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former Lol – detached, uncertain, wearing his past like a stained old overcoat. She thought of the way he’d faced up to the man responsible for smashing his beloved Boswell guitar. Making him pay for it in full but then, instead of replacing the Boswell, giving the money away, splitting it anonymously between three local charities. Tainted, Lol had said.
    Last week he’d been to London to record his first-ever TV appearance, but he was still scared to play Ledwardine. Scared of what it might be telling him if he bombed.
    They were almost alone now, under the cold strip lights. She worried about him. And worried about him worrying about her.
God
.
    ‘Time for us to what?’ Merrily said.
    Rain blasted into one of the windows and the glass rattled in its metal frame. Lol drew Merrily towards him and did up the zip for her.
    ‘Doesn’t matter.’

Thing with the Eyes
     
    A BIG KILLING carried its own light. The wild electricity of it had brought the place alive, and Bliss could almost see it connecting across the shining rooftops of this low-slung brick and timbered city, magnesium-white sparks hissing in the brimming gutters.
    And there was nobody in the Job in Hereford tonight who wouldn’t get a charge out of it.
    No detective, anyway. Never let them tell you any different: this was why you were here, why you hacked through all the paperwork, wiped off the abuse like spittle, merely rolled your eyes at the latest edict from a Home Secretary who looked like she might be good at running playgroups. Young cops liked mixing it on the street, tossing yobs into the back of a van, traffic cops liked burning rubber and screaming through red lights. And detectives – no getting round it – liked murder. A headline-grabbing, incident-room, unlimited-overtime murder.
    The thing was,
Acting
Superintendent Annie Howe, fast-tracking at Headquarters, already had one. On her own doorstep, in Worcester, a witness in a high-profile paedophile case found dead in his garage.
    Was that not enough for
anybody
?
    Why did the bitch have to nick his?
    Bliss put down the phone. Gerry Rowbotham, the greybeard duty sergeant at Gaol Street, looking up and sniffing theatrically.
    ‘I smell Worcester on the wind?’
    ‘Well, it wasn’t me, Gerry.’
    She’d given him an earful for not alerting her sooner. Calling from HQ, where she’d just dropped in to
pick up some people
before coming over.
    Coming over
.
    Shit.
    Pick up some people
.
    Fuck.
    ‘She’s only appointed herself SIO,’ Bliss said. ‘She’s only bringing her own bastard crew.’
    ‘Well, you know why,’ Gerry said.
    ‘No, we
don’t
know why. We’re not
sure
yet.’
    Gerry nodded at Bliss’s laptop.
    ‘Would it help if I had a glance?’
    ‘That’s the idea, Gerry,’ Bliss said. ‘If you don’t mind.’
    Slim Fiddler, the senior techie, had been the first to venture an ID. He’d done a few courtesy pictures once during an official visit to Gaol Street by the police authority. Pretty sure he’d had this head in his lens when it was still turning on a neck. The pathologist, Billy Grace, also thought he knew the face, but he’d shaken off civic functions years ago so couldn’t be sure. Only one thing Billy had been fairly sure about.
    ‘Power saw, Francis. So I’d say wherever it was done . . .’
    ‘Looks like a spam factory?’
    ‘Definitely take a while to hoover up all the bits. I’d say chainsaw.’
    ‘McCullough or Stihl?’
    ‘Ha.’
    Back at Gaol Street, Karen Dowell, divisional computer whizz, had fed some piccies into Bliss’s laptop and Bliss had spent some of his precious time hawking them around. But with what had been done to the face nobody could be quite sure. Bliss had Karen ring the wife, ask for the guy. The wife said he was out. Didn’t know when he’d be back.
    ‘All right, then.’
    Bliss planted the lappie in front of Gerry Rowbotham, who’d been in Hereford since coppers were allowed to slap kids round the ear for pinching