaid shirt and jeans and seemingly uncomfortable in leisurewear, she noticed. He held something up and the uniform let him pass. He walked towards them. Jessica waited until he drew up next to her.

‘And you are?’ she said.

He held up his warrant card once more. ‘Detective Sergeant Michael Philips,’ he said.

‘Detective Sergeant Jessica James.’

They shook hands.

‘Major Incident Squad,’ he said, ‘Essex Police.’

Jessica raised her eyebrows. ‘MIS? You’re a bit off your patch, aren’t you? Is this a major incident?’

He nodded. Sighed, and some of the stiffness of his manner left him. ‘Yeah. I’m not here officially.’ He pointed to the cottage. Grimaced. ‘That was my boss in there.’

‘Never mind the was, Detective … what did you say?’

‘Philips,’ he said. ‘Mickey. And his missus. Marina. She’s a psychologist. One of our team too.’

‘Right. Mickey. Is your boss the younger one? There was a father and son.’

Mickey nodded.

‘Then don’t say was. He’s still alive.’

Mickey nodded again, clearly unconvinced.

Jessica decided to change the subject. If he had come to help, he would be no good in this state. ‘So why are you here?’ she asked.

‘I just thought … ’ He shrugged. ‘Just wondered if you could do with some help. It’s my day off.’

‘Join the club,’ she said, the ghost of a smile on her face.

‘Well, anything I can do … ’

She looked at him. He was a bull of a man. Muscular, physical. More like a rugby player or a boxer. But there was a softness to his eyes. An intelligence and compassion that Jessica found appealing. Very appealing.

‘Well … ’ It was her turn to shrug. ‘More the merrier, I suppose. You can fill us in on your boss. Phil Brennan?’

Mickey nodded.

She smiled. ‘Welcome aboard.’

Mickey was introduced to Deepak Shah and shook hands, but any further conversation was cut short by the approach of a blue-suited forensic officer. Jessica turned to him.

‘Well? Anything?’

‘No kid,’ he said. ‘We’ll look in more detail, of course, but there’s nothing there to indicate that a child was in that blast. Unless, you know … ’

‘Unless it was right at the centre, I know,’ said Jessica, swallowing hard. ‘Well keep looking.’

‘We will. It’s early days, but we think we’ve identified the area in the cottage where the blast originated from.’

‘Cooker? Fire?’ asked Jessica.

The forensic officer shook his head. ‘Neither, we don’t think.’

A shiver ran through Jessica. ‘You mean it was started deliberately?’

‘Let’s keep an open mind,’ he said, and walked away.

Suddenly the desperate, clichéd plot of a TV cop drama didn’t sound so ridiculous after all.

7

As Anni’s words sank in, Marina felt even more numb than the painkillers had left her.

‘What d’you mean, you couldn’t find her?’

‘I mean we couldn’t find her,’ said Anni, fidgeting uncomfortably in her seat, like her skin didn’t fit right and was too itchy for her body. ‘We looked everywhere, but no sign … ’

‘Everywhere. You looked everywhere … ’

‘Yes. We did. In the cottage, outside … ’ She moved about, unable to settle. ‘We found some of her things. Clothes, toys. Or what was left of them. But no Josephina.’

‘I’ve got to … I’ve got to go … ’ Marina tried to swing her body over the edge of the bed, put her legs down, her feet on the floor. Her breath caught in her throat. She pulled air in sharply and gasped. The movement sent more pain spasming round her body. She fell back, hard.

‘Marina, you should stay there.’

‘I’ve got … got to go … my baby, I have to find my baby … ’

‘But we’ve looked … ’

Marina once again tried to get up. Failed. ‘Then … Look again.’

‘We—’

‘I’ll come with you. I should be there. You need me. Josie needs me.’ Ignoring the pain, Marina eventually sat up. ‘She’s got to be there. She’s … I don’t know, maybe she crawled out, got away from the cottage. Maybe she—’

‘We looked everywhere, Marina. Honestly.’ Anni’s voice low. Calm yet authoritative.

Marina felt a pain far worse than her physical injuries move through her body. A fear, like lead spreading in her veins, poisoning her, weighing her down. Removing her contact with the normal world. ‘Maybe she … maybe someone’s got her, seen her and taken her in, looking after her … ’ Marina reached out, gripped Anni’s sleeve, twisted the fabric, pulled hard, her voice teetering on the edge of hysteria.

‘We’re looking into every possible lead.’

Marina dropped her hand away, felt herself getting angry. She had heard Phil speak the same way. ‘Don’t talk to me like that, Anni, save it for the punters.’

Anni recoiled, shocked.

Marina sat up. The room spun, but she ignored it and concentrated on the other woman. Locked eyes with her, made sure she understood what she was saying. ‘Josephina, Josie … She must be there. Must be. Must be somewhere.’

‘We’ve looked. Everywhere.’

‘Then look again.’

Anni sighed. ‘We have.’

‘But somebody must know … If she’s been there, if she’s … if someone’s got her, taken her in … if … someone must have seen, someone … ’ Marina fell back on the bed, exhausted. ‘Oh God, oh God … ’ The pain subsided and the room slowed, stopped spinning. ‘I know,’ she said, her voice suddenly weak. ‘I know. I’m sure everyone’s doing their best … ’

‘Mickey’s gone to join them,’ Anni said. ‘He’s up there now with the local team.’

Mickey Philips. The detective sergeant in the Major Incident Squad they were all a part of.

‘Oh God … ’ Another thought had struck Marina. ‘She might be … ’ Her voice wavered, broke. ‘The cottage — she might be … ’

‘Mickey’s there,’ said Anni, her voice dropping. ‘If she’s there, he’ll find her. Wherever she is.’

Marina nodded. Kept nodding. She didn’t notice the tears until she felt Anni’s arm round her.

‘Oh God … ’ The lead weight in her veins increased. Her heart, her whole body felt heavy, the fear paralysing her. ‘Oh God … ’

The two of them sat like that, a still life of grief, while time became a vacuum.

The mood was broken when the curtain at the front of the cubicle was pulled back. Marina looked up. A tired-looking female nurse entered.

‘How you feeling?’ said the nurse. Her voice sounded distracted, professional interest only, but her eyes held compassion, albeit with black circles beneath them.

Marina stared at her. She couldn’t begin to answer the question.

‘My husband … how … how is he? Where is he? Can I, can I see him?’

‘He’s still in surgery,’ said the nurse. ‘They’re doing all they can.’

‘Oh God … ’ The heaviness again, the weight pressing down on her.

‘Any news? Anything you can tell us?’ Anni spoke as one professional to another.

The nurse gave her a level look. ‘They’re hopeful.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘The fire set off an explosion,’ said the nurse, checking Marina over. ‘Luckily he wasn’t too near it, otherwise he wouldn’t be alive now, but he was hit by flying debris. Head injury. They’re operating now.’

The nurse’s words left Marina feeling cold and numb.

‘His mother’s doing well. She doesn’t look as bad as they first thought.’ The nurse paused. ‘I’m sorry about his father, though. Apparently there was nothing the paramedics could do for him.’

Marina said nothing. Couldn’t speak.

‘You’re in shock,’ the nurse said. ‘We’re just waiting for a bed to become free and we’ll move you to that. We’d like to keep you in overnight. Plus I’m sure you want to be near your husband.’

She looked between Marina and Anni. ‘I’ll pop back soon as I can.’

She left, closing the curtain behind her.

Anni said nothing. Marina stared ahead of her, the pattern on the curtain dancing and swaying before her eyes.

Anni’s phone rang. She jumped. ‘That might be Mickey,’ she said. ‘Give me a minute.’ Looking relieved to have a break, she went outside the cubicle.

Marina didn’t move, just stared. Straight ahead, unmoving. Her daughter’s eyes, that was all she could see. Her eyes. Her smile. Her hair.

She felt a sudden urge to scream, to pound the walls, smash her head against them. Let it all out, try to express the inarticulate, raging emotions she was feeling. But she fought it. For now.

Anni stepped back inside and resumed her seat.

‘Any news? Josephina? What’s happening? What’s … ’

Anni shook her head. ‘Nothing yet. I’m sorry … ’

Marina sank back. ‘No. No. She has to be there. No. She must be.’

‘They’re still searching. They … ’ Anni sighed. ‘I know. But … ’

Marina said nothing.

‘Look, I’ve got to ask some questions, I’m afraid.’

‘No.’ Marina shook her head, closed her eyes.

‘Please, Marina. I know it’s difficult. But we’re here as a favour. Because it’s you and Phil and you’re in the job. The local force have turned a blind eye. Look, you have to help us. If there’s anything … ’

‘No. No.’ Marina looked at Anni. Saw the other woman was not just doing her job, but also trying to help. ‘Just … ’ She sighed. ‘Give me a minute. Five minutes.’

‘OK.’ Anni nodded and stood up. ‘D’you want anything? I’m going to get a drink. Bar of chocolate. Famished.’

Marina barely heard her.

‘OK, then.’ She left the cubicle.

Marina lay back and stared at the curtain once more. Heard music, recognised it. The old Joy Division song, ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’. Absently she wondered where it was coming from.

Then realised it was a phone.

She looked round. Anni’s bag was on the floor beside the chair. She bent over the side of the bed, feeling her head spin, her sides ache as she did so. No. The sound wasn’t coming from there.

She lay back down once more. The song kept playing. She looked round. Her own bag was on the other side of the bed. That was the source.

Frowning, she reached down, picked up her bag. Rummaged through it and brought out a phone. A cheap black smartphone that she had never seen before. Puzzled, she answered it, put it to her ear.

‘Hello …?’ Her voice small, quizzical.

‘Marina Esposito.’ A voice she didn’t recognise. Electronic, distorted. Neither male nor female. But audible.

‘Yes … ’ She looked round quickly, as if someone was standing nearby, could hear her.

The voice made a sound that wasn’t a word. Marina just knew the person was smiling. ‘I believe I have something of yours.’

A shiver convulsed the whole of Marina’s body. She couldn’t answer.

‘Something you’ve lost.’

‘Wuh — what?’

‘Something by the name of … Josephina.’ The voice relishing the pronunciation of the name.

She gasped. Began to tremble. ‘Where is she? I’ve got to … got to—’

‘Shut up and listen.’ The voice harsher now, colder. ‘If you want to see your daughter alive again, then just shut up and listen.’

8

The gate closed behind him. He had imagined the scraping of metal against metal as the key was turned and the bolts drawn back. The old hinges would squeal in protest as another one was let go. Then the door would slam shut, hitting its rightful place in the frame and staying there, seemingly immovable. The noise of its closing would be heavy and final, echoing slowly away to a deafening emptiness.

But it wasn’t like that at all.

The gate had just slid open, like in a garage or factory, and he had stepped through. Then it had slid closed behind him, the whirring electric motor stopping when it was in place.

Leaving him standing, staring at the street before him. Cars went past. Quicker than he remembered them, different shapes too, colours, all metallic. Futuristic but recognisable. People walked the pavements. Men, women, old, young. Some still wore suits, but some, mainly the women and the younger ones, wore things he found alien, different. Like clothes from a parallel dimension.

He stared as a couple of women went past pushing babies in chairs. No jackets, just light T-shirts, jeans. They were young, looking better than he remembered. Talking and laughing like the world was a joke.

He watched them go, saw the sway of their hips in their jeans, felt something stir within him. Deep and primal, long-suppressed. Something he had ignored for years. Something else he had told himself didn’t exist. But watching those two women walk up the street, something within him connected.

He kept looking at them. And noticed something odd about their skin …

Tattoos. On their bare shoulders, their arms. The sight of them killed whatever was rising inside him. Loads of prisoners had tattoos. Done to kill boredom. Crudely formed and badly spelled. But these women’s were different. Elaborate swirls. Pictures. Florid, curling writing. Deliberate marking. How much had the world changed that young women needed to mark themselves like that? They couldn’t be as bored as those on the inside. Not with the whole of life around them.

He watched them walk on. Stayed where he was, reluctant to step away from the prison. Not knowing where to go.

Before he left, he had been given an address. A halfway house, a hostel. Somewhere to stay while he got on his feet again, they said. He had the address in his pocket, together with his discharge grant and his travel warrant. He had told them he would go there. He was expected to.

But now, standing there, he didn’t know what to do. Where to go.

The world outside might not be silent and empty. But his head and his heart were. Time had slipped again, twisted. He could have stood there for a few seconds or a few years. He had no way of knowing.

He looked behind him once more. Sixteen years of his life that place had taken. That and others like it. The factory gate was back in position, like it had never moved. Someone else would take his cell, his books, his clothes and toiletries. And he would be gone. Forgotten about. Like the ripples in a pond after a stone hits it. Dying away to nothing.

He shivered, despite the morning’s warmth. The thought depressed him.

Dying away to nothing.

