Merry Christmas from Worthing! trumpeted the lights on the seafront.

The town did not feel merry in the slightest, with a gunmetal sky, clammy sea mist and streets devoid of any activity bar SALE signs in the shop windows. It was probably quite nice in high summer, Rachel thought, trudging from West Worthing station in the direction of Goring-by-Sea. She stopped at a neat semi-detached brick bungalow and rang the doorbell.

‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ Brickall stood on the doorstep wearing jeans and a sweater with a reindeer on the front.

‘I thought we ought to have a proper chat.’

‘How did you find me? Oh, wait, don’t tell me you breached the Data Protection Act and found my grandmother’s address on the PNC. Because that would be insanely fucking hypocritical, in the circumstances.’

‘Actually, I looked in the phone directory.’

Brickall grinned. ‘How very old-school of you, Prince.’

‘For our elderly population, the phone book is still very much a thing. And there are only three Brickalls in the Worthing directory. I reckoned my best bet was Edna Brickall, rather than Percy or Arthur.’

‘Hold on a sec.’ Brickall threw on a ski jacket and stuck his head round one of the doors in the hallway. ‘Just popping out, Nana.’

‘Where are we going?’ Rachel enquired.

‘To get some sea air. That’s just about all there is to do in Worthing.’

They walked together down to the Marine Parade, stopping to buy coffee, and a cake for Brickall, then found a bench on the seafront. Seagulls swooped around them in a circle, waiting for cake crumbs, and the sea fret made their faces damp.

‘How was your Christmas?’ Rachel asked.

He shrugged. ‘Quiet. Yours?’

‘Same. I’m not a big fan.’

Brickall stared out at the grey horizon. ‘I fucking hate Christmas.’

There was something in his tone that made Rachel turn and look at him. ‘Why’s that?’

‘Because that’s when Paul died. My brother.’ He blinked rapidly, and Rachel could tell from his expression that he was furious with himself for this lapse into emotion. She rested a gloved hand briefly on his wrist. ‘What happened to him?’

‘He was killed in a car crash. By a drunk driver.’

‘Shit, Mark; I’m so sorry.’

He jutted his chin. ‘That’s what made me want a career in the police. So I could lock up scum like that.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘My career in the police… yeah, right. Look how that worked out.’

‘Actually…’ Rachel swatted away a seagull and turned to face him. ‘That’s one of the reasons I’m here. I spoke to Patten yesterday, and he told me he’s heard back from the PCC. There’s still going to be a disciplinary hearing, and it will go on your record, but he’s had unofficial word that it’s going to be a six-month suspension only. A chunk of which you’ve already served.’

‘Thank fuck for that.’

Rachel’s tone became stern. ‘I hope you realise how lucky you’ve been. If things had gone badly, you could have been looking at a four-year stretch. Apparently Amber Crowley’s second statement – saying it was all a misunderstanding, and that she’d encouraged you – had a lot to do with it.’

Brickall gave her shoulder a brief squeeze. ‘And I have you to thank for that. You’re not such a loser after all, Prince. Or should I say, Mrs Ritchie.’

She shook her head. ‘Not any more. I’m divorced: it’s official.’

‘London’s male population has got to be running scared at the news.’

She thumped his arm. ‘Just hurry up and get back to work, because right now you’re about as much use as a vibrator in a mortuary.’

Brickall threw the remains of his cake to the gulls, pulled out his phone and checked the screen. ‘Speaking of locking up criminal scum: news update about Lola Jade also says Lisa Urquhart’s carked it. Nice one, Michelle: you probably killed your son, almost killed your daughter and now you’ve indirectly killed your sister.’ He looked up at Rachel. ‘Any news on what will happen to the kid?’

‘In foster care for now, but Gavin Harper could be released early on a supervision order, so all being well, she’ll be able to live with her dad before too long.’

Brickall whistled, shaking his head. ‘All that absolute shit Michelle put everyone through; all that deceit and destruction…’

‘And death. Don’t forget about poor TruthTella.’

‘… and death: all to avoid Gavin taking their daughter. And it looks like he’ll end up with her anyway.’

‘Oh, that reminds me. I visited Gavin and he wanted me to look at something online…’ Rachel pulled out her phone and scrolled through endless posts until she found the video clip for 13 September 2015. Lola’s sixth birthday. She held it up so that Brickall could watch too, and pressed play.

Gavin was filming a party held by his own family: Terry Harper, the Ingrams and the Whittiers were visible, but no Michelle. A cake with six lit candles had pride of place, surrounded by swags of sugar-pink balloons. ‘Where is she? Where’s the birthday girl?’ teased Gavin from behind the camera. Lola Jade came into shot, and Rachel and Brickall heard her speaking for the first time. After all these months, she finally had a voice.

‘Daddeeeeee!’ She launched herself into her father’s arms, sending the phone flying from his hand, and capturing a few seconds of carpet. Gavin refocused it on her face, lit up with a joyous smile. She had never looked like that in any of Michelle’s prized pictures. ‘You having a nice party, sweetheart?’

Lola Jade nodded vigorously. ‘It’s the best. Cus you’re the best daddy in the whole wide world!’ She flung her arms out wide and the clip ended with a freeze frame of the little girl’s beaming face.

‘I think the kid’s going to be all right, don’t you?’ asked Brickall.

Rachel nodded, standing up and extending her hand to pull Brickall to his feet. They walked arm in arm along West Parade, the icy drizzle at their backs.

‘I’d better head back to London. Not long before I have to pack my bags and leave the country again.’

‘Good old “Call me air miles” Prince… Where to this time?’

‘Sydney.’

He stopped in his tracks. ‘You’re kidding.’

She shook her head. ‘Nope. We’ve put in the extradition request for Michelle Harper, and Patten wants me to go.’

‘That’s one hell of a lot of air miles. But also twenty-plus hours on a plane handcuffed to the Mother of the Year. Or “the most hated woman in Britain”, as the tabloids are calling her.’

She grimaced. ‘I don’t want to go. At all.’

‘You could have got out of it. Found someone else.’

‘Possibly. But I need to see it through. Find my way to the very end of the maze.’

‘Belt and braces, DI Prince.’

She reached for his hand, and squeezed it. ‘Exactly, Detective Sergeant.’

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