The file contained copies of all the murder enquiry paperwork: witness statements, documents from the arrest of the suspect, and numerous photographs. Added to these were Lewis’s notes and, in a small black notebook, Langton’s own private notes on the case. Langton had an expression: ‘it’s in the book’. He would tap the breast pocket where he kept it. Jokes about train spotting or ‘one for the book, Gov’ were often heard around the incident room. He would say it whenever anyone screwed up–that could even mean forgetting his morning coffee! When Anna had asked him about it, he had grinned and said it was common knowledge he had a terrible memory; he had started, when he was a rookie, just making notes of things he shouldn’t forget–sometimes, it could be just to remind himself to collect his laundry. Over the years, it had become a habit and then a talking-point; then he noticed that he could make detectives very edgy if they saw him jotting something down whilst he was with them.

  ‘Like to keep my team on their toes,’ he laughed.

  She said to him that she had never seen him use it.

  ‘Ah. That’s because what I jotted down about you had nothing to do with police work.’

  ‘You’re telling me you needed to be reminded of whether or not you fancied me?’

  Again he had laughed, dismissing it with a waft of his hand. ‘The date of your birthday? Now forget it. It’s just a joke anyway; and besides, you constantly have your nose in your official notebook–more than any other officer I have ever worked with.’

  It was true; in fact, her father had tipped her off. He always said to write everything down, because the memory can play tricks. If you are required to recall in detail an incident for the courtroom, your book becomes your security blanket.

  Langton’s notebook had a red elastic band wound tightly round it. It was slightly curved, as if it had taken the shape of his chest. Anna eased back the elastic band, and wrapped it round the palm of her hand before she opened the book. His small, tight handwriting covered every page, back and front, until three-quarters of the way through, when it stopped abruptly. The thin pages were stiff; a couple she had to blow apart, which made her think that no one had read the notes recently. Maybe Lewis hadn’t bothered; if the notebook was such a joke, he might not have thought it of any value.

  The writing was meticulously neat, but not that easy to read; she peered at page one.

  The call out for the horrific murder of a teenage girl called Carly Ann North came in at 9 a.m. The body had been discovered on wasteground behind King’s Cross station. Although only sixteen years of age, North had already been convicted of prostitution and sent to a young offenders’ institute. She was from a very dysfunctional background, both parents heroin addicts. She had been knifed and her wounds were horrific; the killer had attempted to decapitate her. He had also tried to remove her hands, to avoid fingerprints being taken. A police officer had disturbed the killer, having seen three men loitering near the wasteground. He caught him, but the others, obviously acting as lookouts, ran off, leaving their friend fighting with the officer. The killer was an illegal immigrant. The judge had ordered at his trial that, after serving a sentence for rape, he should be deported. Underlined was his name: Idris Krasiniqe, aged twenty-five.

  Anna then turned from the notebook back to the case file. Krasiniqe had a string of offences, from possession of cannabis to common assault; he’d had community punishment when only eighteen years of age. His last offence was the robbery, when the judge had ordered his deportation after sentence; yet eight months after his release, he was still at large and this time had murdered Carly Ann North.

  Anna sighed. It was just unbelievable, especially with the ongoing case against Arthur Murphy. How could this man have been allowed to stay in the country, after a judge’s order for deportation!

  In the same meticulous writing, Langton had made a few personal notes: one about Barolli being too overweight; another, that Lewis was slacking, as his wife was expecting another child and, with a toddler, he was often tired and late for work.

  Anna sat back. She wondered how many of these private notes he had made about her, but she didn’t have time to continue looking over the file. She had to get herself to work on time!

  The day went slowly. Murphy was taken before a magistrate. Bail, as they knew it would be, was refused and he was shipped off to Wandsworth prison to await his trial.

  Anna returned home to change and get ready to leave for Glebe House. First, she picked up Langton’s keys and went round to his flat.

  There was a stack of post, mostly junk mail, on the doormat. She picked it all up and took it to the dining-room table, to sift through it. There was a similar stack already on the table. The flat was quite tidy; she wondered if his ex-wife had been round. Anna knew she often stayed there with Kitty. If this was the case, she hadn’t bothered to empty the laundry basket in the bathroom. Anna stuffed everything into a bin liner to take home to wash, and then went into his bedroom.

  The bed had been made and the room looked reasonably neat. The only photograph on his bedside table was of Kitty, sitting on a pony and beaming into the camera. Anna checked for any unpaid bills on the dressing-table, but there were just some ten-and twenty-pound notes left with change on top. She opened a drawer to take out some fresh pyjamas and, as she did so, she found a photo album. Anna felt guilty about looking through it, but couldn’t resist. It was of his wedding to his first wife. She was, as Anna had been told, very beautiful and they looked very much in love. At the end of the book was a small remembrance card from her funeral.

