I can’t crumble. I can’t afford emotion. So I tell myself to feel nothing at all. I tell myself that I’m a copper. A good guy. I owe it to everyone to hold myself together, so I will. I turn into a robot. For now, at least.

As far as evidence goes, hard evidence I mean, I’ve got nothing, well, not enough anyway. Rebecca’s lock-up has thrown up nothing of note. Not a fucking damn thing, can you believe it? So her prints are all over Karen’s apartment, but even a rookie brief could clear that one up in court, she was her friend and neighbour after all, she had a key, said she was in and out all the time, her DNA presence makes sense. We’ve got the CCTV from La Reymond but that’s sketchy at best. The security bloke at the apartments, yeah, we have his statement and a positive ID and a not-so-positive one from the brass who saw her and Nigel Baxter going into suite 106 on the night of his murder. I’ve got Dr Magnesson’s testimony, the background and a profile on Goldilocks’ miserable past, which certainly makes her capable and could even be classed as motive, but it’s all circumstantial, there’s nothing of real concrete substance, no hard forensics. It all points to Rebecca Harper of course: the fake IDs, the alleged murder of her own mother, the suspect CCTV footage, wigs and bears and tote bags and numerous fake identities… It’s enough for the CPS to proceed, but to successfully prosecute, prove beyond all reasonable doubt? In this kind of case you need watertight evidence, forensics and irrefutable DNA. No one’s going to put someone away for a double – I’m hoping not triple – murder without it. I know there’s not enough physical yet, that a half-decent barrister couldn’t easily discredit without breaking a sweat. I need a confession. Fuck, I need a drink.

I shower and change. She’s agreed to meet at a Greek place up near Camden. I’m not familiar with the restaurant. It’s not one me and Rach ever went to and I’m thankful about that at least.

I put in a call to Delaney and ask for a trace on ‘Florence’s’ number. I tell him to make it an urgent priority.

I think about calling Davis and organizing back-up. I know that’s what I should do. The thing about this job is that you can’t afford any ‘if onlys’, you have to think in advance, to plan for every eventuality. And I can’t afford to fuck this one up, not least because what I’m doing is at best unorthodox and at worse could pretty much guarantee my very early retirement. I pick up my phone at least twice before I do eventually call Davis. I tell her and Baylis to be outside the restaurant by 7 p.m. and wait for my instructions. I’ve made the reservation for 8 p.m. I tell Davis to have an unmarked vehicle covering any exits, that I’ve had a tip off our Goldilocks is going to be inside the restaurant. She asks questions but I keep things on a need-to-know basis, largely for her own good, in case there’s an enquiry, you know? ‘Just be there’ I say before hanging up.

As I shower I try not to think about the fact that Rebecca Harper could, right this very moment be murdering a child – a baby – and that maybe I could’ve prevented it. I’m gambling with my own conscience, which is not an experience I would recommend to anyone, even those I don’t care much for. I know that if I’m too late then it’ll be game over and I’ll take the guilt to my grave with me – and if she gets off, then I can add failure to win justice for Janet Baxter, her family and Karen to the list too. Yet my intuition tells me that this way, the way I’ve decided to play it, I am more likely to get a confession from her. I sense that sending a swat team to kick her door in and arrest her will cause Rebecca Harper to clam up like a shell and we’ll get nothing from her. She trusts me. Something… don’t ask me why, I hardly know the woman, fuck, I don’t know the woman at all as it transpires, and yet I feel that she feels she knows me. We had a beautiful moment, fleeting in time.

And it’s this hunch, to use a word I don’t particularly like, that I think will lead me to the pearl inside that closed shell. Whatever the outcome, and I hope to hell it’s the latter because regardless, Woods is going to have me by the proverbials for this one.

I spritz myself with the Tom Ford cologne that Rach loved. ‘Good enough to eat’ she used to say whenever I wore it, which was a massive compliment coming from a chef. I wear a white linen shirt and dark indigo Diesel jeans, my best pair, with a pair of Superdry black Chelsea boots, casual-trendy, or trendy-casual, I’m never sure which it is. I style my hair with some sweet-smelling putty stuff I’ve had in the cabinet since The Spice Girls were at number one. It’s getting a little long on top and I’ve noticed a few more greys recently, but Rachel always liked it a little on the longer side, ‘I’ll make a hippie of you yet!’

I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror and I’m hit by a wave of sadness. Grief and fear strike me simultaneously like an out-of-control truck. Rachel, Nigel and Janet Baxter, Karen Walker… and worse still, Rebecca Harper. I try to will it back and remind myself of my duty, but it’s there, grief and sadness for her too. I sluice with some minty mouthwash and tell myself to save these emotions, save them for when this is over; it’s almost over now and I need to show up for myself more than ever. I can’t afford sentiment, but I still feel it inside, I feel like I’m losing my nerve; it’s not a strong as it once was, not as strong as it was when Rachel was alive.

I check my watch, it’s almost 7 p.m. Davis should be at the restaurant now and I need to get going. ‘Wish me luck,’ I whisper to myself in the mirror, but really I’m talking to her – the ghost of Rach is all around me. I switch off the light.