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herself. And she wants to come home.”
    There is rainwater in McAvoy’s eyes, but he can still feel the pricking of tears.
    “And Lilah?”
    “Missing her daddy. She’s taking to the gadget. Loving music. Got a taste for reggae . . .”
    McAvoy stops, the pain in his chest almost overwhelming. He stands with his hands on his knees while Pharaoh rubs his back. His daughter sustained damage to the inner ear during the blast. Will probably need the tiny hearing aid for the rest of her life.
    “And she knows that’s what I want, yes? That I don’t blame her. If I could just talk to her. Just say I don’t blame her . . .”
    Pharaoh gives his shoulder a squeeze. “She’s being kept safe, Hector. That’s all. The threat remains the same. She knows you want her. Knows you’d die for her. But right now, you have to live for her. I can’t justify putting you in witness protection. There’s been no threat to you. We’re still off the books here. It’s all still unofficial. I wish to God the bloke would call again so we could get something more, but for now we just have to wait until the threat to your family is removed.”
    McAvoy purses his lips, as though biting back protests. The image that was sent to Trish Pharaoh’s private mobile phone had shown Roisin McAvoy asleep in her hospital bed. Whoever had taken it had gotten past the uniformed guard on the door. They’d pulled back the bedsheets and lifted her nightdress. Then they had slipped away. Had taken the time and trouble to digitally alter the image. The picture Trish had received had been too grotesque to show her sergeant but she can bring it to mind in an instant. She knows how McAvoy would react if he knew the picture showed how his wife would look after somebody had taken a blowtorch to her breasts.
    The call had come later. It had been short and to the point. The Headhunters were split on the issue of Roisin McAvoy. There were those within the caller’s organization who believed she needed to suffer. The caller himself was more pragmatic. Even had a grudging respect for the tough, beautiful gypsy girl. But the Headhunters were run by committee. And a decision had been made . . .
    McAvoy wants to tell Pharaoh that his wife and child would be safest with him. But experience has shown him that is not the case. He just wishes to Christ he knew where they were. Where Pharaoh had sent them. Who was taking care of them and making sure they didn’t forget him.
    “You’re a bit of a mess, Hector,” says Pharaoh gently as they begin to walk after the distant figure of Fin. “If she came back tomorrow, what would she see?”
    “I’m trying,” says McAvoy petulantly. “Fin’s warm and clothed and fed. We do his homework. I tell him stories. I try and be a good dad.”
    “You
are
a good dad. You’re just not taking care of yourself. Look at your knuckles.”
    Like a child hiding chocolate-smeared fingers, McAvoy shoves his hands in the pocket of his long cashmere overcoat. It’s the only coat he has, and were he to hold it up to the light, he would be able to see the holes made by the scalpel as it was plunged into his back by a serial killer.
    “You’re boxing again?”
    McAvoy shakes his head. “Just keeping fit. Heavy bag.”
    Pharaoh looks at him knowingly.
    Abashed, McAvoy looks down. “I use a tree.”
    “In the Country Park?”
    “Nobody can see. I know a place. Under the cliffs. Big, broad sycamore trunk. I take one of the blankets from the room. Twist it and tie it round the middle. It’s just a workout.”
    Pharaoh pulls a cigarette from her bag and lights it, making a tent from her jacket around her head. When she emerges, she has clearly made a decision.
    “You can’t go on like this,” she says firmly. “I can’t either. Can’t watch. Can’t feel the guilt. I don’t like guilt, Hector. It makes me cross. And I feel like shit that you’re all alone and hating yourself and beating up fucking trees in your spare time.