Finch was a bastard, but he knew his job. He didn't fuck about, and when it came down to it, Coleridge was a bastard, too.

"Understand?"

"I'll get on it. You want to get off the phone?"

"There's more. I'll call you back in a half hour or so."

"Get off the fucking phone, then."

"Boss?"

"What?" Impatient. Knowing he had a job to do. Getting ready to do it.

"Cheers."

"Right. Half hour." He hung up.

Coleridge stuffed a biscuit in his mouth. He was a bastard alright. A psycho threatens your wife and you eat biscuits instead of calling out some protection, you qualify as a bastard.

He picked up the phone again and dialed his ex's number.

"Hello?"

"She there?"

"What do you want?"

"It's important. Put her on."

The painter and decorator muttered a bit under his breath, but after a minute or so she came to the phone.

She'd always slept naked. He wondered if she was naked now. He bit into a biscuit while he was wondering.

"Coleridge, it's two o'clock in the morning. What is it?"

"Don't have a fit, but you know this guy that's been killing mediums? Killed a cop yesterday?"

"I heard. Anyone you knew?"

"Barely. But listen, the thing is..." He didn't really know where to go with that sentence, so he started again. "Look, things have gotten a bit crazy over the last day or so, and he's losing it, OK? I don't want you to worry, but some policemen are going to come over. They should be there pretty soon. I'm fairly sure they'll only need to stay the day, maybe the night, but then it'll be over, right?"

"What are you saying? We're in danger?"

"Not the painter."

"Terry. His name is Terry."

"Whatever. Just listen to me. Do what they say, alright? No work. Call in sick, you know, women's problems if you have to. It's just for twenty-four hours."

"What's going on?"

"I haven't got the time to explain. It's probably nothing, and the police are just a precaution. They'll know what they're about, so do what they say."

"Coleridge, is he coming here?"

Maybe, he thought, but he didn't say that. What would be the point? He was a bastard, but he'd never been cruel. Even now, listening to her voice, imagining her naked with the painter listening in, he didn't want to hurt her.

"It's just a precaution. And it's only for twenty-four hours, max. No big deal. Just being careful."

"Is he after you?"

A little pity might not hurt. "He reckons so. I'm a big guy though. I can take it."

"I'm sure you can, but be careful, won't you?"

A smaller man might have asked why, or asked if she did care after all.

"I'll be fine. I've got to go."

"There's lights outside."

"That'll be them. Don't worry, OK? It's probably nothing, but they're insurance, just the same. I'll check you later."

"Be careful."

"I will. Bye," he said. "Love you." Shit. Reflex. He hung up before he could hear whether she returned it or not. Either way'd suck.

Coleridge checked his watch. 2:25 AM. Close enough. He put his fingers into the biscuit pack and came out empty. Looked at his tea. He'd drunk it.

He picked up the phone and got on with it.

Chapter Forty-Eight.

Coleridge called his station in Norwich. Got Feargus on the phone. Poor bastard had pulled nightshift. Fuck, probably every cop in the county was on overtime except for this little piss pot station.

"Feargus, it's Coleridge. Harvey there?"

"Harvey?"

"Don't fuck about. Harvey. Weak chin, shitty little goatee. He in?"

"Yeah, but, where the fuck are you? The boss has been trying to get you all night. What's going on with Elizabeth Willis? I heard she was attacked."

"She was, but she's all right. Boss'll fill you in. I've got to call him in." Coleridge checked his watch. "Shit, three minutes ago. Come on, put Harvey on."

He heard Feargus shout across the room, the clatter of the phone as he put it down and transferred it. Harvey picked it up.

"Harvey."

"Right, you cunt. I know it was you who snitched to Sam Wright."

"What? I don't..."

"I ain't got the time. You want to make it right?"

"You've got some fucking balls, Coleridge."

"Big fat ones. Boss is going to be calling in some help today. You get on to the press. Clearly, you're good at that. I want a call put out, get it? I don't want it in the paper. The deal is the press get there, they get their shots. Video, whatever you call it nowadays with those fiddly little cameras. I don't care. Nothing goes live until the boss gives the say so. I want cameras everywhere, you understand?"

"No. I haven't got a fucking clue. What are you on about?"

"There's going to be a siege at Elizabeth Willis' tonight. He's a bastard, this one. I don't know what's up with it. I just know I want eyes. The boss is bringing the police. I want eyes everywhere. Night vision, recording. It'll be after dark. I'm covering the bases. I'm going to be in there with her, but if he gets in, gets out, I want his face. Understand?"

"But didn't you hear? We got him."

"A dead man. A dead man who left a present for Beth Willis tonight on her doorstep. Sound like you got him?"

"Fuck."

"My thoughts exactly," said Coleridge. "Cameras. Everywhere. Got it?"

"I got it."

"Good. Now move your ass."

He hung up.

Now, what else?

Oh, yeah.

He picked up the phone again. Called from memory. It was picked up on first ring.

"You're late," said Finch.

"Love you, too," he said. "Here's what I need."

"You better tell me what the fuck's going on before we go anywhere."

Coleridge checked his watch. 2:40 AM. He ticked it over in his head. Now that he'd had a snack he could think again. Phone Beth?

No. Let her sleep. Nothing was going to happen until tonight. Was it?

No. He was sure of it. You don't phone a policeman and offer him out like that on a whim. The bastard was showing off. He'd be there when dark fell. Not before.

"Coleridge? You jerking off?"

He needed to get to Sawyer's house, and he had a long drive ahead of him, but he couldn't just blow off his boss.

"Just thinking. Same thing, maybe," he said, shrugging even though Finch couldn't see him. "OK, here goes," he said, and gave the boss the biggest pile of bullshit he'd ever spouted in his life.

Chapter Forty-Nine.

Peter Willis sat up on the bed and saw he was still dressed from the night before. He looked around at a standard motel room. Patterned wallpaper, patterned carpet, patterned curtains. TV in the corner, a small kettle.

Not his house. He rubbed his eyes and yawned, his jaw cracking.

It took him a while to figure out where he was. Leeds. Conference. Why was he wearing his clothes?

He saw the key ring still on his finger and remembered. The news, the worry. A policeman killed in Norfolk, not far from Beth's. He'd tried to call her.

He tried again, but Beth's phone was still dead.

What about Beth?

He phoned for the number to the local police, got the operator to put him straight through, but all he got was a busy signal. Call back when it was less busy.

Out of desperation he called 911. Got another operator.

"What is the nature of the emergency?"

"I'm worried about my wife. My ex-wife."

"Do you need the fire department, an ambulance...?"

"Police. Put me through to the police."

"Hold, please."

He held. It didn't ring again; he was put straight through. He imagined someone answering the phone, wearing a headset, sitting in front of a computer.

"Hello?" asked a businesslike voice, calm and assured. She probably took a hundred calls a day, trained in how to deal with distraught people. Peter just wished she'd get her finger out of her ass. He tried to speak faster, to transfer some of his fear to her. Get her to move quickly.

"I'm worried about my wife. I called last night. Someone said they'd call back. They didn't."

He felt like an asshole. He was trying to get the woman on the phone to move quickly, and he'd fallen asleep when he should have been doing something about it. Beth was all he had left of his family, and he'd let her down. She'd let him down, so many times, but he couldn't leave her hanging. He could never do that.