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‘Are you going to go?'

‘Why not? Maybe he really does have something to say. Have you done a report your meeting with him?'

‘Not yet. That's another loose end.'

‘Anything significant come out of it?'

‘Hard to say. He's resigned to the fact that he's going to stand trial now, I think. But he clearly feels hard done by.'

‘How does he reckon that? He was caught bang to rights.'

‘You know how it is,' she said. ‘People can bring themselves to believe anything if it puts them in the right. Or less in the wrong. Welsby accepts that he was bent, but claims he wasn't the only one and not the worst.'

‘So who else did he have in the frame, then? Me? You?'

Salter's tone was dripping with irony, but she allowed the silence to extend for a moment before replying. ‘He's not naming names. Not yet. But he reckons he'll denounce them all from the witness stand.'

‘Terrific. That'll go down a storm with the judge, I imagine.'

‘I don't suppose anybody can stop him though. Could be an uncomfortable process for anyone he does name.'

‘Who's going to take that slimeball seriously?'

‘But you're going to go and see him, anyway?'

‘A fool to myself,' he said. ‘But you never know. I'm going to head over this afternoon. You want to tag along?'

‘Me?'

‘It's on your way home. I want to make sure you really do leave the site. Besides, it might be useful to have a witness if Welsby starts throwing accusations around.'

She suddenly realised that he was scared. Scared of Welsby, of what he might do or say. He was concealing it well, but she could sense that his usual self-confidence was missing. It was as if he could feel that things were changing, that the ground was slipping from under his feet.

‘Yeah,' she said. ‘Why not? Like you say, it'll make sure I get out of here. Be interesting to see what Welsby's got to say.' Won't it just, she thought. ‘What time are you going?'

He glanced at his watch. ‘About an hour?' He was looking past her to where one of the team, standing outside the glass-walled office, was holding up a telephone receiver and gesturing to Salter. Salter nodded and waited while the call was transferred.

Salter mimed an apology to Marie and picked up the phone. ‘Yes. Well, yes, of course. Does it have to be now? I've got one or two things I need to–Well, okay, but I need to be away by two.'

He put down the receiver and then looked back up Marie. His eyes were blank and expressionless, his gaze focused somewhere beyond her. He looked like someone in shock, she thought.

‘Everything okay, Hugh?'

He blinked and looked at her. ‘Yes. Yes, fine.' He looked back at his watch, as if hours might have passed since he'd last checked the time. ‘Look, Marie. See you at the hospital around two fifteen, okay? Got a meeting first.' He paused and began gathering papers from his desk. ‘Professional Standards,' he added. ‘It's always bloody urgent with them, isn't it?'

‘What are they after?' she asked, watching as he bustled at the desk, studiously avoiding her gaze.

Finally he looked up, blinking. ‘Christ knows,' he said. ‘Christ fucking knows.'

At the hospital Marie struggled to locate a parking space, finding herself repeatedly circling the perimeter road, waiting for someone to depart. Finally, she spotted a woman getting into a car in one of the most remote parking areas, and she drew in next to it, waiting for the woman to pull out. An elderly couple who had been similarly searching for a space had spotted the opportunity at more or less the same moment, and she could feel the old man silently cursing her as she pulled forward to assert her rights to the space.

She bought herself a ticket from the pay-and-display machine and looked at her watch. Two twenty-five already. She jogged into the hospital, heading along the corridors to the room where Welsby was located. She wanted to be present when Salter met with Welsby, though she had no idea what might happen.

But when she reached the room, Salter was still waiting outside, pacing along the corridor. The same two prison officers she'd met the previous day – Brady and his apathetic colleague – were sitting outside the door watching Salter stride anxiously up and down.

‘What's up?' she said.

Salter looked at her as if he'd forgotten he'd invited her to join him. ‘Welsby's daughter's in there,' he said. ‘Seem to have having some kind of heart-to-heart.' He paused. ‘Didn't even know Welsby had a heart.'

Marie peered in through the small window. Lizzie seemed to be concluding whatever she'd been discussing with Welsby. Seeing the two of them together, Marie could see a similarity in their appearance that she'd never have spotted unaided. She didn't know whether Salter had made any connection between Welsby's daughter and the woman who had worked for McGrath. If so, he gave no sign.