  Anna replaced the album and shut the drawer. Just as she turned away, she noticed a piece of newspaper sticking out of another drawer. She eased it open. It was crammed with newspaper articles, cut out and pinned together. Anna checked the time and reckoned she had better get a move on, or she would be later than ever to see Langton. Collecting them all, she put the cuttings into her briefcase.

  Langton wheeled towards her in the reception area, beaming. ‘I was just about to give up on you.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I went over to your flat to collect some clean pyjamas.’

  ‘Any mail for me?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve brought it. Can we go somewhere and sit down?’

  ‘I already am,’ he laughed.

  Langton spun round and headed towards a lounge area, banging the double doors open with his chair. Anna gave a rueful smile; even in his wheelchair, he still had the habit of forgetting she was behind him, barging through doors and letting them swing back in her face.

  ‘As you can see, it’s a hive of activity,’ he said, gesturing to the empty room.

  ‘Well, that’s good, we can have some privacy.’

  ‘They’ll all be watching some crap on TV, or in the bar; you want a drink?’

  ‘No, thanks. Have you had something to eat?’

  ‘I think it was fish, but it could have been Christ only knows what; I could have used it as a table-tennis bat.’

  She sat in a comfortable chair and placed her various bags on the coffee-table. Langton manoeuvred the chair to sit opposite; as she took out the mail, he glanced through it, muttering that it was all rubbish.

  ‘I left a load of junk mail behind,’ Anna told him. ‘I think your ex-wife had been there and left even more. There’s a few bills you need to pay.’

  ‘Yeah yeah, leave them–I’ll sort them.’

  ‘Do you have your chequebook with you?’

  ‘Yeah yeah, and my credit card, so no problem.’

  She laid out his clean clothes. He kept twisting in his chair.

  ‘You look well,’ she said. He didn’t. He was unshaven and he smelled of drink. ‘Been in the bar, have you?’

  ‘I have; there’s nothing else to do, and don’t ask about the conversation in there–load of fruits. Can’t have a sane conversation with any one of them.’

  ‘I’m sure that’s not true.’

  He suddenly went quiet. ‘Nope. It’s not, just making conversation.’

  She leaned forwards. ‘How’s the physio going?’

  He bowed his head. ‘I can’t walk yet and it’s painful, but the bastards won’t give me any more painkillers. They count them out like I was ten years old.’

  ‘Well, they have to do that for a reason; you don’t want to get addicted to them.’

  ‘What would you know about it?’

  ‘Well, I’m really glad I schlepped all the way here, if you can’t be pleasant.’

  ‘I hate this fucking chair.’

  ‘You seem to be very adept at wheeling about in it.’

  He shrugged. ‘I might be in it for the rest of my life.’

  ‘Of course you won’t.’

  ‘I hate it–hate being so dependent, you know? I can’t even take a piss without falling over.’

  ‘Well, you were told it would take time.’

  ‘Oh, stop talking down to me as if I was mentally screwed up as well as physically.’

  ‘You know, undergoing a life-threatening operation, and then—’

  ‘I know what I went through. Sometimes I wish I’d never pulled through.’

  ‘Well, I for one am glad that you did.’

  ‘Are you?’ He cocked his head to one side. ‘You fancy being attached to a cripple, do you?’

  She took a deep breath. ‘Well, if you want a straight answer: as it is, you are pretty unpleasant, but—’

  He interrupted her. ‘Well, I’ve given this some thought, and I want you to know that I’m not coming back to your place. In fact, I think it’s probably better if we call it quits right now.’

  ‘Call what quits?’

  ‘You and me, Anna–what do you think I’m talking about? I don’t want you coming to see me any more. I mean it; you didn’t bargain for this, nor did I. So, let’s just be adult about my situation.’

  ‘You think you are?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Being adult about this!’

  ‘I reckon I am.’

  ‘Then why don’t you take into consideration my feelings?’

  ‘That’s just what I am bloody doing!’

  ‘No, you are not. You haven’t even given me a chance to say what I think, what I feel—’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  He was making her feel so frustrated, there was such anger in him.

  ‘Maybe the fact that I love you should be considered.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘You know I do.’

  He turned away.

  ‘You don’t show me any kind of affection whatsoever; you’ve not even touched me, let alone kissed me,’ she said.

  ‘Hard from this chair.’

  ‘Oh stop it, please.’

  He bowed his head and the tears streamed down his face. She was not expecting that. She got up and went to him, wanting to put her arms around him.

  ‘For Chrissakes, leave me alone.’

  She gripped the arms of his chair. ‘Look at me. Look at me!’

  He wouldn’t and she felt such anguish; she was close enough to touch him and yet he was refusing to allow her near.

  ‘Right, fuck you then.’ She straightened, returned to her bag and started packing up her things. ‘If this is the way you want it.’

  ‘It is. Just go away, Anna. Leave me–I mean it.’

  She made quite a show of putting aside the things she had brought for him and getting her car keys. He remained silent.

