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The weight of his falling body was too much for her and she lost her grip. She watched as he tumbled down, his shoulder crashing against the metal banister, his torso banging against the marble-tiled stairs. As he hit the first landing, his head struck the corner of the stairwell and his body twisted on to the hard floor. A pool of blood slowly spread across the pale polished surface.

‘Jesus,' Brady said from behind her, peering down the staircase. ‘He doesn't look so good.'

Marie lay on the floor, gasping for breath, staring down at the prone body below. ‘You know what?' she managed to say at last. ‘I'm really struggling to give a fuck.'

‘How are things?'

‘Sorry?' Brennan's voice echoed slightly, lost in a noisier space. ‘I'm in the car. On the hands-free.'

‘I said how are things?'

‘Not so bad. They had to drop all the disciplinary stuff, obviously. Fully exonerated. No stain on my career. All that bollocks.'

‘That's good,' Marie said. ‘Are you back to work, then?'

‘Will be soon,' he said. ‘Need to talk to you about that. But they've let me take a couple of weeks off. Probably more to help them save a bit of face than anything else, but I'm not complaining.'

‘Enjoy it,' she said. ‘I'm off at the moment, too. Compassionate leave. Probably the best thing, but it's driving me mad. I'll be going back soon, I think. Not sure what to yet, though. They're still trying to work out what to do with me.'

‘You and me both, then,' he laughed. ‘Sometimes think they feel more comfortable with bent cops than straight ones. Speaking of which, what's happening with Salter?'

‘He's on remand. Seems to have recovered okay. Concussion, broken arm, several broken ribs. Some internal bleeding. But if you're going to throw yourself down a hard staircase, best do it in a hospital.'

‘You reckon he threw himself?'

‘Christ knows. The whole thing's bizarre. There was enough morphine injected in Welsby's drip to fell a horse, though only a limited amount had actually entered his bloodstream. Not much question that Salter put it there. His fingerprints are all over the syringe. Looks like he started to do it while Welsby was asleep and then Welsby woke up, saw what was happening and tried to stop it. And that was when we came in.'

‘Salter couldn't have expected to get away with it, surely?'

‘Don't see how. There are no other serious suspects. The only other possible culprits would have been Lizzie, the medical staff and the two prison officers. My guess is that it was just a last despairing gesture on Salter's part. He thought that Standards were on to him. He knew that Welsby was planning to denounce him at his trial. Things were closing in fast. I reckon his plan was to kill Welsby then top himself. That was why he threw himself down the stairs. Closest he could get in the circumstances.'

‘Did it look like he threw himself?'

‘Maybe. I don't know, in all honesty. I was trying to grab his feet. Maybe that made him trip. Or maybe he jumped. It's hard for me to care. All I care about is that he's going to stand trial. Probably for attempted murder or manslaughter. And certainly for corruption.'

‘Standards have a decent case, then?'

‘Cut and dried. They've dug up a whole network of bank accounts. He was getting payments all over the place. And he was smart. Never let it showed in his lifestyle. Mind you, from what they've found so far, it still doesn't entirely stack up with the idea that he was the real brains behind Boyle's operation. But maybe there's still more for them to find.'

‘Or maybe Salter had covered his tracks too well.'

‘Maybe. He's smart enough. Or was until the end.'

‘Marie, just got to my destination. Got a meeting with someone. Maybe an hour or so. Can I call you back? Got a couple of things I want to talk to you about.'

‘Yes, sure. I'm around all morning.'

Marie ended the call and sat back on the sofa. She looked around the small living room, mentally totting up the various items that would eventually need packing. It was a small house, but there still seemed to be an awful lot of them. Something to look forward to.

Was she doing the right thing?

Christ knows, she thought. She'd spoken to friends and family, and inevitably they'd given her contradictory advice. Some had said that it was too early for her to be making any decisions. You've got to allow yourself to grieve properly, some said. Whatever properly meant. It hasn't hit you yet. You're probably still in a state of shock. Take your time. There's no rush. Except that, if only in her own head, there was. It was only a week or so, but she felt already that she was in a state of suspended animation. A frozen body waiting to be reawakened

Some had said that moving was the last thing she should be doing. Too much change all at once, they said. You've lost Liam. You don't want to be casting away everything you associate with him. You don't want to be drawing a line under your whole life all at once. What about your friends?

