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office in the corner. As soon as he approached it, he saw the brown envelope that sat in the middle of his desk marked clearly in black biro, DI JACKMAN, ROTHER STREET STATION. There was a short line under his name. A single full stop below.
    He lifted it, ripped the end of the envelope and could barely believe his eyes at the contents. It was full of witness statements, phone logs, credit card statements relating to the Readman and Sharp cases. Incensed, he grabbed his phone and immediately dialled.
    Reilly picked up on the second ring, as if he was expecting the call. “Ah, Will. Good to hear from you.”
    “I’ve just found a pile of material on my desk.”
    “Oh, you’ve received your package. Good.”
    Jackman bit back his irritation. “What’s it doing here?”
    “Thought you might like to have a look through,” Reilly said. “See if anything jumps out at you.”
    “I’m up to my eyeballs with the misper at the moment. I really don’t think… ”
    “Don’t worry, I’ve cleared it with Janus. Just an hour or so of your time. Since you’ve been at the forefront of the investigation the chief constable felt it might be helpful if you cast your eye over it. Kind of ‘belt and braces’, leaving no stone unturned and all that.”
    Jackman ground his teeth together, tossed the envelope aside and ended the call. He could never understand why Reilly had taken a detective role, particularly as a senior investigating officer in charge of major crime where every case decision had to be justified and recorded, every strategic decision outlined in detail. The weight of the press, the family, the public, superiors who all wanted a resolution pressed on your shoulders as each hour passed. Yet Reilly made no attempt to hide his dislike of frontline policing. To him the move was temporary, another notch on his management CV.
    But Jackman knew the score here. If something was missed later on, something that they needed, that the evidence relied upon for a conviction, Reilly would be able to say Jackman didn’t notice it. Some people would go to any amount of trouble to shirk responsibility.
    A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Davies’ face appeared. “Sir, I think you need to come and take a look at this.”
    He followed her into the incident room. Several officers were crowded around Keane’s computer in the corner. They parted to let Jackman through.
    Keane turned to face him. “This is the camera footage from the Old Thatch Tavern last night.” He whisked back to his computer screen and clicked the mouse. There was only one exit/entrance door to the pub for customers and it was in full view. For a couple of seconds, nothing happened. Then a grainy image entered the screen. The figure was tall, wearing a navy shirt and jeans. Suddenly the figure turned back for a split second before exiting the pub. Tom. Jackman checked the time in the corner of the screen. It was 10.45pm. Tom must have popped outside to check if Min was still there.
    Jackman raised his head, perplexed, and shot Davies a glance.
    She lifted a flat hand, said nothing.
    Keane clicked fast forward to 10.46pm. Tom re-entered the pub.
    Jackman shifted position. “What are we meant to be looking at?”
    “Wait,” Keane said. His tongue was visible, pushed against his top lip as he moved the footage on further, stopping at 11.05pm. For a moment all was quiet. Then the same figure approached the door and exited the pub. The door swung shut behind him.
    Keane swivelled his chair to face them. “We catch him returning later at exactly 11.33pm. He was gone for almost half an hour.”
    “What was our devoted boyfriend doing leaving the pub again?” Jackman said.
    Davies raised a brow. “That’s the question.”

    Jackman rested his elbow on the armrest and balanced his chin on his thumb. His forefinger lingered along the line of his lip for several moments as he surveyed Tom Steele.
    Tom had been brought back to the police station on the