Page 136 of Slack Tide Kill

"OK. Set it up."

"Spate laughed in our faces this time." His tone shifted. "We'll have to go firmer."

"Firmer," Sally repeated. "Within bounds though, Liam."

"I'll take lead," was all he said. It wasn't agreement, but she didn't want to push harder now. "You said a couple hours?"

Sally checked her phone. "Traffic's rough. Maybe two. I keep hearing about bad weather. How's it looking down there?"

"Heavy rain. Wind's picking up."

"Same old, then. See you in two hours, Liam."

"See you."

He hung up, and there was silence in the car. Sally looked out the window into the rainy London exurbs. Her muscles still ached, her eyes stung. She'd slept maybe five hours, which had barely brought any recovery.

But it was good Liam was talking to her again. That had to help, even if he was colder now. With the storm inbound and the flood of media attention, everything seemed to be speeding up. They just had to run faster. Outrun it all. Even the killer who'd been planning this moment for 30 years.

59 LIKE A GLOVE

In just over 90 minutes the cab entered Rye. The little town was muted by a gray downpour; the streets quiet and running with rivulets of water. They reached the police station and she got out. The press presence had doubled. Media vans lined the narrow road with large canvas pagodas erected to shelter their gear. Reporters clustered at the edge of the tape line, but all were strangely muted.

Waiting. The Gaze piece had done its work, and Sally felt the feral hunger building in the air. These people weren't just looking for the story; they were hunting for scalps. This was money, attention, careers on the edge of being made or broken. No wasted effort. Everything conserved until the moment came.

She ducked her head and barreled through to the front doors. Questions rang after her, but nobody seemed to recognize who she was.

Yet.

Inside, the station thrummed with a panicky, frantic energy. The duty sergeant was new and stared at Sally in disbelief. In the bullpen beyond, officers thronged the open space, voices low but urgent, files and radios in hand.

Sally saw people she recognized: Hawlin, Simms, Flaherty and Gemmell sharing coffees and sandwiches around a desk strewn with files; Mayhew giving a briefing to a tight knot of people beside a whiteboard covered in details. Sally headed over, and heads turned as she squeezed by. Silence spread like ripples from a boat's hull.

She focused on the board.

As far as she could see, they had very little. Scots Float Sluice was up there. A few pubs around Appledore. The Snave Rotary club. There was even less on Mensah. She was primarily based in London, it seemed; Hackney. Her whole network was laid out, but no deeper connection to Bledd; their romance seemed a new thing.

None of it felt relevant. They needed to go earlier, before the killer laid this false trail, back to something solid.

Mayhew registered her approach and turned.

"I'm back, DCI," Sally said.

Mayhew's eyes were as cold as ever. "Congratulations on the article, Officer Rogers." The words carried across the bullpen. "Very tasteful."

Somebody laughed. Sally gritted her teeth. "I am sorry about that. It wasn't my–"

"I don't care. And I wouldn't believe you anyway. But you're here now, so get to work. I'm done trying to corral you. O'Connell says you're working alternative leads, and that works for me. Leave Bledd to us."

"Yes, ma'am," Sally said.

For a moment the two looked at each other. Did Mayhew's expression soften slightly?

"Dismissed," the DCI said, then turned away before Sally could be certain.

She turned to survey the bullpen. Eyes looked away rapidly. There were copies of the Gaze scattered about. The photograph of her charging through the storm had been pinned to one wall. It was already stuck with a handful of darts, mostly focused on her face. Nearby there was a photograph of Emily Chakrati. Flowers, cards and candles filled the cabinet top beneath it.

Like a shrine.