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sorry.’
    ‘I just don’t believe it.’
    ‘I know.’
    ‘We’re going on holiday. In two weeks.’ His accent has a twang to it that, in the context, is hard to define. ‘We … It’s booked.’ He looks up at me, his pale eyes liquid, saying it like it will somehow make a difference, as if now that I know this, I will take back my words. Your boyfriend, Dominic, is dead.
    I shake my head. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say again.
    Isaac looks beyond me, empty eyes watching the seagulls wheel.
    ‘Isaac, I need to ask you, when did you see Dominic last?’
    ‘Yesterday. Before he left for work.’ It is American, the accent, the edges of it rounded down so that it is flecked with Welsh. His voice sounds hollowed out, like he has gone already, left his body behind.
    Is he picturing the rest of his life now, empty of the man he loved? Or is he seeing Dominic’s body, slumped and useless?
    I lean forward, trying to catch his eye, pull him back to me. ‘He never came home last night?’
    ‘No.’
    I hang on that word. No. You always look to the spouse first. Because marriage, partnerships, they will strip you bare, sometimes leading to an anger that can slide out of control.
    So I am told, anyway.
    ‘Were you concerned?’ I say the words carefully. Gently. Gently. ‘Worried about him?’
    He turns his gaze back towards me. ‘I thought he was working. He works long hours.’
    ‘But for him not to come home at all, was that unusual?’
    ‘I guess.’
    ‘You weren’t worried, though?’ I keep my voice easy, try to keep the accusation out of it.
    ‘No.’
    He didn’t come home. Dominic didn’t come home. And yet his boyfriend did nothing. Why?
    ‘Are you sure?’ Isaac asks.
    ‘I’m sorry?’
    ‘It might not be him. Are you sure it’s him? Maybe it was somebody else.’
    I think of the body, folded in on itself. ‘We will, of course, ask you to come in and make a formal identification.’ Isaac sits up, a look of hope flooding his features. ‘But I must tell you, Isaac, I’m very confident that the body is Dominic’s.’
    I watch his face, look for the lie in the display of grief. But all I can see are the tears. His hands are over his mouth now, long, slender fingers stoppering it up.
    ‘Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt Dominic?’
    He gives a bleak laugh. ‘He’s a solicitor. He deals with scumbags every day.’
    ‘So has he had problems?’
    Isaac shrugs. ‘They get angry when things don’t go their way.’
    ‘Do you have any names?’
    ‘There was someone, a guy Dom’s been representing for years. He’s been causing trouble, got aggressive with Dom.’
    ‘His name?’
    ‘Um, Beck, I think? Beck Chambers.’

What the darkness takes
    DC Leah Mackay: Tuesday, 11.02 a.m.
    WE WALK INTO the house slowly, our footsteps a funeral dirge. I hear Orla draw in a breath as she stands in the open doorway, and I can tell that she is steeling herself, gathering her resolve for what is to come. She steps over the threshold, pulled forward on an invisible string towards the sound of voices that seeps beneath the closed kitchen door. Not voices. One voice. The neighbour. She is twittering, a flow of words that has become a monologue thrown at an unresponsive audience.
    Orla pauses before the door, placing one hand flat on its wood panel. It is like a blessing. Or maybe a prayer.
    I stand behind her, and ridiculously, I feel tears prick at the back of my eyes.
    Please God, let me find Selena Cole. Let me bring her home.
    Orla breathes again, then twists the handle, pushing it inwards. The kitchen is warm, the overhead lights battling against the dark, dreary day. The girls sit at the kitchen table, Tara’s legs dangling uselessly above the floor. There are glasses of squash, dark enough that you know that one sip will make your teeth hurt. A plate of plain digestive biscuits. The girls, though, are simply sitting there, waiting.
    I grit my teeth in anticipation of what will inevitably come.
    Their