While he was trying to decide where to go, a car pulled up at the side of the road. Tooted its horn. The sudden noise made him jump, but he didn’t move. The horn tooted again, accompanied by a hand waving from inside the car.

Puzzled, he looked behind him, wondering who they were waving at.

The hand beckoned towards the car. He realised the person was gesturing to him.

He took one step forward. The driver nodded in encouragement, beckoned him further. While he was thinking, another car honked its horn. Was that for him too? He looked at the driver. No. He was just frustrated that the first car had parked and that oncoming traffic had stopped his journey from continuing. A line of cars began to appear behind the first one. The driver kept beckoning, insistent now.

Not wanting to be responsible for a traffic jam or for any anger, he walked towards the car.

The driver leaned across, opened the passenger door. He got inside.

‘Well close it, then.’

He did so. Looked at the driver. The driver laughed.

‘Remember me?’

He said nothing.

‘The recognition of friends is not always easy, Doctor … ’ Another laugh. Why had he spoken those words in a terrible Chinese accent?

‘Know where that’s from? Yeah? No. Course you don’t. Never mind.’ The driver looked him over. ‘That all you got?’

He nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘Suit yourself.’

He put the car in gear, flicked a V sign at the driver behind, his eyes flashing angrily, and pulled away from the kerb.

‘I know you. You’re … ’ He struggled to find the name. ‘Jiminy Cricket.’

Jiminy Cricket smiled. ‘Guilty as charged.’

‘Where are we going?’

He laughed. ‘We got a lot to do. But let’s get you sorted first. Don’t worry. Today is the first day of the rest of your life.’ Another laugh. ‘Plenty more where that came from.’

9

Marina’s head spun with more than pain. She listened to the voice, forced herself to understand what it was saying, let the words cut through the white noise in her mind.

‘Josephina … ’ Her daughter’s name gasped out. ‘Where is she? Is she hurt? Where—’

‘Be quiet and listen.’ The voice was sharp, authoritative.

Marina said nothing. Listened. But all she could hear was the rushing of blood in her ears, her breath in her chest, like Niagara Falls had exploded inside her head, gushing and rushing.

‘You have to do something for me. Then you’ll get to see your daughter.’

Marina couldn’t speak. She didn’t trust herself with words.

‘Understand?’

‘Yuh-yes … ’

‘Good.’

‘Why?’

Silence.

‘Why … who—’

‘I told you. Be quiet. Listen.’

She did so. Tried to scan the voice to see if she recognised it. She didn’t. Couldn’t. Didn’t even know if it was male or female.

The voice continued. ‘You’ve got to go somewhere, and do something when you get there. Understand?’

‘Yes … ’

‘Good. In your bag is a book of maps.’

The voice stopped talking. Marina took that as her cue to look for it. She grabbed for the bag on the floor at her side. Rifled through it. There it was. An atlas of Essex.

‘One of the pages is marked,’ said the voice. ‘Open it.’

The book was brand new. One deliberate crease down the spine. She picked it up and it fell open at the marked page. A circle had been drawn in one of the grids. Underneath, a name.

‘Go there.’

‘And … and do what?’

‘Ask for … ’ There was a pause. ‘Tyrell.’

‘And then what? Will Josephina be there? Is she—’

‘Do as you’re told.’ The voice had been neutral until now. But those words were edged with ugly emotion. A sick thrill of control.

‘Where’s my daughter? I want to hear my daughter … ’

‘Just do what you’ve been told.’

Marina searched for words but didn’t know how to respond. She was a criminal psychologist, trained to deal with these kinds of people, an expert on what to say in such situations. But she had only ever dealt with this in an abstract sense, come at it from a position of professionalism. This was happening to her. It was real. Her emotional state was already fractured, her head like a junkyard. And all her training had dissipated like steam off a hotplate.

She had to get a grip, not give in to hysteria. Find a still point somewhere deep within her chaotic mind. Respond like a professional.

‘Why are you doing this?’ She tried to tamp down her emotions, speak in as rational a voice as she could find. ‘To me. Why are you doing this to me?’

There was a pause on the line. Marina could hear the zing of electrostatic, of dead air. She thought the call had been ended and felt helplessness creep up on her once more.

‘Punishment. For the guilty.’

She fought down the rising hysteria and listened. Here was something. Just a small phrase, but something to work with.

‘Guilty? What am I guilty of?’

Nothing. She could hear the person breathing. The breath sounded angry. Much less controlled than the voice itself.

‘Shut up.’ The words hissed. ‘Do as you’re told. If you want to see your daughter alive again.’

‘OK, but—’

‘And tell no one where you’re going, what you’re doing. No one. Because I’m watching you. Even when you don’t think I am, I’ll be watching you. I’m watching you now.’

Marina spun round. So quickly it made her ribs ache, her head spin. She couldn’t see anyone else. She moved to the front of the cubicle, pulled the curtains aside. A couple of nurses were walking past, no one else. Then at the far end of the corridor she saw Anni approaching, coffee in hand.

‘Remember, don’t say anything. Especially not to the policewoman coming towards you.’

Marina’s heart skipped a beat. She couldn’t articulate, couldn’t speak.

She felt the voice smile. ‘Good. Now we understand each other. You’ve got a job to do. Go and do it.’

Marina was left holding a dead phone in her hand.

She snapped herself out of her daze, quickly pocketed the phone and picked up her bag. Felt in her pockets, looked round once more. Car keys. She didn’t have her car keys. She didn’t even have her car. It would still be at Aldeburgh.

She looked round the cubicle. Anni’s bag was still on the floor. Without stopping to think, she bent down and started going through it. Anni’s car keys were near the top. She pulled them out as fast as she could, crossed the cubicle, flung the curtains aside. Anni stood before her, coffee in hand. She jumped back, surprised.

‘Feeling better?’ Then she caught the wild look in Marina’s eyes, took in her tense body language.

Marina started to push past her. ‘I’ve got to go … ’

Anni jumped to the side, fearful of ending up wearing her coffee. ‘Hey … ’

‘I’ve got to go.’ Marina felt light-headed, like the whole world was spinning and she was in danger of falling off. Anni didn’t move. ‘I … I need the toilet … ’

‘I’ll get the nurse to come and—’

‘No.’ Marina saw the look in Anni’s eyes, realised she had been too abrupt. She tried a smile. ‘No, it’s … it’s OK.’

‘You sure? You don’t look—’

‘I can manage.’

‘Well I can help—’

‘I said I can manage.’ She spat the words out.

Anni’s head snapped back like she had been slapped. ‘Fine. OK.’

‘Thank you. Now, I’ve … I’ve got to go.’

She swept past Anni, moving as quickly as she could, trying hard not to break into a run.

The thought of leaving Phil behind ground into her stomach like broken glass.

But the thought of not trying to get her daughter back was even worse.

10

‘Shouldn’t we be doing this somewhere else?’

‘Where did you have in mind?’

Stuart Milton shrugged. ‘I don’t know. The station? Somewhere like that?’

Jessica James sat in the back of her car. She had wanted to go somewhere private, away from the camera crews and reporters who were starting to gather, long lenses pushing over the flapping tape cordon.

‘Here will do,’ she said, and looked at the man sitting next to her.

Stuart Milton’s face and hands still had gravel rash from where he had pulled Marina down to the ground and away from the exploding cottage. His suede jacket was more distressed on one side than the other. He looked, Jessie thought, like the typical middle-aged, middle-class tourist that Aldeburgh attracted. Bet he reads the Guardian, she thought. Bet he goes to Latitude as well.

‘Just want to run through a few things, take a few details. That’s all.’ She had her notepad open, angled away from him so he couldn’t read what she was writing. The action made her aware of the small space in the car, the enforced intimacy. She was also aware of the discarded paracetamol and mint wrappers on the passenger seat. She was sure he had seen them.

‘Run me through it again. What happened.’

He sighed in exasperation. ‘Do I need to do this? I just wanted to see how the woman was.’

‘She’s fine. Thanks to you. So. You were walking down the gravel path at the side of the cottage … ’

‘Yes. And then the explosion happened.’ He stopped talking, put his head back.

She looked at his eyes, tried to see what he was seeing. Tried to ensure that what he was seeing was what had actually happened. Not that she didn’t trust him personally; it was just a habit she had developed. She didn’t trust any witness until their testimony had been independently corroborated.

‘Which direction were you walking in?’

‘The … seafront.’

‘And where had you been?’

‘I’d been towards the Maltings. For a walk. Stretching my legs.’

‘Are you local?’

‘I live … ’ He stopped, looked at her. Face reddening around his grazes. ‘Am I a suspect here? What’s going on?’

‘Just standard questions, Mr Milton. Wouldn’t be doing my job properly if I didn’t ask them. Are you local?’

‘Sort of. I have a weekend home here. I live in London the rest of the time.’

‘And are you married?’

‘Are you asking me out on a date, Detective Sergeant?’

It was Jessie’s turn to redden. She felt his eyes on her. Dark, penetrating. ‘Just wondering if you were here alone.’ Her throat suddenly dry. ‘That’s all.’

‘Right.’ He nodded. ‘No. I’m here with … friends. Work colleagues, mainly. For the music. But it can get a little too much. I needed some time on my own, so I went for a walk.’

‘Right.’ Her turn to nod. In those few words, she saw his life. Weekends in Suffolk, summers in France or Italy, probably. Nights out at the theatre. Not the kind of man she would usually meet. Not many of them in Tiger Tiger in Ipswich.

‘And as you walked past the cottage, the explosion went off.’

‘That’s correct.’

‘And then what?’

‘Well … I was thrown to the ground. There was a … mighty wind, a huge noise, and the heat … ’ He trailed off. Jessie waited. ‘Then I … pulled myself up, opened my eyes. I thought I was dead. That was my first thought. I thought I was dead.’

‘But you weren’t.’

‘No. I got to my feet, checking to see if I was OK. And then this woman came running towards me.’

‘Towards you?’

‘Well, towards the cottage. There were flames coming out of the window by now. Black smoke. And it looked like she was trying to get in there.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘I … stopped her.’

‘By pushing her to the ground?’

‘Pulling her, really. She fought.’ He mimed the action with his hands. ‘Wanted to get in there. Badly. But I couldn’t let her, obviously. So I … I held her. Until she … until she stopped screaming.’

Jessie nodded. Looked at Milton again. His head was lowered, eyes hooded. Reliving the moment, she presumed.

‘Did you see anyone else in the area?’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Anyone near the cottage at the time of the explosion? Apart from the woman you mentioned.’

Stuart Milton frowned, thinking. Eventually he shook his head. ‘No … can’t recall … ’

‘A young girl? About three years old?’

‘No. Is there a girl missing?’

‘We don’t know.’ Jessica thought she’d got everything she would be able to get from him. ‘Well, thank you, Mr Milton, I—’

‘There was something else.’ Stuart Milton was chewing his thumb, worrying away at a tiny nub of skin. His face contorted, as if fighting against the words that wanted to come out.

Jessie waited.

‘She … ’ He sighed. Pulled the skin away from his thumb. Looked at Jessie. ‘When I caught hold of her, she said something.’

‘What?’

He looked down at his thumb once more. A pinprick of blood had appeared where he had bitten it. He sucked on it, hard. ‘Something like … ’ He looked up. ‘“I’ve got to get back in there. What have I done?” … ’ He nodded. ‘Yes. “What have I done?” Something like that.’

Jessie’s mouth was open, ready to make him elaborate, when there was a sharp rap on the window. She looked up. Mickey Philips was standing there, gesturing to her. Urgently.

‘Excuse me,’ she said, and got out of the car, closing the door behind her. Milton’s eyes followed her.

She stood opposite Mickey, waited for him to speak. His face looked drawn, his features tense.

‘I’ve just had a call,’ he said. ‘From a colleague at Ipswich General.’

‘What’s happened?’ The look on his face told her it wasn’t good news. His boss had died? His boss’s mother? Both of them? What a day this was turning out to be.

‘It’s Marina,’ he said. ‘She’s gone.’

‘Gone? What d’you mean?’

‘Taken off. Run away.’

Jessie let out a breath she hadn’t been aware of holding. ‘Thank God. I thought you meant she’d died.’ She frowned. ‘What happened?’

‘She told my colleague she was off to the loo, nipped outside and was away. With my colleague’s car.’

‘Any idea where?’

‘Nope.’

Jessie walked away from the car, arms folded round herself. She looked out to sea. The sun made the day feel like summer. The kind of day where you just wanted to relax and have fun. Pretend there was nothing wrong in the world.

She turned back to Mickey.

‘The witness in the car says she was trying to get back into the cottage. And she said something. “What have I done?”’

Mickey frowned. ‘What?’

‘Sounds like she was blaming herself. D’you think she might be on her way back here? Trying to look for her daughter?’

He shrugged. ‘Anything’s possible. I’ll look into it.’

‘OK. I’ll get the team to keep checking for the daughter. Get the uniforms combing the area. See if anyone’s seen anything. We’ll keep an eye out for the mother, too. Get the reg of the car she’s taken sent to me.’