Lizzie gave Welsby a kiss on the forehead – an incongruous sight, Marie thought, to anyone who knew either party – and made her way to the door. She looked out at Salter. ‘He's all yours,' she said. She glanced over at Marie, but her face gave no indication that the two women knew each other.

‘Thanks,' Salter said. ‘How is he?'

Lizzie shrugged. ‘You know. Up and down.' She looked again at Marie, and this time the two women's eyes met. There was something in Lizzie's expression that Marie couldn't read.

Salter gestured to Marie. ‘Come on, then. Let's see what he's got to say.'

Brady leapt to his feet. ‘I'm sorry, sir. Only one visitor at a time.'

‘Oh, for Christ's sake,' Salter said, ‘you know who we are.'

‘Even so, those are my orders. Strictly speaking we're not even supposed to leave the room. If I let two of you in, I won't have a job to go back to.'

Marie caught his eye for a moment, and detected a spark of amusement there. She had the sense that was extracting bureaucratic revenge for his previous encounter with Salter. ‘I'll stay outside, Hugh. Don't want to get anyone into trouble.'

Salter glared at her for a moment. ‘Okay. But I'll call you if I need you.'

‘I'm sure you'll cope, Hugh.' She smiled winningly at Brady, who had signalled for his colleague to fetch her a chair from further down the corridor.

Salter said nothing but pushed his way into the room, letting the door slam behind him.

Brady arranged the seat carefully by the wall and gestured for Marie to sit down. ‘I thought you might be more comfortable waiting out here,' he said.

‘Too right.' Marie lowered herself on to the chair and stretched out her legs. ‘Too bloody right.'

At first, Salter thought Welsby was asleep. But as Salter slowly lowered himself on to a chair by the bed, Welsby opened an eye. ‘Afternoon, chum,' he said. ‘Just like old times.'

‘Not really.' Salter leaned forward to peer at the older man. ‘I'd like you say you look well, but frankly you look like shit.' He glanced meaningfully at the saline drip attached to Welsby's arm, the bank of monitoring equipment behind the bed.

‘You don't look so terrific yourself, truth be told, old son. At least I've got an excuse.'

‘What's this all about, Welsby? Why'd you want to see me?'

Welsby was fumbling for a control device hanging down from the side of the bed. He eventually caught hold of it and pressed one of the buttons, raising the mattress beneath his head so that he was sitting partially upright. ‘Thought it was time we had a chat, Hughie boy.' His gaze strayed past Salter to something on the floor by the bedside cabinet. ‘God, this place is a shit heap. Can you pick that up, Hughie? Don't want anyone treading on it.' He gestured down to where an apparently used syringe was lying on the tiled floor.

Salter bent down impatiently, picked up the syringe and dropped it on top of the cabinet. ‘Stop screwing me around, Welsby, and cut to the chase.'

‘I thought we should have a chat about you, Hughie. You and your future.'

‘What the fuck are you talking about? Have you brought me out here to waste my fucking time or is there some point to this?'

‘Your future, Hughie. Or the absence of it. Because you don't have much of a future, do you?'

Salter started to rise. ‘Just fuck off, Welsby. If you think I'm going to sit here–'

‘You're in the shit, aren't you? Or at least that's how it seems to me. You've got Professional Standards sniffing round you…'

‘What the fuck are you talking about?' Salter had involuntarily glanced towards the door when Welsby had mentioned Professional Standards. He was on his feet now, with the air of someone preparing to leave the room.

‘You must be getting nervous,' Welsby went on. Standards wouldn't investigate without a reason. Wonder just what evidence they've got. And what other evidence might be waiting out there.'

‘I don't know what game you're playing–'

‘And Boyle's had enough of you, hasn't he? You used to be an asset, Hughie boy, but now you're just becoming a liability. Word is that Boyle's got someone else to do his thinking for him. You're yesterday's man, Hughie. Nobody can find a bargepole long enough.'

