Rachel smoothed out the newspaper on the table in front of her and read the article. The facts were more or less correct. There were large, flattering photos of Tiffany Kovak and Melissa Downey, and a smaller one of Clayton Hill. Harland Rowe had been dubbed ‘The CasaMia Killer’. That was inevitable, however much Paulie Greenaway would hate it.

The prosecution in Phoebe and Tiffany’s murders would be brought by the State of California, which had abandoned use of the death penalty in recent years. So had North Carolina, where Melissa Downey and Clayton hill died. Rachel couldn’t help thinking of the syringe full of potassium chloride that almost ended her own life. And yet she would not have wanted Harland to be put to death. She pictured her locked up in prison with hundreds of other female inmates. Would she still be trying to plot revenge on that community’s mean girls? Possibly. Or maybe, just maybe, there was some hope for her rehabilitation. But in the meantime Rachel wanted her safely locked away where she could no longer harm other people.

She checked her phone. She had texted Brickall and asked him to join her in the Pin and Needle, but he had not replied. There had been plenty of non-replies from him since their return from the USA three weeks ago. Her two weeks of mandatory medical leave were over, and she had been offered a date on the next round of DCI boards. Easter had been and gone, along with Lindsay’s chicken versus lamb debate and all the attendant family reproaches. Joe had joined them for the family meal this year, along with Sophie. And all the while her attempts to communicate with Brickall had met with a wall of silence, just as they had when she had taken the leave she was owed and returned to the States. But enough was enough. Now that she was set to return to normal duties, they needed to have it out. Whether his behaviour was to do with the release of Shaun Rawlings, or something else, she needed to find out what was going on.

She had finished reading the ‘CasaMia Murders’ article and was skim-reading the rest of the paper while making inroads into a bottle of Zinfandel when the door was slammed open and Brickall walked in. He slapped his phone and wallet on the table before plonking himself into the seat opposite her.

‘All right?’ He glowered.

‘Hello stranger.’ Rachel’s smile was more benign than she felt. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘I’m not stopping.’

‘Look, Detective Sergeant—’

Brickall glanced at the newspaper. ‘Still obsessing about that fucking case?’

Rachel folded it up and put it in her bag.

‘I know you’re annoyed with me. I’ve been away from the office a long time. A lot longer than I would like. But I’m back on Monday—’

‘If you can even remember where the place is.’

‘Look, I know you’ve had a difficult couple of months. I’m also aware my actions have had consequences for you, and I’m sorry. Your workload must have been hellish for the last month or so, and I promise as soon as I’m back, I’m going to work all the hours God gives to take over my share again and get things back to normal.’

‘Normal!’ he scoffed. ‘Are you sure you even know what that is, Prince?’

‘Detective Inspector to you.’

‘Fuck’s sake.’

‘Mark, give me a break. I’ve had a bollocking for acting without authorisation, and been made to take enforced sick leave. I’ve still probably got to go back to the States to give evidence in both of Harland’s trials, unless she decides to cave and plead guilty. I’ve said I’m going to pull my weight in the meantime. What more do you want from me? Blood?’

Brickall was staring at her, and his expression was still hostile.

‘You really don’t get it, do you?’

‘Get what? Explain it to me.’

‘You nearly died. I know – I was there. If it weren’t for me being there, you would have done.’

‘I told you. I told you over and over. I’m grateful.’

‘It’s not that. It’s not about gratitude. I was scared. So scared. After being in the force for ten years there isn’t much that frightens me, but I really thought I’d lost you.’ His face coloured as he spoke, and his hand went reflexively to his phone, tapping it on the table.

Rachel waited.

‘That’s why I’m so angry with you. Because every second I was on that fucking plane to Baltimore, I thought you were going to show up in a body bag.’

He’s like a parent whose child takes off without permission, thought Rachel. The minute they’re found, the relief makes them furious. It was her turn to feel her face going pink.

‘I’m sorry.’ She looked down at her hands. ‘I’m really sorry I put you through that.’ Rachel stood up and went to the bar, coming back with a second wine glass, which she filled for him.

‘I just don’t get it, Prince,’ Brickall’s tone was stern, but she could tell that the storm of his anger was blowing over. ‘Can’t you see how you were acting? You just became obsessed. It wasn’t normal. It wasn’t professional.’

Rachel sighed. ‘I can see now that I was a little… taken over by Phoebe’s case.’

‘You think?’ His voice dripped with sarcasm.

‘But I did try to get you involved. I took you up to Birmingham with me. And if you’d been able to join me in the States, that would have been brilliant. There was hardly a day out there that I didn’t wish you were there too. Swear to God.’

Brickall swallowed several mouthfuls of wine, so as not to have to appear mollified. ‘I doubt that, Prince. Would have cramped your style while you were shagging your hunky Interpol agent.’

‘Nothing happened between us. Scout’s honour.’

She held up her middle three fingers in the Scout salute, and they both laughed. ‘You must be losing your touch, Prince.’ Brickall said, but she could tell that he was pleased. ‘So is that completely over, then?’

‘It never even started.’ She scrutinised his face, running a mental check. ‘How about you? What’s the latest on Rawlings?’

Brickall grimaced. ‘Still enjoying his freedom.’

‘He’ll slip up again; his type always do.’

‘Oh, for sure. And don’t worry, when he does, I’ll make sure I’m there to see the bastard banged up again.’

Rachel nodded her approval. ‘So…’ she said, after taking a large gulp of wine. ‘Am I forgiven?’

Brickall curled his lip. ‘Possibly. Depends how you behave.’

Again, the once-frightened-now-gruff parent speaking. His face became serious. ‘But I want you to promise me something.’

‘Of course.’

‘Don’t ever do anything like that again. Don’t ever get a bee in your bonnet about a bloody case and go rogue. Not without taking me along too.’

Rachel grinned. ‘I think I can manage that. If you think you’re man enough.’

‘Cut the crap, Prince, and go and get us another bottle of wine.’

Rachel’s left leg became stuck under the table and she knocked her glass over, splashing the dregs over Brickall’s wallet in a crimson stain.

‘Some things will never change, Prince,’ he laughed. ‘Strike One.’