Erika made some calls, and discovered that Edward had been admitted to the Manchester Royal Infirmary Hospital in the early hours of the morning. He’d had a fall, and had to have an emergency hip replacement operation. There had been complications, and he had been placed in intensive care.

It was late, but Isaac offered to drive her up from London to Manchester, reminding her she was far over the limit. He had thrown some things for himself into an overnight bag, but she didn’t want to waste any more time driving back her to her flat, so they set off straight away.

The snow was falling steadily, and Erika was quiet in the car. When they reached the top of the M25 motorway, a huge sign appeared up ahead for THE NORTH’. As it passed above them on the dark motorway, she felt fear and trepidation. This would be the first time she’d returned to Manchester since Mark’s death.

‘What are we going to do when we reach the hospital?’ asked Isaac, looking at the GPS on the dashboard.

‘I’m going to ask to see Edward, of course.’

‘The GPS is saying we’ll get there just after three in the morning. They won’t let you in to see him.’

‘What do you think we should do?’

‘Where does Edward live?’ asked Isaac, flicking on the windscreen wipers.

‘Slaithwaite; it’s a small town in Yorkshire, about an hour from Manchester.’

Isaac tapped in the details and waited as the GPS recalculated the route.

‘It’s saying we can get to Slaithwaite a little earlier than we would get to Manchester…’

‘But it’s close to the Dales, and Edward talked about snow,’ said Erika, peering out as the headlights lit up the whirling snow outside.

‘Do you want to stay near the hospital in a hotel, then?’

Erika thought of how close Manchester Royal Infirmary was to the house she owned – the house she’d lived in with Mark, which was now rented out. It was less than three miles away. She hadn’t been back there since the day Mark died. Friends of theirs still lived close by, people she hadn’t seen since then. The windscreen wipers dragged rhythmically across the windscreen and the leather heated seats in Isaac’s Jeep Cherokee made her feel sleepy.

‘No, let’s head for Slaithwaite,’ she said.

Isaac switched on the radio very low, and a news reporter started to murmur. Erika thought of their house. She’d left that morning, the morning of the raid on the drug den in outer Manchester. A mass shoot-out had killed Mark and four other officers in her team – officers she had called friends. She’d known their wives. One of their wives had been a civilian support officer on the same team.

The news report on the radio moved to a story about fighting in the Middle East, and faint gunshots could be heard. Isaac reached over and changed to a music station.

Erika had been shot during the raid: a bullet had passed through her neck, narrowly missing major arteries. She’d been airlifted to hospital, and had spent two weeks recovering in intensive care, only emerging to attend Mark’s funeral. She’d never gone back to their house. She’d arranged for a removal company to take out all their things and put them in storage.

It had shocked Erika, how easy it had been to pack up her former life. A few phone calls and a large chunk of cash had meant that she had never had to deal with any of it. The house was now rented to people she had never met.

The car ploughed on through the snow, lulling her into an exhausted sleep.

---

It had been early when she’d left the house on the day of the drug raid – before seven – but it had been summer, and the sun had been streaming through the windows in the kitchen. She’d grabbed her phone off the kitchen table. There had been fruit in the bowl, an apple and a banana, and there had been two tickets on the kitchen counter for them to go and see a Woody Allen film that night: Magic in the Moonlight.

Erika had had the opportunity to offload the case to another team, but she’d held onto it, like a dog with a bone. She had been tracking the drug dealer Jerome Goodman for the past two years, and she’d wanted to nail the bastard.

But where had that got her? She’d taken the risk and lost her husband, her four colleagues, and nearly lost her life. Although, the life she’d been left with wasn’t anything to write home about. And to top it all, Jerome Goodman had vanished. He was still at large. Still out there.

In her fitful sleep, her thoughts moved to Edward. Why hadn’t she been more vigilant? Why hadn’t she spent more time with him, or made more of an effort to see him? Why didn’t she know his mobile phone number? She saw him lying on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. A bone sticking out of his leg, pushing through the material of the old towelling pyjamas he wore… But in her dream, it was snowing inside… And behind the stairs there was no wall… She moved to help Edward, but he had changed. It was Marissa lying there, but there were no stairs, she was lying on the path outside the front of the house, half-covered in snow and frozen blood… Erika crouched down and Marissa opened her eyes; blood started to pour from her mouth and she reached up to grab at Erika…

---

‘Erika? Erika?’

Her eyes snapped open and the dark interior of the car came back. It was warm, and on the radio, ‘Do They Know It’s Christmas?’ was playing. Isaac was looking over at her. ‘You okay?’

‘How long was I asleep?’

‘A couple of minutes… You were shouting out names: Edward, Mark and Marissa.’

Erika rubbed her eyes.

‘Just a dream,’ she said.

‘Do you want to stay at Edward’s place? We’ll get some sleep, and then go over to the hospital for visiting?’

‘Yeah. Are you still okay to drive?’ She peered outside, but there was darkness all around. Only the snow-covered motorway was visible.

Isaac nodded. ‘We’ve got another couple of hours at least. Get some sleep, if you want.’

‘No. Let’s talk, about anything. Anything but work.’