Well, what about them? Few of them lived in this part of London, anyway. Some were north of the river. Others had moved away from London entirely. In any case she wasn't changing her whole life. She was going to continue with the same or at least similar work. She still had to have that conversation with the powers-that-be. They seemed keen for her to continue the undercover work. She had a natural aptitude for it. If they said so, she thought. It had never really felt that way to her. They'd also told her that, if she preferred, she could move back into standard investigations work. She was good at that, too.

Whatever the outcome, they'd left her in no doubt that she'd emerged unscathed, in career terms, from the debacle. She'd been unfortunate enough to find herself working with two officers who turned out to be corrupt, and she'd played a part in exposing both of them. She was exactly the kind of officer they wanted. When she returned, a promotion would be forthcoming in due course. Blah, blah, blah. She was happy to hear it said, but she treated the praise and promises with the scepticism they deserved. She just wanted to get back, do a decent job, keep her nose clean.

And she wanted to get away from here. Sell up this place and move – well, where? So far, she hadn't progressed much beyond ‘somewhere else'. One or two friends agreed with her. They could understand why she didn't want to be rattling round this place, constantly reminded of Liam and what they'd had. What they'd expected always to have. She'd loved Liam. She missed him. But she didn't want to be constantly haunted by his absence.

So she'd move. Soon. Somewhere. Maybe take the opportunity to transfer out of London. Maybe up north. Maybe Manchester, if the option was there. She'd have those discussions when she returned to work, and then make the final decision.

She rose and walked over to the sitting room window, looking out on the dull terraced street beyond. Beyond the lines of parked cars, she could see the streetlamp under which Morrissey had stood on the night of Liam's death. Morrissey was still out there somewhere. No longer working for Salter, but still killing for a living. She shivered slightly and turned away, resuming her restless pacing of the house. She was waiting for something to happen. Waiting for the phone to ring. Waiting for the future to get in touch. Waiting for life to restart.

‘It's an e-ticket booking,' he said, brandishing the print-out of the confirmation.

The attendant behind the check-in desk scarcely glanced up. ‘That's fine, sir. I just need your passport in that case.'

He nodded and slid the document across the desk towards her. Her head still lowered, she flicked briskly through the pages and then tapped on the keyboard in front of her. ‘Mr Marshall. Travelling to Barcelona?'

‘That's right.'

She looked up then, finally, and he smiled at her. After a moment, she smiled back. ‘It's a good likeness,' she said, gesturing towards the open passport. ‘The passport photo, I mean. Usually, it looks nothing like the holder.' She laughed. ‘It could be anyone standing in front of me.'

He nodded, still smiling. He'd decided to check in early and there was no queue behind him. The attendant obviously had time on her hands. It didn't worry him. There were times when he'd waited for a queue to build just to ensure that his presence wasn't registered. But today he felt relaxed, unworried. He'd done the job well and was confident that no one was on his tail. ‘Got it done professionally,' he said. ‘Hate those photo-booths. Make everyone look like a hired killer.'

He'd had the whole passport expertly prepared, in fact. Spent what was needed to get the best possible job. For the next two months at least, he was Geoff Marshall, a freelance engineering consultant.

‘Or a terrorist,' she agreed, still laughing. ‘Window or aisle?' She completed the check-in, tagging his luggage before it disappeared along the conveyor belt, waiting while the boarding cards printed. ‘There we go. Should be board-ing at three twenty. Security's slow today, so I'd recommend you make your way through as soon as you can.'

He wondered vaguely whether security was slow because they were still keeping an eye out for him. He thought it unlikely. He'd waited a month before arranging his departure. They'd have lost interest by now, if they'd ever had any. And even if they'd somehow acquired an old photograph of him, he'd never be recognised now. ‘Thank you,' he said, pocketing the passport and boarding-card.