‘Will do.’

‘Keep in touch.’

Their eyes locked. For longer than she had intended. Then she broke contact, and he nodded, turned, walked away.

Jessie watched him go. She knew a good bloke when she saw one. She turned back to her car to tell Stuart Milton he was free to leave. But the back door was open and he was already gone.

11

Southend-on-Sea hadn’t just seen better days. It had stood at the platform and waved them off, knowing they would never return.

At one time it had been a respectable enough holiday destination for London’s post-war East End families enjoying the novelty of a train ride out to the end of the Thames estuary. The longest pier in the world, fishing for Dad, shopping for Mum, cafés to park the grandparents and a fairground and penny arcades for the kiddies. All knotted handkerchiefs and rolled-up trouser legs, deckchairs and donkeys, sand in the ice cream and stones on the beach.

But nobody came to Southend for a holiday any more. People only went there when they had nowhere else to go.

The pier was still there, stretching out towards a handful of dying souvenir shops at the far end, and beyond that a vista of Canvey Island and beyond that the oil refinery at Shellhaven. The shops were slightly shabbier versions of those found in any generic British high street. The seafront amusements were lit in a way that seemed simultaneously overly bright and depressing. The electronic bleeps and repetitive jingles bleated out like some demented, amphetamine-fuelled Stockhausen symphony. Inside, dead-eyed, white-skinned arcade zombies gave their days and nights over to target practice, racking up high scores as video killers, while in the neon-thrown shadows, feral-featured predators lurked to trap the unwary and the curious.

The fairground had expanded with Alton Towers-like dreams of empire but had contracted under council health-and-safety legislation. Now, out-of-town families trying to enjoy themselves found the local kids scarier than the rides.

The cosy cafés were long gone, but seafront food outlets thrived, serving anything as long as it was fast, fried and fattening.

The tentative appearance of the Good Friday sun had drawn an influx of people to the amusement arcades and bars. Marina passed old, scarred wooden benches outside rundown pubs occupied by tattooed men in vests rolling fags and drinking lager. Laughing with bared teeth and making passes at their friends’ women with a barely restrained undercurrent of violence like their barely restrained attack dogs lying under the tables.

Marina hurried on down the front. Walking fast, breathing heavily. On the surface, controlled.

After leaving the hospital, she had driven straight down the A12 then the A127, not stopping for anyone or anything. Speeding at first, but she had soon stopped that. If the police picked her up, she would be delayed at the very least. Stopped and returned at the worst.

And that would be the last she would see of Josephina.

So she had stayed just under the legal speed limit, heart racing faster than the car’s engine as she drove.

She didn’t know Southend well; had followed the signs for the seafront and parking spaces. She had been about to leap out of the car, but caught her reflection in the mirror. She was a mess. Dried blood and scratches on her face. Hair a dark, tangled mass of scribble. She had done what she could, quickly wiped her face, rearranged her hair; nowhere near what she ordinarily would have done to make herself presentable.

But that was the old her. Living her old life. She was someone new now. Someone different.

She got out of the car, walked along the front. Ignoring the people outside the bars, but feeling eyes on her all the time. Judging. Malicious. Unseen.

And she didn’t want to mess up while those unseen eyes were watching. For her sake.

For her daughter’s sake.

She walked round the corner, away from the front. She had memorised the route from the map she had been given. A grid reference that led to a street. And a name. Coasters.

She kept walking and soon found the street. Away from the front, but its sounds and smells still reached her. Snatches of arcade song and jingle, rollercoaster screaming, the smell of cheap, stale fat. All brought to her senses on the breeze, then just as quickly taken away as the wind veered off, changing direction, like the swooping, scavenging gulls in pursuit of scraps.

She ignored it all. Kept walking.

Coasters was in front of her.

Even among the dive-bar fraternity, she thought, Coasters would be way down the list. A row of single-storey breezeblock buildings faced a scrappy car park full of potholes, broken glass and cars left there purely so the owners could claim on the insurance when the inevitable vandalism happened. Most of the buildings were boarded up. The remaining ones all sported heavy metal bars and mesh on the paint-peeling, filthy windows and metal rollers over the doorways. They variously advertised themselves as a second-hand shop that Marina immediately knew was a fencing operation, a couple of bars, a beauty salon and a tattoo parlour where, if the sun-faded photos in the window were anything to go by, the tattooist had all the artistic skill and flair of a six-year-old child.

She reached the doorway of Coasters. The outside had been painted, none too expertly, a deep purple. White paint had been applied over the top of the rusting bars covering the window. The door was open. Inside, a poster took an inspired approach to spelling and grammar advertising an eighties night. A notice next to it explained that the pub was on two levels but that the seafront bar could only be accessed from the seafront. It was written in such a way that a veiled threat hung over the words for those who ignored the advice.

‘Abandon all hope,’ said Marina quietly to herself, trying to build up her courage to enter, and failing.

She looked at the threadbare, dirty carpet in the doorway. The unmistakable smell of stale alcohol and uncleaned rooms wafted out of the darkness. She could hear voices. Low, conspiratorial. Underneath them the bland, susurrating buzz of a TV announcer. She saw figures moving, shadows against shadows. She felt rather than saw heads turn towards her.

It was the last place on earth she wanted to enter. But Phil came into her mind, lying there unmoving, unreachable … The voice on the phone once more …

And Josephina’s face.

She took a deep breath.

And stepped inside.

12

‘Here we are, then. Home sweet home.’

He looked straight ahead to where a rusty caravan sat on a patch of weedy, barren grass next to a run-down house. There was nothing else around for miles. It didn’t look like home to him.

‘What d’you think?’ Jiminy Cricket said, laughing, as if anticipating applause.

He frowned. ‘I … I’m not supposed to be here. This isn’t where I’m supposed to come to.’

‘Yeah.’ Jiminy Cricket looked irritated. It wasn’t the response he had expected. ‘Don’t worry about that. It’s taken care of.’

‘I have to report. Probation, they said. Signing. Can’t disappear. Can’t just go off like this. On my own.’ He spoke the words like a learned speech.

‘I told you. Don’t worry about it. Now … ’ He turned, made a fanfare gesture towards the caravan. Tried again. ‘What d’you think of your new home?’

He had no idea where he was. The drive had been long. Or it had felt long, because he hadn’t known where he was going. He had looked out of the window but had recognised nothing. There had been a big road, lots of fast-moving, snarling cars. He hadn’t enjoyed that. It had scared him. Then the big road became a smaller one, round a town. He thought he recognised it but wasn’t sure. It had been a long time ago, and he had been a different person then. Something about Romans. An Avenue of Remembrance. He didn’t know what he was supposed to remember. Or forget. It all grew confused in his head.

They drove out of the town and the roads became smaller still. Tight, Jiminy Cricket described them. Closed in. He didn’t think so. They weren’t closed in compared to where he had just come from.

The buildings got further and further apart until they were mostly replaced by trees and fields. There were fewer cars, which should have made it more tranquil. But it didn’t. The open spaces with the huge sky above made him panic. He wanted noise again, more of it.

Eventually they pulled off the road and down a track that was all loose, sharp rocks and holes. The car threw him from side to side as it went down the hill. At the bottom was the stone house. A cottage, he supposed, since he was in the country. It had once been white but now it looked like it wasn’t sure what colour it was. The windows were dirty, paint peeling round them. The front door battered. There were no flowers. Nothing welcoming. An old silver car, long and boxy, was parked at the side.

‘Here we are, then. Out you get.’

He got out. Looked round. The air smelled different here. Salt. Like the sea. He closed his eyes, listened. Heard water. They were near the sea. Or at least a large river. He could hear dogs. The kind that were left outside to bark at anything and everything. And he could hear something else, over the top, a jagged, grating sound carrying on the wind.

‘What’s that? Is that a child crying?’

Jiminy Cricket acted as if he hadn’t heard him.

He tried again. ‘Where are we?’

This time, by way of an answer, his companion smiled.

They had walked round the side of the house and stopped before the caravan. And that was when he was told it was his new home.

He stared at the caravan. The rusting sides, the flat tyres. Filthy windows with horrible, holey curtains that looked they had been chewed. It didn’t look like freedom. It looked like another cell. Like he was still trapped, even under the huge, blue sky.

‘I don’t want to stay here,’ he said, suppressed panic starting to bubble inside him. ‘I need to go.’

He turned, started to walk away. A restraining hand was placed on his arm. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’ A laugh, an American accent, trying to lighten the weight of the words. ‘I need ya, Decks. I need the old blade runner. I need your magic.’

He didn’t know what he was talking about, tried to walk away. ‘Please. I don’t want … to stay here. I want to go.’

The American accent dropped but the hand remained. ‘To where? Some hostel or B and B? Spied on? Made to sign a form every two weeks? That’s what you want, is it?’

He didn’t answer.

‘A hostel. With the paedos, and the murderers. Real murderers, mind, not like you. And the nutters and the psychos.’

‘But … prison was like that.’

‘Yes, it was. But there was a big metal door keeping them out. You think you’ll have that at the hostel?’

He said nothing.

His companion took that for assent. ‘Thought not. No, you’re better off here. And besides, we had a deal.’

‘What?’

‘Remember? All those years ago?’ His companion’s smile widened. Teeth sharp and shark-like. ‘I said that if you played things my way, then you would end up on top. I said that, didn’t I?’

He couldn’t remember. He might have done.

‘I had a plan, didn’t I? Well, it’s just taken a while to put into practice, that’s all. We’ve been playing the long game.’

‘And what … what is this plan? What do I get?’

‘A new life. And revenge. On the people who put you inside. The ones who took your life away. Got your attention now, haven’t I?’

‘But … but how?’

‘You’ll see.’ He gestured to the caravan. ‘Until then, just make yourself at home. Put your feet up.’

He blinked several times in quick succession. Something niggled.

‘But … Probation. I have to sign on. They give me money to live on.’

‘You’ll have money soon. You’ll have everything you need. And more. Millions.’

‘But I … my name. I’ll be … they’ll be looking for me.’

‘You’ve got a new one.’

He stopped blinking.

‘Yes, a new name. You’re going to be a new person. Completely different. A fresh start. How d’you like that?’

He thought. And in that thought, a smile started. He liked that. He liked that very much.

His companion laughed. ‘Thought you would.’

‘Who am I?’

‘Tyrell. Malcolm Tyrell.’

‘Tyrell … ’ Rolling the word round his mouth, seeing if it fitted. ‘Malcolm Tyrell … ’

Jiminy Cricket laughed again and gestured to the caravan. ‘So, Mr Tyrell. Would you like to make yourself at home?’

The dogs kept barking. He could no longer hear the crying child.

He would like that very much.

13

Everyone stared when Marina entered the bar.

She looked round, eyes adapting to the sudden gloom after the brightness outside. The pub was rough and unadorned. It hadn’t fallen on hard times; it had never seen good times. As shadows took substance, she realised that clientele and surroundings were perfectly matched. A handful of men, all watching her. Eyes hard, wary. Items were swiftly swiped from tabletops, hands quickly disappearing underneath. She had been sized up and immediately identified as an outsider. Someone official and unwelcome. Social services. Probation. Police. Or just some wild-haired madwoman wandered in.

She felt like a lone gunslinger entering a Western saloon. If there had been a piano, it would have stopped playing.

Swallowing down nervousness, hoping it wouldn’t crystallise into fear, she walked up to the bar. Placed her hands on the counter. Found it sticky and took them away again.

The barman was big, middle-aged, like an ex-boxer turned to fat. His face was red and badly repaired, his head bald and sweating. He wore a faded Hawaiian shirt over supermarket jeans, and leaned against the till, arms crossed and unmoving. Waiting to see what she wanted and what his customers would do about it. His eyes were hard and flint-like, two sharp stones in a face of red mud. They never left her.

I have to front this, she thought. I have to do it. A mental image of Josephina’s face flashed before her. I can do it. She looked directly at him.

‘I’m looking for Tyrell.’ Her voice came out stronger than expected. She wished the rest of her could match it, and forced her eyes to lock on to his.

The pub had been silent to start with. Now, if anything, it became even quieter. The only sound was the babbling of the Sky Sports presenter on an old, heavy black TV set, tucked away in the corner.

No one paid him any attention. All eyes were on Marina.

She tried again. ‘Tyrell. Is he here?’

The barman’s eyes focused away from her, on someone or something behind her. She turned. Had he been looking at one of the drinkers in the bar? If so, which one? All of them were affecting not to look at her.

She turned back to the barman. ‘Tyrell.’

He found his voice. ‘No one here by that name.’ His voice matched his frame, big and ugly.

Marina felt desperation well within her. ‘Please.’ Her voice caught. ‘Tyrell. Is Tyrell here? I must— please … ’

He leaned on the bar and looked at her. She could see the sweat, feel the heat coming off him. ‘And I said there’s no one here by that name.’

