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and, on the—’
    ‘Not now!’
    ‘—other piece of paper, we’ll make a list of what was recovered from the garden. One list will be long, one will be short.’
    Baxter was on his feet, almost dancing.
    ‘I’ve listened to you, please listen to me,’ insisted Rosen.
    Rosen held his hand up, fingers curled into a fist, thumb outstretched.
    ‘I checked with the sergeant’s log about my time of arrival and double-checked my time leaving the scene with Parker, Willis and my DS. I was – bodily
speaking
–
there for two and three-quarter hours. You can speculate until you’re blue in the face about my state of mind, but I was at the scene fast and I stayed until I couldn’t squeeze another
drop from it. Remember the scene-of-crime log audit that your glorious predecessor inflicted on us? When you were a senior investigating officer, you averaged one hour fifty-five in initial
arrivals over ten separate murder scenes. By the light of presenteeism, I have the edge on you, Tom. Why not make a pair of comparative graphs and email them to the CC?’
    Baxter, the expert statistician who used statistics to bully, embarrass and punish other officers, said, ‘You’ve told me everything I needed to know. Goodbye, David.’

10
    W hen Rosen arrived home, Sarah was in bed. He showered and slid in beside her somewhere between ten and half past. She was in a deep sleep and
didn’t stir. Within minutes David, too, was fast asleep.
    At a quarter to two in the morning, the electrical rhythm in his brain shifted and he began the slow ascent to wakefulness. With his arm beneath the duvet, his hand travelled into the cold space
beside him where Sarah should have been, but found only emptiness.
    His feet hit the floor.
    ‘Sarah!’ he called, as he went out onto the landing. All the bedroom doors were closed. Light filtered from the crack at the bottom of the bathroom door.
    ‘It’s not locked,’ she said.
    Sarah stood at the sink. She smiled at him in spite of the discomfort that creased her face. Her blue eyes were dulled with fatigue, her shoulder-length blonde hair tied back in a ponytail.
    ‘I’m forty-one,’ she said, wincing in the mirror. ‘But I only look ninety.’
    ‘You look great,’ Rosen countered. ‘How are you?’
    ‘It’s really uncomfortable,’ she explained. ‘Go back to bed, there’s nothing you can do, David. I’ll be fine.’
    He sat next to her on the edge of the bath.
    ‘When did the GP say your appointment would be?’
    ‘He didn’t. As soon as possible was as accurate as he could be.’
    ‘I’ll come with you.’
    ‘If you can; but don’t worry if events overtake us.’
    It was a rerun of the conversation they’d had over her GP appointment.
    ‘What are you going to tell them in school?’ asked David.
    ‘I’ll reassure them. I’m not going off my rocker again. I’m taking my lithium like a good girl. No need to book in a long-term supply teacher. What’s happening with
you?’
    ‘Baxter’s ordering a peer review—’
    ‘Oh, the slimy little toe-rag. What a waste of time, what a waste of money.’
    ‘It’s a humility exercise. For me.’
    ‘Which will conclude that there’s nothing more that you could have done to catch this Herod.’
    She laid her arm across his back and settled a hand on his shoulder. They looked at each other in the mirror on the wall.
    ‘It’s at times like this I wish I was twenty-four and still in the TA.’
    He smiled, recalling that when they’d first met, he’d thought she was kidding him when she told him she was in the Territorial Army.
    ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Why the sudden urge to step back in time?’
    ‘I had access to a gun back then. I’d go and put a bullet in Baxter for you. And on behalf of quite a few other people.’
    ‘The things we forget . . .’ He looked at his wife and remembered the young woman who was top of her squadron on the firing range, who couldn’t be beaten at darts.
    ‘Are you looking at my wrinkles,