to find hope; how she had sworn to start afresh with her family. She had always feared this was her end; that this was what would happen. Since the day that she’d made the worst decision of her life, since she rolled that bloody car, since the day Jaime Malvern’s little life was snuffed out, all down to her, she’d known that one of her own kids would be taken from her as payment, to avenge her sin. She had drunk more at first to block that thought and in doing so she had annihilated her own life, she had hidden in the gutter until she couldn’t get up again.
Eventually she had seen some sense, and she had come back to her children. But she daren’t love them too much: although she did love them more than anything. She loved every hair of their heads, every bone in their body, every freckle, every fingernail, every lost tooth and scraped knee; it didn’t matter if they argued or bickered, it didn’t matter if they never picked up their dirty socks or made their beds or lied about where they’d been or kissed the wrong girl, she loved them so fiercely that it threatened to destroy her sometimes. Only she didn’t dare show them; she didn’t dare show Him up there, in case He realised and He took them from her.
Lana had been doing her deals with the Devil and her deals with her Maker since the day she got sober; only it hadn’t brought her solace or peace.
Two weeks ago Lana had finally decided perhaps it was easier for everyone for her to end it. She’d sat on that beach last week and thought of walking quite calmly into that freezing sea. Until that man had been silhouetted on the cliff, and she had thought for a moment he’d come to claim her, to do away with her – until she realised he was a priest.
And Silver had to walk away himself for a moment, up to the vending machine, his arm round Ben, almost his height now, warm and sinewy beneath his father’s arm.
‘All right, son?’ Silver said quietly, and he heard the slight catch in his own voice. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Aye, Dad,’ Ben nodded his head, stuck his lean chest out manfully. ‘Now our Matty’s OK, so am I.’
Silver found himself craving open space, fresh air.
‘I’m going to go outside for a minute. Want to join me?’
Ben shook his head. ‘I’m going to call Emma, if that’s OK.’
Silver made his way out of the sterile building, past the pictures painted by ex-patients called Hope and Despair, feeling a wave of emotion more powerful than any he’d felt in a long time. He walked away from the neon-lit entrance, leant against the wall in the darkness, and he looked up for the stars – but there weren’t any. The city’s pollution hid them.
Silver had had enough of London for a lifetime at that moment. He found his gum in his pocket, but all he really wanted was a cigarette. He didn’t remember a craving this bad since the day of Lana’s court hearing.
The truth was he felt heart-sick. He knew he had messed up. He had been distracted by Sadie Malvern; driven by his own guilt. He should have sussed Helen Ganymede; he’d ignored his gut instinct and chosen glory. At this moment, he utterly despised himself.
His phone bleeped. ‘Silver.’
‘All right, DCI Silver?’ A little, rasping voice.
Paige.
‘I heard you was looking for me.’
He felt a rush of relief. ‘Where are you?’
‘I thought it was a good idea to keep my head down. Those Russians. Well. You never know.’
‘Any idea where John Adamson is?’
‘So you worked it out finally. You don’t want to mess with them, know what I’m saying? That Ivan was a twisted fucker.’
‘Will you go on record about that?’
She laughed. ‘You’re a trier, aren’t you? I admire that about you.’ There was a pause. ‘I think you’re a good man, DCI Silver. And believe me, there ain’t many about.’
‘Really?’ He cleared his throat.
‘And if you change your mind about that washing-up …’ she tailed off. ‘Well. You’ve got my number.’
Silver took a big breath of dirty air and walked back into the building. Ben was hunched over the pay-phone in the corridor, mumbling sweet nothings by the look of his flushed face.
Silver stopped at the drinks machine. A blonde woman stood beside it, searching her purse for change.
‘Don’t suppose you’ve got two fifties for a pound?’ she asked