Fleet moved so they were toe to toe, and allowed himself to flinch at the stench. The man reeked like a beer mat.
‘Murdoch,’ he said. ‘That’s your name, isn’t it? Nathan Murdoch. Three counts of public disorder, four for the possession of Class A drugs, and one for … what was the other thing?’
He watched Lion’s smirk slip into his jowls. Almost the first thing Fleet and his colleagues had done when the Sadie Saunders investigation began was run checks on the local scumbags. It had taken him a while to place Nathan Murdoch, but now that he had, he found himself recalling the details on the man’s file that had first caught his attention. Again, there was no suggestion of his involvement with Sadie’s disappearance, but for a while Fleet and his colleagues had considered Murdoch closely – just as they had everyone within a fifty-mile radius who was on the sex offenders register. In Murdoch’s case, the count Fleet had failed to mention was an indictment for distributing pornographic images involving minors. It was hard to say whether Murdoch had dabbled to satisfy his own proclivities or purely for profit, but Fleet doubted very much that Murdoch’s associates, were they to find out, would draw a distinction either way.
From the expression on Fleet’s face, it was obvious Murdoch was thinking the same thing.
Fleet shook his head. ‘It’s slipped my mind,’ he said. ‘For the time being. But I could always give the local desk sergeant a call and ask him to refresh my memory? Seeing as we’re standing around chatting and all, I’m sure it would make an interesting topic of conversation.’
Now Murdoch was the one to bite down. His jaw bulged, as though he were attempting to swallow a shit sandwich sideways.
‘No,’ said Fleet. ‘I thought not. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way. Have a pleasant evening, gentlemen. Remember there’s always a bed for you at the local nick if you find yourselves tempted to start any more trouble.’
Fleet stood waiting, until finally Murdoch moved to one side. The other men parted, too. Grudgingly, as though they were being forced to watch a stranger queue-jump his way towards the bar.
Fleet kept his eyes on Stephen Payne’s until he was through. And then he was walking alone through the rain, barely conscious of his strides, aware only of the torrents of adrenalin flowing within him. It was taking every ounce of his self-possession, every facet of his training, to stop himself from turning around and hurling Payne, Murdoch – the lot of them – head first over the railings and into the river.
His mistake was to assume it was over.
Such was the pounding in his ears, he didn’t hear the sound of anyone behind him. He was focused only on the pavement at his feet, and he looked up in surprise when he realised he’d reached the hotel. The windows were dark, even in the guests’ lounge, but the thought of inflicting his mood on Anne if she were still awake was enough to stop Fleet heading immediately inside.
And that was another mistake.
For it was as Fleet loitered in the darkened street that the hood came down over his eyes. From the stink of it, the dust that immediately clogged his throat, it was an old rubbish sack, something from a building site or a skip. It was the last thought Fleet had before the first blow impacted against his kidneys. It snapped his body one way, before a punch on the opposite side hinged it back again. Fleet managed to swing out an elbow, striking teeth, but he was outnumbered, overpowered, and suddenly his feet went from under him.
He hit his head on something as he fell, and from that point on and until the darkness took him, there was only pain: sharp, intense, welcome, like an old, familiar friend.
Day Nine
DI Robin Fleet
The first thing Fleet noticed when he woke was the scent. It was dizzyingly intimate, and at first he thought it was coming from the pillow that was unaccountably beneath his head.
But when he cracked an eyelid, he saw red lips, dark hair, and a face more familiar to him these days in his dreams. He blinked and, rather than disappearing as Fleet had half expected it to, the face only came into focus.
‘I thought I told you to take care of yourself.’
That voice. Jesus, that voice. As warm as the perfume she was wearing, and just as capable of stinging when applied to an open wound. Which … Ow. His entire body seemed to be at the moment.
‘Holly? What the … Where am I?’
Fleet tore his eyes from his wife and realised he was in a hotel room. Not his hotel room, but one very much like it.
‘You’re in room one,’ said another voice, and Fleet turned to see Anne standing near the door. ‘Ground floor,’ she explained. ‘You’re not an easy man to move when you’re only half conscious, Detective Inspector. I’ve known cats that were easier to haul upright than you.’
Fleet winced himself sitting. ‘You …’ A flashing memory of what had happened, of those first few digs into his ribs, and the choking sensation from the dust that had been inside the bag. ‘You found me? Outside. Did you …’
‘I didn’t see what happened. I didn’t even hear it. I only happened to go out
