Page 153 of Slack Tide Kill

Sally's phone rang.

DCI Mayhew. She answered.

"DCI."

"Officer Rogers." Mayhew's tone was flat. "You're bringing in Gerald Spate. Do you think he's the killer?"

"He confessed to child trafficking in the 90s," Sally said, the words coming out numbly. "He said Richter witnessed it, and Reginald Rook paid a hitman to take him out. The cockle shells were an attempt to deflect blame onto Arthur Bledd. We believe Arthur Bledd has been this hitman's patsy twice. Now, most likely, he's dead."

The line was silent.

"Is there any evidence other than this confession?"

"Not yet."

"And was there coercion?"

Sally looked at Liam. He looked back, as if he understood the question she now faced. This was the line. The moment of spin, the same moment Liam had faced after she'd hit Roarke Rook with her Mustang.

"It was chaotic, ma'am," she answered. "The storm. Spate was in his hot tub, and his generator started acting up. His porch tarpaulin ripped off in the wind. He got spooked and ran. His holiday park's a lake now, with all the rain, and he was almost swimming while we tried to get him out of the cold." She let a beat pass. None of that was exactly a lie. "It wasn't ideal conditions."

A moment of silence ticked by, filled by the frenzied swinging of the windshield wipers.

"But was there coercion?"

Sally took the leap. "Not that I saw, ma'am."

"Very well. We'll be ready for him. And Rogers?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good work."

The line died. Those words rang in Sally's ears. Not really praise, nor absolution. Maybe just recognition of a result. She looked at Liam and he looked back. Behind them, Spate continued to sob.

"Never again," Sally said softly.

Liam looked away.

She couldn't leave it like that, though. That kind of loyalty could easily morph into corruption. It was the kind of thing she'd wanted to get away from, coming here to join the NCA.

"I'm serious, Liam. Never again. For either of us."

He looked at her again, and for a moment she glimpsed the fear in his eyes. She knew exactly what that felt like.

Then he nodded.

That silent promise hung between them for the rest of the journey, breathing softly in the car. It felt like a return to who they both should be.

Rye came on them slow, a grim specter of black and gray, all the details washed out by the storm. Occasional faces loomed from beneath wide umbrellas on the sidewalk.

Outside Rye station, the media gaggle had taken on the appearance of a rained-off festival, with even more tents, marquees and awnings pressing up to the road. Journalists clustered under cover, shouting their pieces to camera while the wind buffeted them.

Liam glided through and into the lot. The rear doors opened as they parked and a bevy of officers came to meet them. DI Gemmell, Sergeant Simms, DCI Mayhew. The DCI delivered Spate the caution once more then ferried him head down into the station.

Sally glanced left as she entered. Tania Brown was there at the end of the lot, looking back at her.

Back in the station, it felt strange to be engulfed within a building, after the Dymchurch storm. Walls, floor, ceiling, people, lights. Every step she took dripped and squelched. She looked back. She and Liam were leaving a glistening trail behind them.