“Yes. Is that home? I suppose it is.”

“I’ll ring my sister. You shouldn’t be on your own and her spare room is always ready for someone.”

“It’ll be too late, I couldn’t c”

“Jane. It’s fine.”

“I feel hopeless. I ought not to be like this.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

She smiled weakly.

“So, policemen and doctors and what DI Goldman calls reverends are superhuman—whatever.”

He stood up and held out his hand and, after a moment, she took it. As they reached Simon’s car, she began to cry.

Fifty-one

He was wet. He was near water. He put his hands up to his hair and it was wet. His head ached and his left hand burned with pain. The sky growled. Lizzie. He fumbled about in the dark cavities of his memory to find out what had happened to her. Lizzie. She had been sitting in a garden with her back to him and there had been something wrong, something different.

Max realised that he was bending forwards, as if he had been trying to vomit on to the ground but there was no vomit. He sat up. It was almost dark. He stood up. The canal smelled of rotting vegetation churned up by the storm. No one was near. Not Lizzie. Not c

He stumbled away, along the path, slipping on the mud. Something was wrong, something buzzed in his head like a warning, but he had no sense of what it could be. He had been drinking whisky but the bottle was no longer in his pocket. It had been hot and humid and he had seen Lizzie in a garden but something had been different. His hand hurt.

It was like having a broken dish with the pieces scattered randomly about the floor and some of the large, important sections missing altogether. He kept shaking his head as he made his way back down the towpath to the gap, through it and into the street. There was no one about and he wanted there to be someone, anyone that he could speak to, anyone who would reassure him that he was still a man, who existed, who had a name and a home, who was c There was no one. He needed warmth and a drink, dry clothes. Lizzie. Anyone. If he did not see someone he might somehow lose all sense of himself, lose his grasp on where he was as well as who, lose everything that he had left.

He went slowly up the stairs to the apartment. Someone might be there now, Lizzie might have come back before him. He thought he could smell her, the slightly sharp, lemon scent she always wore.

There was no one, of course. No Lizzie. No anyone. The flat always brought Max back to himself.

His clothes seemed to be drying. He took out a fresh bottle of whisky, poured himself a tumbler, and switched on the radio beside the sink.

Ten minutes later, he was running, the whisky burning in his mouth and the pit of his stomach, the flat door left open, the radio still on. He ran through the streets like a deranged animal, chased by the voices, slipped on the wet pavement and almost fell, crossed the road and was almost struck by a motorbike, ran through a knot of people, ran round a couple, skirted a bus shelter, took a wrong turn and came down a cul-de-sac and had to retreat, still running, running, running, and now the rain came again, soaking him for the second time and somehow helping him, clearing his head and washing everything out of him and down into the gutters.

Running, running, running, away from the voices and towards the place of safety.

Fifty-two

“Whatever I may have said, whatever impression I gave, my childhood was good. By comparison with most of the people I deal with every day, it was a paradise. The same probably goes for you, so let’s set aside the fucked-up childhood c begging your pardon, Reverend.”

“If you call me Reverend once more, I walk.”

“Walk home?”

“Right.”

Simon looked at her across the table. “I bet you would too.”

He had pulled off the motorway for petrol, and for food and coffee. The place was almost deserted. The all-day breakfast was surprisingly good, the coffee foul. Jane put a piece of bacon on the end of her fork, stared at it, then set it down again.

“Eat.”

“I have.”

“Half a piece of tomato. Uh-huh, Reverend.”

But he saw that the joke was over. All jokes were over. There was no joke about where they had been and why.

“You’re right of course. My mother was difficult, but my father was wonderful, we had a comfortable home, I liked my school, I had swimming. Nothing to whinge about. Will they want me back there tomorrow?”

“No. It’ll wait a few days. They’ll focus on finding whoever it was.”

“Why would they come back again and then take nothing? Why?”

“For the record, I don’t think they did. I think this was someone else.”

Jane shook her head.

“I’ll be on to them in the morning. Nothing for you to do.”

“I’m at Bevham General all day. That’ll keep my mind occupied.”

“Sure you should? It isn’t business as usual. Your mother was murdered, Jane.”

“Thank you. I know what happened.”

As they went to the door, a car pulled up and unloaded a pile of young men, in various stages of abusive drunkenness. Two of them barged through into the café, the third was violently sick all over his own feet. A fourth swayed towards Simon and Jane.

“What you fuckin’ starin’ at?”

“That’s enough,” Simon said quietly.

“Oh yeah? Enough, enough c” He spat hard.

Simon glanced back into the café. He could see the drunks, leaning over the counter, shouting, grabbing trays and food. There were a couple of women behind the counter, a teenage girl clearing tables.

“Take the keys, lock yourself into the car. I’ll call a patrol. Go.”

Jane ran. Two of the men were still on the forecourt. Simon backed away, so that he could keep his eye on them while he used his phone. But now the driver of the car had parked and was walking towards him.

“Stay where you are, I’m a police officer. Stand still.”

“So fuck yourself, Blondie, who you telling to stand still, I ain’t done anything, what’ve I fuckin’ supposed to have done?”

“Driven a car while under the influence, for starters. I said, stay where you are.”

There was a scream from the café, then another. Simon swung round and in through the doors. One man was standing on a table, holding a chair up in the air, the other was leaning over the counter, gripping the wrist of the server. The only thing in Simon’s favour was that they were drunk and all over the place and he was focused, but he was outnumbered, and the others would be inside at any moment.

He pressed the button on his mobile again, and issued another, urgent request, keeping his eye on the two men, barring the door to the others as best he could. The women were screaming and in the split second it took him to glance at the girl who was being held, the man with the chair jumped down and hurled it at Simon’s head. He ducked but by now the man himself was lunging forward, fists going for Simon’s face, foot up ready to kick into him.

There had been no one else in the café, but, as he warded off a blow with his arm, Simon saw a figure come forward in a rugby tackle and bring his attacker crashing down and yelping with pain as he hit the floor, his arm bent under him.

Seconds later, the forecourt was full of screeching tyres and spinning blue lights and the café full of uniform.

The man who had brought Simon’s assailant down was brushing his coat sleeves. He was in his fifties with the build of a tank.

“Came from the Gents and heard the screaming. You OK?”

“I’m bloody glad you did. Thanks. You’ll be needed as a witness. I’m a police officer by the way—not with this force. I was having a pit stop when it all kicked off. They’ll take your details.”

Simon shook the man’s hand. How rare, he thought, how almost unheard of for a member of the public to wade in instead of making a run for it. He deserved a commendation. Press recognition. A medal.