‘I don’t believe you,’ she said, the words out before she could stop them. The barman’s eyebrows rose in surprise. ‘You’re lying to me.’

He stared at her, lost for words. Then a smile spread over his features. ‘Am I, now?’

Marina felt suddenly embarrassed by her outburst. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I was … I was sent to meet someone called Tyrell. He’s supposed to be here. He … ’ She sighed. ‘He must be here.’

‘Listen, love. I know everyone in this bar, and there’s no one called Tyrell here.’

She looked round the bar, scanned every face she saw, looking for truth, a human lie detector. No one was giving anything away. They were either watching the TV or finding their drinks fascinating. One, small and middle-aged, poorly dressed, was staring at Canvey Island through the bar’s tiny, cell-like window like he had never seen it before. They were stuck between wanting to be seen to help a damsel in distress and not wanting to get involved with the madwoman having a meltdown in front of them. She turned back to the barman. ‘Please, there must be … ’

He shook his head. ‘Sorry, love, can’t help you.’

Marina looked round the bar once more. She had never felt so helpless. All her training, her professionalism had gone out of the window. She had squandered whatever advantage she had by her outburst. She ran a hand through her hair and wished Phil was with her. They wouldn’t have lied, wouldn’t have held out on him. They wouldn’t have dared. She decided to give it one last shot. She had nothing to lose.

Her voice dropped so only the barman could hear. She swung her gaze back on him once more. ‘Look. Tyrell is here. He must be here because I was told he was. I have to meet him. It’s very important that I speak to him. Very important. So please let me know which one he is so I can talk to him. Then I’ll not bother you any more. Please.’

‘Listen, darlin’, I would if I could. But I can’t. There ain’t no one here called Tyrell. I don’t know no Tyrell.’ He shrugged as if that was the end of the matter. ‘So there you go.’

Marina felt impotent anger rise within her. The image of Josephina was fading away, hope of finding her going along with it. She made one last attempt. ‘You’re lying. You must be. It’s important. I need to find Tyrell. Please. You have to help me.’

‘I ain’t got to do anythin’, darlin’. ’Cept run this pub.’ He gestured to the meagre display of optics behind him. ‘Gin and tonic?’

She shook her head.

‘Then I think you’d better leave.’

Marina didn’t know where to look, what to think or feel. Or what to do next.

Love Will Tear Us Apart. Her phone. She took it out of her bag, answered it.

‘Step outside,’ the voice said.

Marina did so. The light, the sun and the warmth hit her immediately, causing her to squint. She had forgotten it was still daylight.

‘Well, is Tyrell there?’ the voice said. ‘Have you met him?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘The barman said there was no one there called Tyrell.’

The voice laughed. ‘Quite right too. There isn’t.’

Marina frowned. ‘What?’

‘It was a test. To see if you could follow instructions. Do as you’re told, don’t tell anyone and don’t get tailed. And you can. Good girl.’

Emotions welled once more. Anger. Unease. Desperation. Swirling around, turning her head into a vortex. ‘Where is she?’

No reply.

‘Where is she?’

‘You’ll see her. When you’ve done what we need you to do.’

‘But when will—’

‘We’ll be in touch,’ the voice said.

‘What?’ Marina couldn’t believe what she was hearing. If the phone went dead, she feared that all hope of seeing her daughter went with it. ‘You can’t do this. Please. I did what you asked for, please … ’

‘You’ve done well so far. Don’t spoil it.’

The phone went silent in her hand. She looked round, up and down the street. Checked doorways, passers-by. No one else was about. No one was on the phone.

She was completely alone.

14

‘You took a risk.’

‘And it paid off. I found out what we needed to know.’

She shook her head. That wasn’t what she had meant, and he knew it.

The man who had called himself Stuart Milton sat down beside her on the bed. She had been waiting for him, dressed up as he liked her. All seams, heels, spikes, straps and sheer black see-through. The bed had been prepared with restraints of leather and rope. Tight knots and heavy buckles. Blindfolds and toys. The house slave had been banished to her room. They had been planning a celebration, just the two of them. Now everything had been put on hold.

She knew he was looking at her. Out of the corner of his eye. Taking her in, running his glance up and down, his tongue at the side of his lips, subconsciously licking. She felt stirrings inside her. Despite everything that was going on, she still felt stirrings. And he would be too. Because he could never resist her. She made sure of it.

She didn’t move, just concentrated on her breathing. Looked at herself in the strategically positioned full-length mirror. She still had it. Her hair was still dark, her face unlined. Her skin smooth, tanned to a rich shade of coffee. Her legs looked good, tits firm. She loved to look at herself. It affirmed who she was.

The affirmation and maintenance cost — and not just financially. But it was worth it. All of it.

Her nipples hardened slightly just at the sight of herself.

‘I gave them a false name,’ he said, also looking at her in the mirror.

‘What?’

He paused. A smile curled the corners of his lips. ‘Stuart Milton.’

‘You idiot! What if they—’

‘They won’t. They can’t trace me. Or make a connection. Don’t worry. I acted.’ The smile opened his mouth. It was all sharp teeth. ‘You’d have been proud of me.’

She said nothing. Just kept looking at herself. If she ignored him, that might make him angry. She hoped so.

‘They took her to the hospital,’ he said, voice rising slightly. ‘They haven’t got her. I know that.’

She kept her eyes on the mirror. ‘How do you know?’

‘Because the police told me. They haven’t got her.’

She turned her face towards his. Eyes on his, locked, unblinking. Mouth full and red, like a bruise waiting to flower. ‘Really?’

‘Yes. Really.’ His cheeks were starting to redden. ‘I grabbed her first. Stopped her from going back in. And then … ’ She watched him. Knew he was remembering the explosion. Could almost see the memory reflected on his irises. The flames, the heat … ‘They took her away. Said I’d saved her life.’

‘That wasn’t the plan.’

‘No,’ he said, voice rising once again. ‘I know. But the plan changed. It had to, because … you know. They were there. I had to improvise.’ He placed his hand on her bare arm. Stroked his fingers towards the crook of her elbow. Goosebumps raised themselves where his touch passed. ‘We have to be flexible. Stay with what’s happening. Move with it. It’s quite exciting, really.’

She made no attempt to stop him. Or encourage him. But then she didn’t need to.

‘You should have stuck to the plan.’

He took his hand away, angry now. Stood up, walked away from her. She watched him go, her breath catching in her throat.

‘It’s gone. Everything’s gone. I even lost the car.’

‘You lost—’

‘It went up in the explosion. Don’t worry, it’s not traceable. But everyone else went up too. They must all be dead.’

‘Apart from her.’

He nodded. Conceding a point. ‘Yes. Apart from her.’

‘And the child.’

He turned to her. ‘Yes,’ he said, voice rising once more. But not in anger this time. In triumph. ‘Exactly. The child. And I know where she is.’

‘No you don’t.’

‘Oh yes I do. You know who I saw there. Before the explosion.’ It wasn’t a question, just a statement of fact. ‘And you know what they were doing. Now they’ve got the kid.’

‘Well if they’ve got the kid,’ she said, speaking slowly as though she was explaining a simple point to a particularly backward child, ‘then the mother will have it back soon. And we’ll be no further forward.’

‘Wrong.’ He stood over her. Placed his hand on her chin. Forced her face upwards, made her look up at him. She put up token resistance, but they both knew she would submit eventually. ‘Wrong. Because I dissembled. I seeded.’

‘Tell.’ She licked her lips.

‘I said I’d heard her. Saying it was her fault.’

Something flashed across her eyes. ‘That was risky.’

‘I know. But it worked. Because then I overheard the police talking. They took her to hospital, but she left. They think she’s running.’

‘So she’s on her way to meet them. To get the child back.’

He smiled. ‘D’you think it would be that simple? They’ve got a job for her.’

‘So what do we do?’

‘Obvious. Follow the police. They’ll lead us to her.’

‘And them? How do we take care of them?’

Another smile. All teeth and reflected, glinting, razor light. ‘Send in the Golem.’

Her eyes widened as his words sank in. He took her lack of response as an answer in itself.

‘Exactly. What d’you think of that?’

Her breathing grew heavier.

He continued. ‘If we can’t trace the kid and the police don’t lead us to them through her, the Golem will. So it’s one way or another. And then … ’ he squeezed her jaw in his hand, ‘we’ve got them.’

She felt her stomach start to tighten. Her body temperature to rise. Especially in her groin. Like coiled electric eels, swimming and sparking, trying to find a way out. She kept her eyes on his, opened her mouth slightly. The bruise flowering. He looked down at her, smiled.

There was nothing of the Guardian-reading, middle class aesthete in his features now. The veneer of civility was falling away, leaving something feral, carnal in its place. A primal lust. He let her face drop roughly from his hand. Hurriedly took off his suede jacket. Pulled at the buttons of his shirt.

She lay back on the bed, propped up on her elbows, watching him, her legs slowly opening, breasts rising and falling with her breathing. Wanting him. Wanting what he could give her.

He was soon stripped off and joining her on the bed. She saw straight away how hard he was. She smiled. He moved right in next to her. Pushed against her. Towered over her. She could feel the heat coming off his body.

‘Do you love me?’ Her voice was low, urgent. ‘Do you love me?’

‘Yes … ’ The word was a hiss through clenched teeth.

Her eyes widened, voice dropped lower. ‘Do you hate me?’

He gave a reply that was almost a growl. He grabbed her. Hard.

She needed to hear it. ‘Do you hate me?’

‘Yes … ’ His voice a snarl now.

She smiled. Good. ‘Then show me. Show me. Show me what I mean to you … ’

He straddled her, his thick, muscled legs either side of her, balancing his weight. He drew his right hand back and, eyes locked on eyes, let it go.

The slap caught her firmly on the side of her cheek. Her head whiplashed sharply to the right. She quickly recovered, looked back at him. A face full of pain, eyes full of lust.

‘Again … hurt me … ’

He hit her again. Her cheek reddened, began to swell.

‘Again … ’

He did it again.

And again. Rage and lust driving him on.

She loved him. Like she had never loved anyone or anything before.

He kept at her. Both hands now. Her face, then her body.

She closed her eyes. Lost in pain.

Lost in rapture.

Lost in a special, private love.

15

Marina moved slowly towards the car. A dead woman walking. Her heart was heavier than it had been in a long time; heavier, even, than it might have ever been before.

She opened the door, sat down in the driver’s seat. Put her head against the rest. She heard herself sobbing before she felt the tears on her face. Like something coiled so tight within it could only leave her body in short, jagged bursts. Anger. Pain. Loss. Helplessness.

Josephina. Phil. Don and Eileen. Her life.

Coming in sharp, emotional sword thrusts, every blow a hit, stabbing and wounding.

She clenched her fists. Hammered them against the steering wheel, screaming. Pounding hard, pummelling. No words, just incoherent rage. On and on. On and on. Until there was nothing left within her to come out. Until she no longer had the energy to expel it. Until she was spent. Then she sat, head back, eyes closed, breathing like she had just run a marathon. Empty. Empty and down. Her emotions crashed, burnt out.

But she knew it wouldn’t last for long. The feeling would only be temporary. She would fill up again. The emotions inside her would need another outlet. They had to. What had happened to her was so huge, such a seismic shift in her life, that there would be no alternative.

She just hoped she would be able to cope.

Love Will Tear Us Apart.

She scrambled for her bag, thrown carelessly on the passenger seat. Began pulling things out, littering the cramped interior. She found the phone, held it to her ear, answered the call.

‘Hello … hello … ’ Her voice high, shrill. She swallowed hard, tried to cap the desperation rising inside her. ‘Hello?’

‘Good girl.’ The voice again. That same voice.

Marina said nothing. Waited.

The voice said nothing either.

Marina had to break the silence. ‘Where is she? Where’s Josephina?’

‘All in good time.’

‘I want to talk to her. Hear her voice … ’

‘Not yet. You’ve still got … there’s something you still have to do.’

Desperation welled. A wave of impotent rage swept her body, her legs and feet tingling, her toes curling. ‘But … please, let me talk to my daughter.’ Silence. ‘Please … ’

More silence. She heard a rustling in the background. Muted voices, hushed tones. Nothing she could make out. Then eventually: ‘Not yet. You still have something to do for us.’

Marina felt the tears threaten once more. She didn’t know if she had the energy to cope with them. ‘What … Tell me and I’ll do it.’ Her voice defeated.

‘Put this into your sat nav.’ It was a postcode. ‘Now go there. You’ll be given instructions.’

She tried to reassemble her thoughts. Regain her training. ‘Why are you doing this?’ she asked. ‘Look, let’s talk. What’s … what’s your name?’

The voice gave a bitter laugh. ‘Don’t try all that psychological profiler bullshit on me. You can forget that.’

‘But—’

‘Just go.’

She no longer had the strength to argue.

