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Southwark?’
    I shook my head.
    ‘He didn’t follow procedures. I can’t fault his commitment, but I won’t tolerate that kind of approach here − I hope you’ll reinforce that message for me.’
    ‘Certainly. But wouldn’t it have more impact if you warned him yourself ?’ I gazed back at her.
    ‘I have, Dr Quentin. But policemen are lawbreakers by nature, and Burns is no exception. As far as he’s concerned, I’m invisible.’ Her lips trembled with amusement. She obviously knew about her nickname − maybe she’d coined it herself, to give weight to her reputation.
    Brotherton ended our conversation by pressing a buzzer on the wall. A young man arrived in seconds, and he marched me along the corridor as if I was guilty of a grievous offence. When I got to the incident room, Taylor was swaggering around like he owned it, his tie hanging loose around his throat. I logged onto the nearest computer and scanned the evidence files. They’d doubled since the day before: dozens of interviews flooding into the system. Gresham’s colleagues, friends from his church and golf club, had all given their opinions. I read a couple of interview forms but no one had reported a change in his behaviour. Taylor’s sickly aftershave hit the back of my throat as soon as he sat down.
    ‘Are you looking for Burns?’ he asked.
    I shook my head. ‘I’m updating my report.’
    ‘Forgive me for saying this, but you don’t look much like a shrink to me.’ His full-on eye contact was probably meant to be sexy.
    ‘I know. Growing a beard’s a struggle for me.’
    The joke sailed straight past him and he carried on staring. ‘You can always ask me for help. If anyone gives you a hard time, I’ll deal with them.’
    ‘I’ll keep that in mind. Have you got some new information for me, DS Taylor?’
    He grinned, then lounged back in his chair. ‘I have, as a matter of fact. Gresham’s deputy, Stephen Rayner, was off work the day his boss died. You should have a word with him.’
    ‘Why?’
    ‘Because he’s a liar. He told his mates at the bank he’s got a fiancée, but it’s bollocks. She doesn’t exist.’
    ‘That doesn’t make him a killer. Plenty of people hate admitting they’re single.’
    ‘He got cautioned for punching a colleague, years ago. The bloke can’t control himself.’ Taylor’s expression hardened. ‘He knows more than he’s saying, I’d put money on it.’
    Uncertainty didn’t seem to feature in his emotional repertoire, so I didn’t reply. I got the impression that trying to change Taylor’s opinion should carry a health warning. It would be as risky as slipping your fingers between a pitbull’s jaws.

6
    Will was fast asleep on the sofa when I got back, oblivious to the sunlight flooding through the windows. I paused in the doorway to study him. At least he was beginning to look like my brother again, instead of a junkie who didn’t care whether he took ketamine or crack. With my eyes half closed he looked like the golden boy he’d been at sixteen. His hair was exactly the same, thick and unruly, the colour of damp straw. But his features had changed almost beyond recognition. His eyes had settled deeper into their sockets, and his cheekbones were sharp-edged, jutting from his face like the angles of a picture frame. I had to remind myself how much progress he’d made. Six months ago the doctors thought his legs might never mend, but he was walking again and, if he chose to, he could follow a conversation from start to finish. It was hard to believe that he’d ever had a stellar career in finance. But when his bank heard about his bipolar disorder, they dropped him instantly, and none of his so-called friends had bothered to keep in contact. Their reaction had given me a biased view of financiers − I was convinced that most of them had hearts of stone.
    There were no messages on the answer-machine in the hall, which always made me suspicious. Will often deleted them without telling