It was late. Eastwood was out on a date, Ezra had gone home early and Stanford was trying to make the most of his beloved Arsenal season ticket. Ramouter was slumped at his desk, watching CCTV footage in a trance-like state. Henley had sent a couple of police officers to Pine’s uncle’s flat to see if there were any signs of life. They had reported back that the flat was in absolute darkness and according to his neighbour, Pine hadn’t been back since the last time she was asked.
‘Why don’t you go home?’ Henley said to Ramouter. ‘There’s only so much CCTV that you can go through before you drive yourself mad.’
Ramouter didn’t try to suppress the yawn. He had definitely lost the enthusiastic glow he’d had when she first met him on Watergate Street. ‘Are you sure?’ he said.
‘Go home, call your little boy, read him a bedtime story. Eat something healthy.’
‘Healthy? Have you seen my fridge?’ Ramouter paused to answer a call on his phone.
‘Yes… I see… When?’ Ramouter sat back. ‘OK. Any visitors… How long until she’s fit… Right… Call me if anything changes. Thank you.’
‘That was the hospital,’ Ramouter said. ‘Ade died fifteen minutes ago.’
Henley leaned back in her chair and put her hands to her head.
‘Also, Karen came out of surgery an hour ago. They couldn’t save her eye.’
‘You’re looking at me as if you expect me to feel sorry her,’ Henley said.
‘No, not for her. For Ade,’ Ramouter snapped. He stared at Henley as though he couldn’t believe the absurdity of her words. ‘It’s him that I feel sorry for. He didn’t deserve this. Karen is just as much to blame for his death as she is for Lauren Varma lying in pieces in a fridge down the road.’ He kicked over the wastepaper bin in anger. He swore as rubbish scattered across the floor.
‘Take a moment,’ Henley said. ‘Breathe.’
Ramouter composed himself. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. That was wrong.’
‘It’s OK. What did they say about visitors?’ Henley asked.
‘Her mum and one of the officers from the prison tried to visit in the morning. There hasn’t been anyone since she came out of surgery. No one else even resembling Olivier has been near the hospital.’
Henley put her phone down and pushed her chair back. Every bone in her body was crying out for a hot bath, half a sleeping tablet, and bed.
‘They tried to bring him out of the induced coma,’ Ramouter said. ‘But he suffered a brain bleed. He worked for the prison service for twenty years.’
‘Go home,’ Henley said firmly. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
She watched as he walked out of the office. His shoulders were low, the air around him defeated.
Henley pushed her keyboard away in frustration. It slammed against the mug, sending the last dregs of her coffee spilling out across her desk. She scrambled to mop up the mess with tissues.
‘You OK?’
Henley hadn’t noticed that Pellacia had left his office. She didn’t have the energy to lie to him.
‘No. The other prison officer, Ade, died. Pine has disappeared into the wind, and even if he was sitting right in front of us right now, it wouldn’t make a difference. All I’ve got is an identification from a drug addict who was off his face, partial prints that I can’t match to anyone—’
Pellacia sat watching Henley even though her face was turned away watching the window.
‘Come home with me,’ Pellacia said as he leaned forward and put his hand on Henley’s leg.
She didn’t push it aside. ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘After everything that’s happened, I don’t think that it’s a good idea and I’m knackered.’
‘Which one is the excuse?’
Henley turned. ‘Neither of them.’
Pellacia looked down at the ground.
‘You and I are straightforward, you know,’ he said. ‘Out of all this. You and I are the only thing that actually makes sense. Whether it’s as friends or as more. We’re straightforward, Anj. It’s only everything else around us that is complicated.’
Henley didn’t get a chance to answer because at that moment her mobile phone began to ring. She pulled a face when she saw the name that was flashing on the screen. It was Agent Chris Synder from the National Crime Agency. She had known Chris back when he had been a DC at Lewisham police station, but it was gone 10 p.m. It was unlikely that he was calling for a chat. She showed the screen to Pellacia, just as his own phone began to ring.
‘Hello, Chris – what is it?’ Henley asked.
‘All right, Anjelica. I know that it’s a bit late in the day…’ said Chris.
‘That’s an understatement.’
‘We’ve got a problem. Michael Kirkpatrick has gone missing.’