‘And the same rules apply. No police. No one else. No traces. You’ve done well so far. Don’t spoil it now.’

‘And then … and then can I see my daughter?’

‘If you’re a good girl and you do what we want.’

‘Please, don’t … don’t hurt her. Don’t hurt her. Please … ’

The phone went silent.

Marina had never felt more alone in the world.

She placed the phone on the passenger seat, perched on the summit of the mountain of debris she had taken from her bag. Put the car in gear, left the car park.

Kept one eye on the phone all the time, just in case it rang. Willing it to ring while she drove.

It didn’t.

16

It was another characterless corridor in another hospital. Mickey Philips should have been used to them by now, but he wasn’t. And in a way he was quite thankful for that.

Over the years, from uniform to plain clothes, he had sat in countless plastic chairs drinking awful brown liquid, and staved off boredom by reading and rereading posters full of stern advice. Advice he forgot instantly in the relief of leaving the hospital. But now, sitting in another plastic chair, nursing another plastic cup of unspecified brown liquid, all those years came back to him.

Waiting for car crash victims to come round and see what parts of their anatomies, their minds, they had lost in the process. Having to tell them they were lucky to be alive. Seeing the look in their eyes saying they didn’t share his opinion.

Waiting for women whose husbands had turned their homes into war zones and used them as punchbags and target practice to come through surgery. Seeing if the latest tactical round of tough love had made them brave, given them the courage to press charges and break away to a new start, end the war and win the peace. Or left them wilting and broken, giving their nominated murderer one more chance, because he really did love them.

Waiting while injured children were opened up and operated on, watching every single solid belief the parents had built up about the world and their place in it shown up for the lie they were. Their life’s guarantee torn up and no one to complain to about it.

Mickey had sat there every time and hoped their heartache wouldn’t infect him. But this time was different. This time he was the grieving friend, the anxious relative. Looking up every time a nurse or doctor walked past. Asking them what was happening, knowing he would only get an answer when there was one to give. Knowing he had to wait like everyone else.

And it was his boss. His boss. Getting in this state about his boss. He couldn’t believe it. Then he thought about it, and could well believe it.

Phil Brennan was more than just a boss to Mickey. Where others in the force had seen only a bull-headed borderline fuck-up, Phil had seen something special and given him a chance. And Mickey hadn’t let Phil — or himself — down. Or he had tried his best not to. Phil had encouraged him, nurtured him. Brought out things in him he didn’t know were there. Made him the best DS he could be. And feeling valued, working as part of Phil’s MIS team — the Major Incident Squad — for the first time in his career, his life, Mickey had felt like he truly belonged. So to Mickey, Phil was more than his boss. He was one of his own. Closer than family.

The double doors at the end of the corridor opened. In strode a stocky, compact man. Red hair, red face. Early forties. Wearing a weddings-and-funerals suit, but under duress and clearly uncomfortable in it. He looked like a retired rugby player but one who could still surprise with a quick burst of speed or a bout of aggression.

DCI Gary Franks. Phil’s — and Mickey’s — new boss.

He reached Mickey, stopped.

‘So, what have we got, then?’ His Welsh accent as vivid as his red hair. ‘How’s our boy?’

Mickey stood up, ditched his plastic cup in a nearby bin, grateful to be relieved of the pressure of drinking it. ‘Still the same. In surgery.’

‘Chances?’

Mickey shrugged. ‘Pretty good, they say. If they can … you know.’ His features darkened. ‘Better than his father’s.’

Franks nodded. ‘Bloody waste. His father gone like that, his mother hanging on … Any word on the daughter?’

‘Nothing.’ The words seemed reluctant to leave Mickey’s mouth. Forensics are on the scene. They’re thinking if she was right near the blast, it could have … ’ He trailed off.

Franks nodded. ‘But they’re not sure.’

‘They’ve got uniforms on door-to-door. She’s prioritised. If anyone’s seen her, they’ll find out.’

‘And Marina?’

Mickey had opened his mouth, about to tell him what had happened, when DC Anni Hepburn arrived. Out of breath, perspiring. Chest rising and falling rapidly, her dark skin covered by a thin sheen of sweat. Mickey, despite the situation, couldn’t help stealing an admiring glance at her. Or several. She caught them. The sides of her mouth flicked up in response, then it was back to work.

Mickey and Anni had been dancing around each other for months. Both of them clearly attracted to the other, neither wanting to make the final push. In case something were to go wrong and a good friendship — not to mention a great working relationship — was lost. But the attraction was there. It crackled in the air between them like invisible static.

‘Just the person,’ said Mickey.

‘Sorry, got here as quick as I could,’ said Anni, taming her breathing.

Franks turned to her. ‘Marina?’

Anni looked at Mickey, as if unsure whether to continue. Mickey returned the look. She had no choice.

‘She’s gone,’ Anni said.

‘What d’you mean?’ said Franks. ‘Gone where?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Anni. Cautious.

MIS didn’t have a good history with its recent DCIs. But Franks, blunt and straightforward, honest to the point of offensiveness, seemed different. He had been brought in to give stability, to ground the team. He hadn’t been in place long, but they had all taken to him. Even started to respect him. And the respect was mutual.

Franks gave her a look that would have terrified the Pontypool front row.

‘She’s taken my car.’

Franks frowned. ‘What happened?’

‘She told me she was going to the loo, and off she went.’

‘And you just let her go.’

‘What could I do?’

He kept staring. Mickey could see Anni becoming uncomfortable. ‘What state was she in?’ he asked.

‘How d’you think?’

Franks didn’t respond.

‘But she’s one of the team,’ Anni said. ‘One of our own. Maybe she’ll come back.’

‘You think it’s likely?’ asked Franks.

‘I’m going after her,’ said Mickey. ‘I just called in here to see if there was anything she’d left that I could pick up. But there isn’t.’

‘And she hasn’t contacted either of you?’

They both shook their heads.

‘There was one other thing,’ said Mickey.

The other two waited.

‘An eyewitness at Aldeburgh. The guy who stopped Marina going back inside the cottage. DS James from Suffolk said he told her that when Marina was trying to get back to the cottage, she started shouting, “What have I done?”’

Silence. Franks looked at him long and hard.

‘“What have I done?” You sure of that?’

Mickey nodded.

‘It could mean anything,’ said Anni. ‘Perhaps she blamed herself, thought she’d, I don’t know, left the gas on or something.’

‘Did she mention that to you?’

‘No,’ said Anni. ‘Nothing like that.’

‘“What have I done?” … ’ Franks was again lost in thought. He looked up, back at his two junior officers. ‘You’ve both worked with her longer than me. What d’you think?’

‘You mean you suspect her?’ said Anni. ‘You think she’d deliberately blow her own family up?’

Franks shrugged. ‘Would she?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Definitely not.’

Mickey agreed.

Franks nodded. ‘Running always means guilt.’

‘Not always, sir, just usually,’ said Mickey.

‘Ninety nine per cent of the time,’ said Franks. ‘In this case, it’s the only thing we have to go on. And since she’s not around, we can’t ask her.’ He looked up and down the hall. Mickey watched his eyes, his face. Got the impression that Franks shared his feelings about waiting in hospitals.

‘Right. This is still Suffolk’s call and we can’t be seen to be treading on their toes. They’re looking into what happened at the cottage, they’re looking for the daughter. But … ’ Franks pointed at Mickey, ‘I want you looking for Marina. And even though it pains us to admit it, with no one else in the picture and her doing a runner, it looks like she’s got some serious questions to answer.’ He turned to Anni. ‘Stay here for now. See what you can get from Phil Brennan or his mother when they come round.’

The three of them fell silent. No one daring to substitute ‘if’ for ‘when’.

‘I’ll call this … DS James?’

Mickey nodded.

‘James, right. See if he can question the witness again. Find out anything else.’

‘She,’ said Mickey.

‘What?’ said Franks.

‘She,’ said Mickey again, swallowing. ‘DS James is a woman.’

He was aware of Anni’s eyes on him. He didn’t dare look at her.

‘She it is,’ said Franks.

He looked off down the corridor, then back to them. ‘Somewhere down there,’ he said, his voice rumbling, ‘is an operating theatre. And in that theatre, surgeons are trying to save the life of one of my best officers. I haven’t been here long, but that doesn’t mean I don’t recognise good coppers when I see them. That’s what you all are. Bloody good coppers. And I can’t afford to lose any of you.’

Mickey and Anni said nothing.

‘So get out there and find out who did this. That explosion was deliberate. We’re looking for a murderer. And I’m going to make sure that whoever they are — and I mean whoever — is caught and punished. They made a mistake. They targeted one of our own.’ He placed his hands on both of their shoulders. ‘Our own. And we’re not going to stand for that.’ He straightened up. Dropped his hands. ‘Off you go.’

He didn’t have to say any more.

They turned and went.

17

With its pitched roof, bland colour and rows and rows of tiny, barely opening windows, the hotel looked like a prison. All it needed was brick walls and razor-wire-topped fences surrounding it.

The female voice of the sat nav, calm, clear and unruffled, announced that Marina had reached her destination. She pulled the car into the car park, turned off the ignition. Waited.

While she was driving, she had started to entertain the hope that her journey would lead to something different. An end. Being reunited with her daughter. Going home once more. She knew this hope was forlorn, that there was no real chance of it happening. Whoever was doing this wouldn’t let it happen yet. But once the idea had started to form, the rational part of her mind hadn’t been able to stop it. It had grown and grown until, following instructions, she had pulled off the A120 into the car park of the anonymous chain hotel. And then realised that she wasn’t going to be reunited with her daughter. Not now.

Not ever.

That thought struck her almost physically. Razor-sharp knives plunged right through her flesh, scraping bone. No. She couldn’t think that. Wouldn’t allow herself to think that. If she did …

No. Don’t.

And then there was Phil, lying unconscious in a hospital bed. She yearned to be near him. To hold him, hear his voice. Something else she might never do again.

She thought of phoning the hospital, finding out how he was. Her fingers even made it to the keypad. But she stopped herself. They might trace the call. And she would never see her daughter again. They might still be watching. And she would never see her daughter again. So she didn’t do it.

She checked the sat nav. Hoped — that word again — that she had entered the postcode wrongly. Taken a wrong turn, made a mistake. No mistake. This was where she was supposed to be.

The hotel had been well chosen. At the intersection between the A120 linking Essex to Hertfordshire and the Braintree turnoff, it sat by itself, the surrounding area undeveloped. A beacon of blandness in a desert of nothing.

But, from the road above, easy to spy on. Easy to watch.

She looked out of the window, scanned the car park for anyone suspicious, anyone she could claim as her nemesis, her reason for her being there. It was virtually empty. The hotel was mainly used by business travellers stopping over. Tourists would never venture there. Especially not on a Good Friday evening.

Sodium lamps were coming on, giving the car park a hazy, crepuscular feel. The cars were dark, shiny blobs against the encroaching darkness, insects gathered together to sleep.

She sighed. Thought of her husband. Her daughter. Felt like her insides had been scooped out, burned hollow by acid.

Love Will Tear Us Apart.

She quickly grabbed the phone. ‘Yes?’

‘You got here all right? Traffic was good?’

In such a short space of time she had come to hate that voice. Mocking. Laughing. Toying with her. Her hand began to shake as she gripped the phone. ‘Where is she? Where’s my daughter?’

‘She’s safe. For now. As long as you do what I … ’ An intake of breath. A pause. ‘ … what we tell you to.’

Anger rose once more in Marina. Impotent. Hot. ‘What? What d’you want me to do? Tell me. I’ll do it.’

‘Get a good night’s sleep first. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.’

‘What?’

The voice sighed. Like it was explaining something really simple to someone even simpler. ‘Rest. Sleep. We want you all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for tomorrow.’

‘How can I sleep? With all this going on, with what you’ve … you and my daughter … ’

The fire went out of her. She felt suddenly tired. So tired, it was an effort to even hold the phone to her ear.

‘Finished? Good. Go into the hotel, get a room. There’ll be plenty free, it’s Easter. People will be at home with their families, asking why everything has to close early and the telly’s such shit just because Jesus found himself on the business end of a bit of botched DIY. And wait for the call.’

She said nothing.

‘You still there?’

‘I’m still here,’ said Marina.

‘That’s the spirit. We’ll all get on so much quicker if you toe the line.’

Marina felt as though lead weights were holding her down.

‘Have dinner. Sleep. Breakfast. And a shower. I’d recommend a shower. Then tomorrow the work starts in earnest.’

Marina sighed. She could feel bars all round her. Everything was a cage.

‘And Marina … don’t think about escaping. Or phoning your cop friends for help. Or telling anyone in the hotel what’s going on. We’re watching you. All the time.’

The line went dead.

She threw the handset down on to the passenger seat. Not in anger, just resignation. Then picked it up again, put it in her bag.

She got out of the car, crossed to the hotel.

Ready for a sleepless night.

18

The gym was one of a dying breed. The men inside it too.