Salter glanced towards the door, clearly concerned that Marie or one of the prison officers might be watching. ‘I know what this is, Welsby. You're just trying to wind me up. Get me to do or say something I'll regret.' He reached over and pulled the blanket from Welsby's chest. ‘You got a wire in there?'

‘Don't know how you could even think such a thing,' Welsby said. He pulled open his pyjama top to reveal his bare chest. ‘Straight as a die, me, Hughie boy. Just got your best interests at heart.'

Salter stared back. ‘So what the fuck is this all about? What are you playing at exactly?'

‘Don't be too hard on me, Hughie. I'm a dying man.'

Salter gave a contemptuous grunt. ‘You'll live long enough to stand trial. That's all that matters.'

‘Now that's where you're wrong, Hughie, as it turns out. I'm a dying man, and you're the one who killed me.'

‘What the fuck are you –?'

Welsby gestured behind him. ‘This saline drip here. It's very unfortunate. But it seems that, just a little while ago, quite possibly just after you entered the room, it was injected with what I understand to be a lethal dose of morphine. The rate of flow was also turned up. Difficult to imagine that anyone would do such a thing, isn't it?'

Salter remained motionless for a moment, clearly doubting Welsby's sanity. ‘What are you saying?'

‘I'm saying that someone's effectively injected me with a potentially lethal dose, old chum. Injected from that very syringe that's coincidentally has your finger prints all over it.' He paused, and for a moment it was as if he was struggling to continue talking. ‘Of course, I've no idea how much has entered my bloodstream. Whether or not I'm beyond saving. Not that it matters much. If I survive, I'll have to testify that I saw you, while I was half-asleep, tampering with the drip. Too weak to call out for help. And if I don't survive, well, I imagine they'll work it out for themselves.'

‘That's insane,' Salter said. ‘Nobody's going to believe–'

‘Don't you think so? With Standards snapping at your heels and me threatening to expose you on the witness stand. Wouldn't be surprising if you were feeling a little unbalanced, Hughie. Maybe not behaving entirely rationally. I mean, look at it this way. Who the fuck else is going to try to kill me? The doctors? My own fucking daughter?'

Salter continued to stare at Welsby for a moment longer, then unexpectedly launched himself across the bed, struggling to tear the drip feed away from the bottle. Welsby let out an almighty shout, the anguished cry of someone being physically assaulted.

The door slammed back and the two prison officers came storming in, dragging Salter off Welsby's body. Salter struggled with them for a moment. He had his hand around the tube of the drip, and he tore it away from the bag, leaving clear liquid dripping on to the floor. The two officers were pulling him back, struggling to keep a grasp on him. Under the weight of Salter's body, Welsby gave a sudden groan, his body jerking sideways on the bed. The lead officer, Brady, turned his attention to Welsby, and in that moment Salter broke free from their grip and sprinted towards the door.

In the corridor outside, Marie pacing up and down, waiting anxiously for Salter to emerge, wondering what was taking place between the two men. She'd been tempted to peer in through the door, and had taken herself off to the far end of the corridor, above the stairwell, in an effort to resist the impulse.

She'd turned as she heard Welsby's shouts and was in time to see the two prison officers storm into the room. Before she could make her way back down the corridor, the door burst open again and this time Salter came sprinting out, heading in her direction. Behind him, she could hear Brady shouting for him to stop.

‘Hugh? What are you–?'

Salter cannoned into her, thrusting her off to one side. Driven more by instinct than rational thought, she clung on to his arm, trying to slow his pace. He reached back and tried to push her away, but she wrapped herself more tightly round him, burying her face against his back in case he tried to strike her. Salter slowed momentarily and looked back. Brady was emerging from the room.

Salter jabbed his arm fiercely at Marie's head, forcing her to loosen her grip, and then her was off again, heading for the stairs. She almost lost him, but she steadied her footing and launched herself at his legs, in an attempt at a rugby tackle. She caught his knees and hung on grimly as Salter tried to force his way forwards.

She never quite knew what happened in the final seconds of their struggle. Salter had almost reached the stairs and seemed to make one last effort to extricate himself from her grasp, throwing himself forward. She clutched tighter, and he toppled suddenly, losing his balance at the top of the stairway.