‘Holiday?' she asked, clearly keen to string out the conversation.

‘Bit of a break,' he said. He was dressed in a cream linen jacket, a slightly over-garish shirt. ‘Just finished a tough contract, so thought I'd get away for a few weeks. Enjoy the sunshine.'

‘The way the weather's been here,' she said, ‘you might be tempted not to come back.'

‘I don't think so.' He paused, as if a new thought had just struck him. ‘No, I'll definitely be back. I'm very lucky, you see. Because I really love my work. And I always like to finish the job.'

He nodded to her, still smiling, and then he turned and began to make his way unhurriedly towards Departures.

Brennan pulled into the entrance of the imposing new hotel. It was one of a rash of luxury hotels that were springing up on the edges of the city centre. He couldn't imagine how there was a market for them all, with the economy in its current state, but the developers seemed confident enough.

He pulled out of the wintry sunlight and followed the curving road down into the underground car park. It took him a few minutes to find a space and then cross to the lift that took him up to reception. He didn't have a room number, so he asked at the desk.

‘Mr Douglas?' the efficient-looking receptionist said, tapping into her computer. ‘Room 801. On the top floor. One of the suites. Would you like me to call up?'

He shook his head. ‘He's expecting me. Don't worry.'

Brennan made his way to the lifts and ascended to the eighth floor, cocooned by plush padded walls and almost inaudible music. This place was a cut above even the most upmarket places available on a copper's expenses.

He tapped gently on the door of Room 801, and then a little harder as realised how the thickness of the wood swallowed the sound. A moment later, it was opened.

‘Keep your hair on, Jack. Coming as fast as I can.'

‘Wasn't sure you'd heard. Like knocking on the door of Fort Knox.'

Brennan followed Andy McGrath into the suite's living area. It was impressive enough, in a sterile kind of way, he thought. There was a wide picture window providing a panoramic view out over the city centre, from the CIS Tower to the Hilton spire, with countless more attractive buildings in between. Capacious well-stuffed sofas lined the walls. There was a large central table laden with a tray of coffee and tea.

A heavily built man was splayed across one of the sofas, dressed only in a disconcertingly gaping bathrobe. His head was shaven, his ears and one nostril studded with gold. He wore a Rolex which might or might not have been genuine. There was a glass of what looked like Scotch in his hand. He looked up as Brennan entered and gestured him to take a seat. ‘Come in, Jack. Make yourself at home.'

Brennan nodded. ‘Pete. How you doing?'

‘Much better now, Jack, thanks for asking. Thought we'd all celebrate with a decent meal and a night in this place. Pity you weren't able to join us.'

Brennan shrugged. He wasn't aware he'd been invited.

Boyle waved the half-empty glass of Scotch towards Brennan. ‘Drink?'

‘Bit early for me. I'll stick with the coffee.'

‘Help yourself. We're all in your debt, Jackie.'

Brennan shook his head. ‘I didn't do much. She did the hard stuff, in every sense. You okay, Lizzie?' Up to that moment, he hadn't registered her presence. She was sitting at a desk, tucked behind the door, tapping away at the keyboard of a laptop.

‘Not so bad, considering,' she said, scarcely looking up.

‘Sorry about your dad,' Brennan said, awkwardly. ‘Not your fault.'

She shrugged, still gazing at the computer screen. ‘No. And it was what he wanted, in the end. He didn't want to have to stand trial. Didn't want that kind of exposure.'

‘They reckon it wasn't the morphine.' McGrath added. ‘The coronary would have happened sooner or later. Probably sooner. And probably didn't help to have Salter leaping on top of him.'

‘Still sad,' Brennan said. ‘Decent guy.'

‘Decent guy who got too near Jeff fucking Kerridge,' Boyle said. ‘No offence, Lizzie.'

Lizzie seemed unconcerned. ‘Just business, isn't it? You and Kerridge had a falling out. He had to choose. Maybe chose wrong. But you'd already got Salter under your wing. Which, looking back, maybe wasn't such a smart move in itself.'