Its doorway was down an old, decaying street in Bethnal Green, east London. The surrounding streets had fallen to creeping gentrification, as moneyed next-generation trustafarian bohos and City workers alike made like urban explorers and bought up property. This street had staved off those advances, but crumbling brickwork and increasing rental costs meant that it too would soon be gone. And the gym, its bare brick walls running with condensation, its stripped wooden floors suffused with decades of sweat, would be gone too. An ad agency, perhaps. A marketing company. A coffee shop.

The boxing ring was still in use. Two lean-framed teenagers danced round each other in vests and shorts, heads and hands padded, concentration fixed. Their trainer shouting instructions from the sidelines. Along the side of the room, the free weights were being used, the bags being hit. Boys and men, their skins all shades from pasty white to rich dark brown, worked the room. No trouble. Just the camaraderie of contained aggression.

But not in the basement. The regulars, the punters, never got to go down there. Never had need to. Because there was a different kind of aggression going on below. Not contained, no rules. A room for hire. Soundproofed. Where payments could be made and scores settled. For a price.

Mike Dillman knew all about that. He’d known Lisa was a handful when he met her. That was why he had married her. She was fiery, loud. Quick to anger and ready to fight. He loved that about her. Because it also made her a fantastic fuck. But there was a down side. She got hugely jealous. He just had to look at another woman for her to kick off. And Mike had done more than just look. Often. Now, sitting on a chair in the centre of this room, he wished he’d kept his eyes and hands to himself.

He felt dead. His arms tied behind his back, his legs tied to the legs of the chair. His shirt open. He felt blood running down his face, pain all over, like his body had been wired into the mains.

And there was Lisa, standing in front of him, sweating hard. Bloodied heavy metal glistening on her fists. Chest heaving, eyes shining with a primal light. She looked beautiful. He would give her that.

Behind her, a bored man in a suit sitting on a chair with a porn magazine open on his lap looked at his watch.

‘That it, then?’ he said. ‘You done?’

Lisa shook her head, checked the clock on the wall. ‘Got another quarter of an hour yet. Paid for it. Got to use it.’

The bored man shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’ Went back to studying his magazine.

Lisa looked down at Mike. The hatred in her eyes, the rage. Beautiful. When she got like this, the sex afterwards was always brilliant. He still wanted her, even after what she’d done to him.

‘Learned your lesson?’ she shouted. ‘Still want to go fucking around with other women? Have you, Mike? Need reminding who you’re married to?’

‘Yeah,’ he managed to gasp in a voice he didn’t recognise as his own. ‘I’m sorry. You’ve … you’ve made your point an’ I won’t do it again. Let’s … let’s go home … ’

Lisa nodded, pulled her fist back, brought it quickly forward, connecting with his chin. His head went back, blood and spit flew. Jesus Christ, that hurt. Not as much as the last time, though, he noticed. She was getting tired. Her aggression running out like her time.

She stepped back. Head to one side, she studied him.

‘That’s it,’ she said, not turning. ‘I’m done.’

Mike looked up. ‘I’m sorry … Let’s … Get me up an’ we’ll … we’ll say no more about it, yeah?’

Lisa walked away, ignoring him.

The suited man stood up, threw her a towel. ‘Go get yourself cleaned up. We’ll finish off in here.’

Mike Dillman watched her leave the room, puzzled. The man put his magazine on the chair, looked at the beaten man before him. ‘Shouldn’t mess around, should you?’ he said. Not judgementally, just as a matter of fact. ‘Look where it gets you.’

‘Yeah,’ said Mike. ‘Won’t do it again.’ He tried to move his arms. They hurt. He looked at the man, tried to focus through swollen eyelids. ‘You … you let me out now, yeah?

‘Just got the cleaning up to do,’ said the suited man, crossing into the shadows. He gestured. A shadow detached itself from the back wall, stepped forward. Mike’s ruined face managed to register surprise.

And fear.

The shadow moved forward. It was a huge man, hair cropped short, wearing a T-shirt and jeans tucked into boots. His size was impressive, but that wasn’t what had drawn Mike’s attention. It was his skin. He was the colour of smoke, of shadow. He was grey.

‘Who’s … who’s that?’

‘We call him the Golem,’ said the suited man, his voice businesslike. ‘You’ll call him the last person you’ll see on this earth.’

The man’s words registered. Mike began to shake, his earlier pain gone, the need to get away, to live now his only thought. He heard screaming, shouting. Realised it was him. Did it some more.

‘Sorry, mate,’ said the suited man. ‘Out of my hands. She paid for the works. She has a go at you first, then we get rid of you. No point screamin’ either. This place is soundproofed. Take it like a man, eh?’

The Golem advanced. Mike screamed.

The Golem reached out. Then stopped as a ringing sound filled the air.

Oh thank God, thought Mike. Thank God …

The suited man frowned. The Golem reached into his jeans pocket.

‘I have to take this,’ he said, pulling out a phone and looking at the display. He spoke heavily accented English.

He put the phone to his ear, waited. Mike stared at him, mouth open, breath held.

‘Now? … Where? … Fee? … ’ He nodded. ‘Good.’ Pocketed the phone.

‘Don’t want to hurry you, mate,’ said the suited man, ‘but we got another one in at seven.’

‘No trouble,’ said the Golem with his heavy accent. ‘Take seconds.’

‘No,’ said Mike, ‘no, no, no … ’

The Golem reached out, wrapped a huge hand round his neck. Mike stared into his eyes, expecting to see … something. Anything. His life flash before him. He saw nothing. Just empty grey pools.

No, he thought, this isn’t fair. I can’t … no. This isn’t the way my life ends. It can’t be … I’ve—

A quick snap and it was done. Mike Dillman was gone. The Golem straightened up, turned away. ‘You clean up,’ he said as he passed the suited man. ‘He has pissed and shit.’

The Golem disappeared into the shadows. The suited man watched him go. Then he crossed to the centre of the room, began to clean up.

As he reached for the broom, he noticed that his hands were shaking.

A lot.

19

DS Jessica James checked her notebook once more. Looked up. Back to the notes. This wasn’t right, she thought.

She looked at the house in front of her, expecting it to match up to the one she had pictured in her head. It didn’t. Old, she had thought, but well maintained. Perhaps wooden or clapboard, with charm and character. Idiosyncratic even, but speaking of money and taste. Probably in a stylishly understated manner. Blue and white pottery on the windowsill.

The house before her was nothing like that. It was old, yes, but poorly maintained. The wooden window frames were flaking paint, rotting round the glass. The once white front was now a mottled, mildewed green. The path to the door was broken concrete, weeds sprouting unchecked through the cracks.

Not the kind of house she had expected Stuart Milton to live in.

DCI Franks had phoned her while she was on her way here. She hadn’t minded; in fact she had expected it. Would have done it herself if the positions had been reversed. He wasn’t trying to tell her her job, he had said, and from the tone of his voice she had believed him. He just wanted to check how the investigation was proceeding and see if there was anything he could do to help.

‘Like what?’ she had asked.

There came a noise down the phone. She imagined him puffing out his cheeks and blowing air. This, along with the gruff Welsh roll of his voice, gave her the mental image of a bull. ‘Anything really,’ he had said. ‘Background, stuff you want to run by me, support, you name it.’

‘I already told—’ She stopped herself. Unsure whether Mickey Philips had told his boss that he had come along to help. She suspected Franks knew, but she didn’t want to be the one to tell him, just in case he didn’t. She didn’t want to get Mickey into trouble. ‘I’ve got a team out looking for the missing girl. We’ll be following up any leads. I think we’ve got everything covered,’ she had said. ‘But if I need anything, you’ll be the first to know.’

‘Appreciate it.’ Franks sounded genuine enough. He paused. For all the gruffness, there was a quality in his voice that she found appealing. Eventually he spoke. ‘Marina, Marina Esposito, she’s gone. Left the hospital. Did you know?’

‘I had heard.’

‘Walked out. We need to find her. She’s in a fragile state of mind.’

‘I can imagine. I’m off to re-interview the eyewitness who was with her. Something he mentioned got me thinking. I’ll see if he can add anything else.’

Stuart Milton’s testimony hadn’t quite rung true. Something niggled and she didn’t know what. When she had run the conversation back in her mind, she could find nothing wrong with it. He had seemed like a perfectly credible witness. He had stopped Marina from re-entering the burning cottage, and had the grazes to prove it. But there was something not right about him. Copper’s intuition, she had thought. The fact that he had disappeared from the car just confirmed it. Or at least deepened her suspicions of him.

‘Good idea, DS James. Keep me posted.’

She said she would, and cut the call.

It was only afterwards that she realised Franks hadn’t pressed her on what Stuart Milton had said. That meant he was either a bad copper, which she doubted, or he already knew. That was more likely. At least she didn’t have to worry about keeping Mickey’s involvement quiet.

Jessie looked round, up and down the terrace. She wouldn’t have said Aldeburgh had any mean streets until she came here. She stepped up to the door, knocked on it. There was a bell, but she doubted it was working.

She waited. Was about to knock again when she heard someone making their way towards the door. Slowly, like they were dragging something.

The door opened. A man stood there. Definitely not Stuart Milton. He wore tracksuit bottoms and carpet slippers. An old fraying vest with ingrained stains; on top of that an open shirt with a faded print. His hair was greasy, and although he wasn’t fat, his frame looked loose and flabby, like his body had lost a lot of weight but hadn’t told his skin.

‘Yeah?’ He was breathing heavily, like he’d just finished a marathon.

Jessie held up her warrant card. ‘DS James, Suffolk Police. I’m looking for Stuart Milton. Is he in?’ She’d guessed the answer to the question before she had even asked it.

His eyes turned away from her, unreadable. ‘Who?’ Said in a rasping voice.

Jessie glanced behind the man into the hallway. It was dimly lit, which hid the poor state of the decor. A little. Against the gloom she made out the frame of a wheelchair, the outline of an oxygen bottle. She didn’t need to be a detective to work out that the man had severe respiratory problems. Fatal, even, from the sound of him.

She persisted. ‘Stuart Milton. I spoke to him earlier. This was the address he gave me.’

His eyes closed. Once more, she couldn’t read them. ‘There’s … no one here … by that … name … ’ He began wheezing, gripped the door for support. The wheeze threatened to turn into a rumbling, racking cough.

Cancer, thought Jessie. Lung cancer.

He made to close the door. It was clearly an effort.

‘Can I just describe him to you? I won’t take up much of your time.’

He said nothing. She took that as an invitation and described Stuart Milton.

As she spoke, the man’s expression changed slightly. Jessie thought she caught a flash of recognition flit across his eyes. He might even have smiled. She stopped talking. ‘You know him?’

The man shook his head. ‘No … ’

‘Sure?’

‘I said no, didn’t I?’ There was anger behind his words. It threatened to bring on another coughing fit.

‘I won’t take up any more of your time, then. Mr …?’

He just looked at her.

‘I didn’t get your name.’

‘Didn’t … give it … ’

‘Mr?’ She waited.

He’d obviously realised he wouldn’t get rid of her until she had his name. ‘Hibbert. Jeff, Jeffrey … Hibbert.’

‘Thank you, Mr Hibbert. I’ll be on my way now.’

She turned and started back down the path. The door closed behind her. She heard the deferred bout of coughing start, even through the closed door. It sounded like he was trying to cough up his insides.

She walked away.

The evening was gathering, the sky darkening. She should be getting ready to hit the town with her girlfriends for their regular Friday night out. Easter or no Easter. But she didn’t want to.

Stuart Milton, who doesn’t exist. Jeff Hibbert, who says he doesn’t know him but probably does.

This is getting interesting, she thought.

20

Tyrell couldn’t relax.

He had tried sitting down. He had tried standing up. Then walking round. First one way, then the other. But nothing worked. Nothing made him feel at ease.

He thought the caravan might have helped. It reminded him of his cell. Small and cramped, it smelled bad, even with the windows open, like the ghosts of previous tenants were still lingering. Everything was worn, overused, and nothing was truly his; he was just using it until the next occupant replaced him.

But he couldn’t settle, and he thought the caravan, far from helping, was actually working against him, sending his emotions in the opposite direction.

He had spent the hours alone since Jiminy Cricket had left him there. No one had talked to him or looked in on him. That was OK. He was used to spending time in his own head. He had spent years there. But this felt different. He had decided to try and work out why.

It wasn’t the space. That much he knew. It wasn’t the view. He had been able to look out of his cell window. And now it was dark, anyway. The lack of noise? Perhaps. There had been plenty of noise in prison. Men locked up behind thick, soundproofed metal doors should have been silent. But prisons weren’t silent places. He had lost count of the nights he had lain awake on his bunk trying not to listen to men screaming and crying. Blubbering and bargaining. Then the other voices, weak but trying to be strong. Shouting at the screamers. Sing us a song. Tell us a joke. Give us a poem. A life story. Laughing, promising what would happen if they did. And what would happen if they didn’t.

