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bedside and reset the alarm clock for seven thirty.

11
    6.45 A.M.
    S arah Rosen was woken by the absence of her husband. She rolled into the space where he should have been sleeping and the sheets were cold. Stepping out of bed quietly, she knew where he would be.
    The door to Joe’s room was half-open. Rising daylight filtered in through sky-blue curtains, and David stood motionless over his sleeping son.
    â€˜How long have you been here?’ she asked.
    â€˜I’m not sure. I fell asleep straight away, woke up, nodded back off, then was wide awake.’
    She was at his back now, her arms around his waist.
    â€˜This diet doesn’t seem to be working.’ She squeezed his stomach with her forearms. When she looked properly at him, she saw a rawness around his eyes that could have been caused by lack of sleep or a bout of tears. ‘You OK?’
    â€˜Yeah.’ He sounded fine but he was good at disguising his emotions.
    â€˜It’s me you’re talking to now.’
    He sat on the chair next to Joe’s basket and Sarah sat on his knee.
    â€˜I thought about Hannah a few times today.’
    Silence.
    â€˜When?’
    â€˜When I saw Thomas in the hospital.’
    He looked at Joe and felt the moment in all its painful intensity, the memory powerful and alive inside him.
    â€˜And how are you now?’ she asked.
    â€˜Scared. Scared that something bad’s going to happen to him.’
    â€˜That’s natural. But don’t trust those feelings and try not to hang on to them. Look at his hands.’ Joe’s fingers clenched and unclenched. ‘He’s waking up.’
    â€˜Can we move his basket into our room?’
    â€˜No. We’re next door. We have an intercom. We have a smoke alarm. We have a burglar alarm. The windows are double-glazed. The walls are solid. This is his room. He’s fine and he’ll be fine.’
    â€˜You can’t guarantee that, Sarah.’
    â€˜No, but I can guarantee that if you don’t come back to bed and grab half an hour’s sleep, your day’s going to be ten times harder than it’ll be if you stay up worrying.’
    She slid off his knee and held out a hand. He took it and followed her back to bed.
    Within a minute, David Rosen was asleep and Sarah was wide awake, worrying about her husband and their son.

12
    8.30 A.M.
    W hen Rosen walked into the open-plan office at Isaac Street Police Station that was doubling up as the Thomas Glass incident room, heads turned and tired faces looked quizzically at their SIO.
    He placed a grease-smeared cardboard box down on his desk and looked around. All present. He gestured the officers towards him. As he did so, the door of Chief Superintendant Baxter’s office opened.
    Tom Baxter stood watching, leaning against the doorframe, and Rosen wondered was it psychic ability or an extra keen sense of smell that had drawn him out of his office?
    Rosen met Baxter’s eyes and read his face:
What are you up to now, David?
    â€˜So, David.’ It was Corrigan’s pronounced Scouse accent that broke the silence. ‘I can smell food.’ Corrigan’s hardened features softened with a smile.
    â€˜How many people here got four hours sleep or more?’ No one made a sound. ‘How many got three or less?’ He heard the nodding and affirmative noises of consensus. ‘I thought as much. How many people skipped breakfast because they wanted ten extra minutes in bed?’
    â€˜I didn’t,’ said the prematurely white-haired Prof Feldman. The group focused on the Prof. ‘Two eggs with toast soldiers.’ His deadpan face drew silence and puzzled looks and then laughter rolled round the room.
    Rosen and Feldman caught each other’s eye.
They think you’re joking
, thought Rosen, who knew more about Feldman’s background and home life than anyone else present.
    â€˜I’ve got some footage to show you. I’ll transfer it