At first he had tried to match the voices with the faces the next morning. Pick them out. But he soon gave up on that. Because while he was doing it to them, they were doing it to him. And he didn’t want anyone working out his daytime talking voice from his night-time crying one.

Sometimes he doubted he would be able to sleep without the noise. And there was hardly any noise here.

Apart from the child.

He had heard it when he arrived. Asked about it. Where was the child, why was it crying? No reply. And then it had stopped and he had stopped thinking about it. Began to doubt he had even heard it. Not outside, anyway. For real. Just inside his head. He could always hear things inside his head. And was always being told they weren’t real.

So he had ignored it. Let it go. Kept his mind blank, which wasn’t hard. They had given him medication to help in prison. Tablets that took his headaches away and made him forget. Traded a head full of needles for a head full of fog. But it wasn’t always his head that hurt, he told them. Sometimes it was his heart. But he couldn’t remember why. And that made it worse. Forgetting was better.

Prison. Even that was starting to slip away. How long had he been out? One day? More? Less? No. One day. He was sure. Because he hadn’t slept in the caravan yet. He would have remembered waking up there.

Prison was a room like this. Prison was someone feeding him three meals a day. Prison was walking in a square. Prison was classrooms and workshops. Prison was books. Prison was living inside his own head. Prison wasn’t this. Prison didn’t have a door he could open.

And that was what unsettled him.

He could get up, cross the floor of the caravan and open the door. Step out any time he wanted. No one had to do it for him. He didn’t have to wait for special times. He could just get up and do it himself.

But he didn’t. Couldn’t.

Hadn’t.

He looked again at the door. The handle. Both thin metal. Easy to open. One turn. A push. And out.

He kept staring at the door. And felt himself rise to his feet. Like an unseen force was pulling him upright and moving him towards it. Like a horror film zombie in a voodoo trance.

He crossed the floor of the caravan. Reached the door. Put his hand out. Held it over the door handle. Not touching, but he could feel it, sense it. Waves of energy came off it towards his hand. Willed him to grasp it, turn it …

He took his hand away. Let it drop by his side. He couldn’t do it. Not after all this time. Not after …

His hand reached out again. Again he felt that force around his fingers. And again he let his hand drop by his side.

He sighed. Turned. Crossed the caravan again. Was about to sit down when he heard something.

The child crying once more.

Tyrell stopped. Looked round. It was coming from outside. From the house beside the caravan. He hadn’t imagined it. The crying was real.

He turned back towards the door. Held out his hand. Let it drop.

The child kept crying.

He felt something in his mind. Some trigger. Long ago and out of reach of his memory. Something in the fog. It was about a child. A small child. A night-time crying voice. In his head. His heart. Buried deep. Way deep. And every time he wanted to make it stop. Had to find a way to make it stop. To give it rest.

The child kept crying.

He reached out for the handle. His heart was hammering, his legs shaking.

He gripped the handle.

He could feel the blood pumping in his head. Hear it in his ears. It nearly blocked out the child. Nearly, but not quite.

He tightened his grip. Took a deep breath. Another.

Turned the handle.

And stepped outside.

21

Marina couldn’t sleep. Out of all the things that had happened to her that day, this was the least surprising.

The hotel was recently built and virtually deserted. No Good Friday business overnights. Muzak echoed round beige hallways. Marina wondered how somewhere so new could feel so haunted.

She sat on the edge of the bed, perched, ready to jump, unable to relax. She pointed the TV remote, flicked round the channels, looking for news of her daughter, her husband. A comedy panel show she had previously found funny was now just irritating and arch. Flick. A big-budget Hollywood blockbuster with last-second stunt escapes from explosions. Flick. A contemporary musical retelling of Jesus’s crucifixion with stage-school kids pretending to be urban. Flick. The news. She watched, flinching, like she was expecting a punch. Nothing.

She dropped the remote on the bed. Lay back and stared at the ceiling, despair eating her up from inside, and thought about her family.

Until she met Phil, until they had Josephina, she had believed family to be something to escape rather than embrace. The nuns who taught her at school had told her that it was the most important thing a person could have in their life. Marina had sat there, not daring to speak up for fear of being hit again, but thinking: Really? You haven’t met mine, then.

Her father, a lying, bullying, cheating, alcoholic wife-beater who had walked out on the family when she was seven, returning occasionally to spread his particular brand of anguish and upset. Her mother, more punchbag than person. And her two brothers, who, when she had last seen them, seemed to be doing their best to emulate their father’s life and work.

But the nuns, for all their fierce attempts to impart to her a love of Jesus Christ with whatever instrument of punishment the law would allow, physical or otherwise, had at least done one thing right. Spotted her intelligence.

A scholarship had taken her from secondary school in Balsall Heath, Birmingham, to Cambridge, where she studied psychology. Revenge on her father was how she regarded it at the time. Trying to understand why he was the way he was and did what he did. Marina had inherited his dark Italian looks and sometimes, she feared, his temper. At the back of her mind the course might have been a way for her to understand herself. Or how to not turn out like him.

Her mother had died of cancer before she could see her daughter graduate, something Marina always regretted. But she knew in her heart that her mother had been proud of her.

Her brothers less so. The last she had heard of the elder, Lanzo, he was doing time for a string of robberies on petrol stations in Walsall, with no imminent release date.

Her other brother, Alessandro, had contacted her recently. Now living in Jaywick, Essex, he had suggested they go out to dinner. She hadn’t wanted to respond, but Phil, having no siblings of his own, insisted she make the effort.

They met for dinner in the Warehouse, a brasserie in Colchester. As soon as Alessandro entered, Marina knew it was a mistake. He had brought with him a woman who was dressed as if for the late shift in a seedier copy of Spearmint Rhino, and as soon as he found out what Phil did for a living, he cursed him fluently in two languages.

The meal never reached dessert.

Alessandro had phoned a couple of days later and apologised. Said he was under a lot of stress, shouldn’t have said what he did. Wanted her to know he was there for her, his little sister, whatever she needed. Wanted to try again.

Marina had never phoned him back.

Phil and Josephina. That was her family. And she had never felt a stronger need to see them than the one inside her now.

She got up off the bed, fighting back tears, screams. She could see them both in her mind’s eye. Phil, tall, blond and good-looking; Josephina, with her dark curls and wide eyes, taking after her. She wished they were together, wished she could touch them, hold them, tell them what they meant to her. She felt her body start to slip into emotional meltdown once more, knew that wouldn’t help. She fought it. Tried to do something positive, something that would help.

She looked down at her bag. The alien phone stared up at her. She picked it up. Gazed at it. It would be so easy …

No. They might be monitoring it. She looked round the room again. The phone on the bedside table. A beige plastic box. She saw the faces of Phil, of Josephina, and felt how her whole being was aching to see them again. She had to risk it.

She picked up the receiver, punched the button for an outside line. Directory Enquiries.

‘Ipswich General, please.’

She was connected. It rang. Was answered.

‘Yes,’ said Marina, voice small and croaking, trembling. ‘You’ve … Phil Brennan. You’ve got a patient called Phil Brennan. I’d … I’d like … How is he, please?’

She was asked for her name and relationship.

‘I’m … I’m his wife.’ No going back now.

She was asked to wait. Plunged into silence. Her heart hammered louder than the hold music. The nurse came back on.

‘He’s stable,’ she said. ‘Out of surgery and resting.’

‘Oh, thank God … ’

The nurse was about to say something more but seemed distracted by someone else on the end of the phone. ‘Can I … can I just ask you to stay on the line, please?’

Marina slammed the phone down.

No one was going to trace that call.

She tried to sit back on the bed but was humming from the conversation, the contact. She replayed the words in her head. Stable. Out of surgery.

She felt that ache in her heart, that yearning. She desperately wanted to be with him. Needed to. She looked round the room. Crossed the floor, looked out of the window. It was dark outside. The car park was in shadowed pools from the orange sodium lights. Beyond that was the A120.

Marina looked at the phone lying on the bed. It hadn’t rung. She had been told they wouldn’t ring until the morning. She looked again at the window, the road.

They can’t be watching all the time, she thought. Not round the clock. Her heart beating faster, she made up her mind. She picked up her car keys. Left the room.

The lobby was deserted. No one on the desk, no one in the hall. She made her way to the front door, moving as fast as possible, then stepped outside. She stopped, looked round. Checked every angle, every corner of the car park for an observer. Looked up to the road, checked there too.

Saw no one anywhere.

Trying not attract attention by running, she hurried to the car, got in. Turned the engine over and, giving one last look round, made her way out of the car park. Up the slip road, on to the A120. Heading eastwards. Towards Phil. Scanning behind her all the time, checking for other cars following her.

Traffic was light. No one came up the slip road after her. No one joined the A120 at the same point. She breathed a huge sigh of relief. Felt a smile crawl on to the corners of her mouth. Gave a giddy laugh.

She hadn’t been followed. She knew she hadn’t. Felt she hadn’t. She approached the roundabout, ready to turn left and speed away.

Then she heard it.

Love Will Tear Us Apart.

Her heart turning to stone, she put the call on loudspeaker.

‘Who’s been a naughty girl, then?’

That voice again. That same fucking stupid voice.

‘I … I don’t know what you mean … ’

‘You were told to stay in the hotel. You’re not there now, are you?’

‘I … I … ’ Her hands began to shake on the steering wheel.

‘Turn the car round, go back to the hotel, wait for instructions in the morning.’

The roundabout was ahead of her. She signalled. Went right round it. Back the way she had come.

‘Good girl,’ said the voice.

The hotel was in front of her once more. She signalled and turned off. Pulled up in the same slot in the car park.

‘Just do as you’re told, Marina. Then we’ll all be happy.’

The phone went dead.

Marina sat there, numb.

Eventually she got out of the car and went back to the room.

To stare at the ceiling all night.

22

The night air hit hard, making Tyrell gasp. It was unexpectedly cold, especially when the April day had been so warm. But then night was something he had only watched from his prison window for years, never actually experienced.

He shivered. The shirt he was wearing was long-sleeved, but he wished he had put a sweatshirt over it. A timid voice told him to go back inside, ignore the crying child and stay where it was safe, and he struggled not to let it win. He looked round, took a couple of deep breaths that fizzed coldly into his lungs and moved forward, away from the caravan.

He smelt salt on the air. It reminded him of the prison on the Isle of Sheppey. He could only make out street lights and house lights far away in the distance. The lights were on in the house next to the caravan. And that was where the noise of the crying child came from.

He stepped away from the caravan, shivering, and moved towards the house. It was old and big, although it may only have seemed that way to Tyrell after being in such a small space for so long. It reminded him of somewhere else. Another house. Another time. A time when …

No. He closed his eyes. Screwed them tight shut. No. Don’t think about that. Don’t go back there.

He slowly opened his eyes. The house was still in front of him. But the other one, the old one, was gone. Good.

He walked unsurely, the ground rutted, holed and uneven. The dogs outside the house remained quiet. There were lights on in the downstairs rooms. The car he had arrived in was parked out front next to the old boxy silver one.

The he heard it again.

He stopped moving, tuning out the wind in his ears, concentrating on the child. It was a child, definitely. A little girl, it sounded like. Crying. Not happy at all. He moved closer until he was right beside the window. He managed to make out some words.

‘Mummy … Daddy … Lady … please … ’

And then another voice cut in, one he didn’t recognise. An angry voice telling the child to shut up, which just provoked more crying.

A shiver ran through Tyrell from more than the cold. A memory swirled into his head of another child. Sad and lonely. Wanting reassurance and love. Getting only anger and pain. Pain that hurt right down inside.

He closed his eyes again, trying to force the memory to swim back down into the blackness. Force it, force it …

He opened his eyes. The memory was gone. But the child was still crying. Tyrell had to do something. Make the crying stop. Find a way to make the child happy.

He knelt down beneath the window, feeling something rise within him that he couldn’t name because he didn’t recognise it. Bravery?

He poked his head up very slowly, looked inside. A kitchen. On the table was a laptop and some other electronic equipment, a half-empty whisky bottle and a couple of glasses. A rough-looking woman sat at the table, looking at the laptop. On the floor beside her, a length of rope tying her wrist to the doorknob, was a little girl. Dark-haired and sad-eyed, her face red and wet. The woman at the table was trying to ignore her. Her face was red too, but Tyrell imagined that was probably from the whisky.

The woman turned to the girl, who pulled away from her, scooting back on the floor as far as the rope would let her. The crying stopped, replaced by fear. Another shiver ran through Tyrell. What had the woman done to the little girl to make her so scared?

‘Fucking shut up,’ she said. Her voice sounded weird. Like it wasn’t tuned in properly. ‘Told you before. You’ll go home when your mother does what she’s told.’ She shook her head, looking back at the screen. ‘Little twat. Should just feed you to the dogs … ’

The words shocked Tyrell. He moved away from the window as if he had been struck. As he did so, he lost his footing and stumbled backwards. The dogs heard the noise and began to bark. He got quickly to his feet, flattened himself against the wall. Slowly stuck his head round the back of the house. The dogs were caged up by the back door, snouts at the mesh, barking and slavering. He pulled his head back in. Fast.

Tyrell looked back in the window. The woman at the kitchen table was swearing at the dogs, telling them to shut up. They ignored her. The little girl cried all the more. The woman got up, made her way angrily to the back door.

Tyrell was breathing heavily, as if he had done something strenuous. He saw a pile of firewood stacked against the wall of the house, near the front. He scurried under the window, picked out a heavy log; small enough to grasp firmly, long enough to swing, heavy enough to hurt. He tested it out a couple of times, got a good action going. Then went under the window back to where he had been. He breathed deeply. Once. Twice. Ready to move for the back door.

‘Going somewhere, Malcolm?’

Tyrell jumped, nearly dropping his club. He turned. There was Jiminy Cricket, the happy, smiling voice of his conscience.

He wasn’t smiling now.

‘I said, are you going somewhere, Malcolm Tyrell?’ The name said with hard emphasis, like he was pushing it into stone with his fist.

Tyrell swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, his legs shaking. Despite the open air, the night, this was just like being back inside, facing down some bully on his spur.

‘I’m … I’m … There’s a girl in there. A little girl. Crying.’

‘She’s no business of yours.’

‘She’s … she’s crying … ’

‘She’s fine.’

‘The woman at the table, she said she would feed her to the dogs … ’

Jiminy Cricket tried to laugh, put on an American accent once more, screeched, ‘Now get back in there and don’t come back until you’ve got a toddler!’ The accent dropped. His eyes flared. ‘Go back to the caravan.’

Tyrell’s shaking increased. Not from fear this time, but anger. He felt the wood in his hand. This wasn’t like facing down a bully. His weapon made the difference.

‘You wanna piece o’ me? That it?’ The American accent returned, this time a ridiculous gangster parody. He spread his arms wide and smiled. ‘Give it your best shot.’

Tyrell pulled his arm back, ready to swing it forward.

‘But do that, and I’ll fuckin’ have you.’ His voice, down and dark, told Tyrell he would. And he would enjoy it too.

Tyrell looked between the window and his companion. Looked at the log in his hand. Saw how his arm was shaking. Looked back to Jiminy Cricket. Who smiled. ‘Drop it,’ he said, like he was speaking to one of the backyard dogs.

Realising he had no alternative, Tyrell complied.

‘Good. Now go back to your caravan. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.’

As though he was following an order from a wing officer, he did as he was told.

The caravan was slightly warmer than the night outside. He sat down on the bed. He saw the door being shut, heard the key being turned.

His first night of freedom, and he was locked up again.

23

Jeff Hibbert sat up in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. He kept replaying the visit from that policewoman over and over in his mind, but that wasn’t what was keeping him awake.

Sitting like this was the only way he could get any respite from the pain, the only position he could sleep in. Like the Elephant Man, his wife had said, shortly before she left him.

Helen Hibbert had been a bitch. He knew that. It was why he had married her. She would try to outdo all the other women they knew, flirt with their men, lead them on, even shag a couple. All with Jeff’s blessing. Because it had turned him on. She’d even let him watch sometimes. The other wives had hated it. Hated them. Or feared them. And that had been the real thrill.

Jeff and Helen had had what they liked to think of as an unconventional, uninhibited marriage. Unique, different. And they didn’t care who got in their way. It had been fun, but Helen had eventually tired of it. Then she had turned on Jeff, and that hadn’t been so much fun.

The lung cancer had hit at the worst possible time. He had just lost his job and with it their lifestyle. He had plans how to get it back, oh yes, plans that would make them a shitload of money. Because Jeff knew where the bodies were buried. And where bodies that should have been buried were still walking around. But the lung cancer stopped that and Helen got tired of waiting. Started flirting with other men again. Younger men. Fitter men. Men who didn’t cough up blood. Who knew how to treat a woman. In front of her crippled husband, if necessary. And Jeff stopped finding it all so funny.

‘I don’t know what’ll hurt you more,’ Helen had said one morning after the latest pick-up had been dispatched. ‘Me leaving or me staying.’

So she had moved in with the latest one, leaving Jeff alone to die.

And all those dirty, filthy secrets that were going to make him rich, he could do nothing with. They would benefit someone, though. His co-conspirators, ex-partners. And Jeff hated that. Hated it. In fact, it was the hate that would kill him. But not yet. Because for now, it was the only thing keeping him alive.

Still, he thought, at least they won’t benefit Helen. That’s something.

What a waste. All that planning, the hours he’d put into it. A waste. He reached out his hand, felt the edge of his laptop under the bed. It was all on there. What had been done, the cover-ups, the plans he had made to get even, to make him rich, everything. All there. Safe.

And all fucking useless to him now.

He pulled his hand back up, stared again at the ceiling. Chest wheezing as he breathed in and out, lungs like needle-laced bagpipes. That policewoman.

Stuart Milton. Very fucking clever. Or so they thought. But dangerous. Almost giving themselves away.

He knew why that name had been given. And his address. It was a warning. We know where you live. Couldn’t have been clearer if they’d trailed the message from the back end of a plane in the air along the seafront. And we can get you any time.

Yeah, yeah. Whatever. If the cancer doesn’t get me first.

He tried to sleep. His eyes had barely closed when he heard the noise from downstairs.

His eyes snapped open.

He heard the noise again. Someone was entering the house.

Jeff Hibbert’s heart began to pound, adding to the pain in his chest.

They’ve come for me, he thought. That’s it. They’ve come for me.

As he struggled painfully to rise and leave his bed, common sense kicked in. Helen. That was who it was. Brought some bloke back to gloat. Bitch. He relaxed back against the built-up pillows. He would ignore her. Pretend to be asleep. Not care what she did. That would show her.

Something smashed. Then something else.

That wasn’t Helen.

Hibbert sat up again, ignoring the pain this time. He swung his legs out of bed as quickly as he could. His heart was pounding once more, fear driving adrenalin round his system. Numbing him slightly, temporarily, giving him the strength he needed to move. He reached out, made a grab for his dressing gown from the back of the door. Couldn’t hold it, dropped it.

Footsteps on the stairs. Heavy, trying to be quiet. Definitely not Helen.

He knelt down to pick up the dressing gown, but couldn’t get his fingers to work. They brushed the edge of the laptop. Pushed it further in. No one was getting that. No one.

The footsteps stopped outside his door. Hibbert held his breath. The door opened.

Hibbert’s eyes travelled up the huge legs of the visitor, took in the muscled torso, the thick arms. The head, hair cropped, angled down at him. Eyes blank.

It was like Frankenstein’s monster had arrived.

‘Get out … ’ Hibbert didn’t have the breath to make the words carry, the strength to make them mean anything.

The intruder looked at him.

‘I know … who you are,’ Hibbert said. ‘I know … what you want … ’

The intruder reached out an arm, picked Hibbert up off the bedroom floor. The pain was excruciating. Hibbert cried out, tried to grab the arm, get it to put him down. It was like arguing with a concrete post. And the same colour. He looked at the skin of the intruder. Grey. Like concrete. Like a dead man.

Hibbert knew who this was. And with that realisation came another: I’m going to die.

Now.

He laughed. It sounded as broken as the rest of him. ‘You … you can’t kill me. I’m … already dead … ’

‘Yes. But a dead man with something to tell me. To give me.’ The voice matched his skin. Hard. Dead.

‘I don’t … don’t … ’

The Golem cut him off. ‘Where is it?’

Hibbert tried to laugh, to stonewall, but his eyes betrayed him. They glanced down to the side of the bed. The Golem caught the look.

‘Get it.’

He relaxed his grip, and Hibbert slid down on to the bed. With his shrunken frame in his filthy, sweaty pyjamas, he looked like a collection of old rags. He stared up at the Golem once more, eyes burning. A last act of defiance.

‘Get it yourself.’

The Golem leant down, slid the laptop from under the bed. Looked at Hibbert once more. ‘Password?’

Hibbert gave another broken laugh in reply.

Then the pain in his body went off the scale. The Golem had grabbed him, was pushing his fingers under his ribcage, trying to squeeze his infected lungs. He felt one rib snap. Two. The pressure increased.

Hibbert screamed like he had never screamed before.

‘Password.’ The dead voice once more.

‘Helen … ’ Gasped out. The pain subsided to manageable levels.

Hibbert kept his head down. He had soiled his pyjamas. He knew this was the end. Anger welled up within him. For himself. For Helen. For his whole stinking, rotten, fucking awful life. He felt tears on his face.

‘This … It wasn’t supposed to … to … end like this … wasn’t supposed to end … at all … ’ More sobbing. ‘Helen … Helen, I’m … I’m sorry … ’

The Golem, laptop under one arm, reached out his other hand. Hibbert looked up.

‘You don’t need to … I’m … I’m a dead … a dead man … ’

The snap was small, almost delicate. Hibbert slumped to the bed. The Golem looked down at him.

‘Now you are dead man.’

He turned and left.

The house was still. Dark. As though no one had ever been there.

24

Midnight. And Good Friday became Easter Saturday. And DC Anni Hepburn was still in the hospital.

‘You should go home, Anni,’ Franks had said to her. ‘Get some rest. There’s others can take over here.’

She had given a weak smile in response. ‘I know, boss, but I’ll only be back here tomorrow. And it’ll save me coming up and down the A14 again.’

‘The road to hell,’ Franks said, smiling. ‘Well, OK. Just remember we’re not supposed to be working this case. If something comes up and I need you, you’ve to come down straight away. Leave it to Suffolk.’

She had agreed with him and he had left.

Phil Brennan was out of surgery and resting in a private room. He still hadn’t regained consciousness and Anni hadn’t been allowed in to see him. No need, the doctor had said. He won’t be saying anything for a while.

‘What’re his chances of a full recovery?’

The doctor had shrugged. ‘Depends what you mean. He’s been burnt and may need some grafts, if it comes to that. But we’re hoping it won’t. His head injury wasn’t as serious as we first thought. We’ve relieved the swelling and we’ll keep him under observation in case there’s any sign of embolism or thrombosis. But on the whole, I’m optimistic. We’re keeping him sedated for now. We’ll look at him again in the morning.’

She thanked him and went back to the fold-out bed they had provided for her. But she didn’t get far. At the end of the corridor she heard the squeak of rubber tyres. A wheelchair came round the corner, the occupant pushing it slowly towards her.

It took a while, but Anni recognised who it was. Eileen Brennan.

The woman looked dreadful. All bandages and bruises. Pale skin and deep, dark eyes. She pushed the chair level with Anni.

‘Where is he?’ she said, looking round. ‘They said he was down here.’

‘Eileen? Eileen Brennan?’

Eileen looked up. Anni caught the wildness in her eyes. She wondered what was holding the woman together, what kind of spirit she had.

‘Who are you?’

‘Anni Hepburn. I work with Phil.’

‘Oh.’ Her head dropped as she processed the information. Then back up at her. ‘Is he here?’

Anni gestured to the room, the closed door. ‘He’s in there. But we’re not allowed to go in.’

‘Why not?’

‘They say he needs rest. That he’ll get better without interruptions.’

‘Interruptions.’ Eileen nodded to herself, then looked up and down the corridor, disorientated, as if she had suddenly come round and was surprised to find herself in this place. Didn’t know where she was.

Anni was used to dealing with people. She found a smile. ‘Did they tell you to come down here? Did they give you the chair?’

Eileen looked at her.

‘Bet they didn’t.’ Another smile. ‘But good for you.’

Eileen made a noise that started out as a laugh but mutated into a strangled gasp. ‘They said I could see him tomorrow. That I should get some rest. But he’s my son … ’ Her voice became a shallow, brittle thing. Her hands gripped the arms of the chair, trembling. ‘I had to see him. He’s … all … ’ Her body began to shake as the tears welled up and out. Her head dropped as if she couldn’t bear to be seen.

Anni knelt down next to her. ‘Come on, Eileen, let’s get you back to the ward.’ She repeated what the doctor had told her. Eileen looked up, a desperate hope trying to shine through her wet and wounded eyes. ‘You can see him tomorrow.’

‘Really? They … they think he’ll be … ’

‘They’re hopeful. Come on, let’s get you back.’

Eileen allowed herself to be pushed. They talked on the way. Anni felt the measure of Eileen’s loss, her grief.

‘Don’s gone … gone … and I just … I don’t know. I can’t lose Phil as well … ’

‘I know. Well let’s hope we won’t. He’s my boss. One of the few I’ve liked.’

Eileen wasn’t listening. Her grief had overtaken her.

Anni left her at the ward, where a nurse took over, and went back to her own bed. Hoping she would sleep and that tomorrow would be better.

Somehow she doubted either.