  She really didn’t have anything else she could say, apart from, ‘Goodbye. Please don’t bother to show me out.’

  She had never heard his voice so soft and painful. ‘I’m sorry.’

  She chucked her keys onto the table and went to him, wrapping him in her arms. ‘Please don’t send me away.’

  ‘I’m sorry; you are the only thing I have.’

  ‘Then for God’s sake, stop this nonsense and never, never do it again to me. You hurt me and I get all confused, because I love you so much.’

  He said it–hardly audible, but he said it. ‘I love you, Anna.’

  They kissed. It wasn’t a passionate embrace, but the kiss was sweet and gentle. He touched her face. ‘I wait all day to see you, then I behave like a bastard.’

  ‘I wait all day to be with you.’ She drew up a chair to be able to sit close to him and hold his hand. He gripped it so tightly it hurt, but she didn’t mind.

  Anna eventually had to leave, but there was a quiet understanding between them that had never been there before. When he kissed her goodbye, he whispered that he would count the hours until he saw her again. He was tearful again; it was so poignant and heartbreaking.

  Langton waved to her as she crossed the car park. He had gone by the time she was sitting inside her car. She waited for a few moments before she was able to cry. He had never been so vulnerable, so dependent and so scared of the future. She drove home with such mixed feelings churning up inside her. The reality was, she didn’t honestly know how she would be able to cope with him coming home. If he remained as incapacitated as he was now, there was no way he could return to work. She knew her love would have to be very strong to deal with him and the probability that he would be an invalid for the rest of his life.

  Anna was still deeply unsettled when she got home. She made some hot chocolate and sat up in bed, thinking about her parents. Isabella Travis had been like a child in many ways. She had been sexually assaulted as a young art student. Anna’s father, Jack, had investigated the case, became her protector and subsequently her husband. Anna’s entire childhood had been blissfully ignorant of any trauma; they had kept it so far removed from her that she had never known the truth until both parents were dead. Could she, like her father, take on Langton and love him, no matter what?

  Anna continued to work on Murphy’s forthcoming trial; at the same time, she made the daily visits to see Langton. She found it very exhausting to drive the distance every night there and back before going into the station the next morning. Some nights, the prognosis was good and he was cheerful; other nights, he was morose and in great pain. The injury to his knee was taking a long time to heal, but what made her really worried was the latest talk she had with the head nurse.

  He described Langton’s physical condition as 50 per cent better; however, he was not mentally coping with the injuries. He was, as she well knew, deeply angry, but what she had been unprepared for was to be told that he was suffering from deep depression. He was also drinking heavily and creating ill-feeling amongst the other patients.

  It did not help for Anna to be told that, during these rehabilitation periods, many officers behaved in much the same way. They were so used to being in control: to lose it became so emotionally debilitating that often the nurses, physiotherapists and psychiatrists were unable to make any headway until they were about to be discharged. Anna could not bring herself to ask if it was conceivable that Langton would be able to return to work. It was looking highly unlikely, every visit.

  It was not until the weekend, however, when she was checking through the bundle of newspaper clippings she had taken from Langton’s flat, that she became most concerned.

  Hunt for child sex attacker who cut off his tag to flee bail hostel. The suspect’s photograph was ringed in pencil.

  Why was this rapist who butchered our beautiful daughter allowed to walk the streets unsupervised? The article was underlined twice.

  This Latvian came to Britain after raping two women. Now he’s accused of the murder of a schoolgirl here. The suspect’s photo had a black mark across his face.

  The one hundred year backlog on asylum. This article was so heavily underlined that the pen had cut through the newspaper.

  UK passports for 200,000 foreigners.

  Asylum seekers come first. He’d underlined this in red.

  23 foreign offenders allowed to walk free.

  Offenders. Reoffenders convicted of fresh crimes including drugs, violent disorder, grievous and actual body harm, and two murders. The row of faces was again ringed, with odd dates jotted down beside them.

  Will no one pay for this fiasco? A thousand convicts lost in the system. Again, Langton had underlined sections.

  Super hostels planned for free sex offenders. This had a deep, thick pencil cross over it.

  Hunt for released killers.

  One immigrant arrives in Britain EVERY minute. The article went on to show migrants hiding their faces, as they prepared another bid to cross the Channel illegally.

  ILLEGAL IMMIGRANT who worked at the Old Bailey was twice deported.

  Paedophile backlash: website identifying convicted offenders could drive them into hiding in fear of vigilantes, warns probation supremo.

  TRAVESTY: asylum seeker raped a child and got an eight-year sentence, then chose to stay in jail rather than be deported. now we are paying him fifty thousand for his inconvenience.

  Child rapists’ rights were put before victims.

  Life means six years: almost one hundred murders were committed by criminals supposedly under the supervision of probation officers in the past two years; chilling figures are a shocking indictment of Government failure across the board to protect the public…

  DOSSIER reveals 50 dangerous convicts in our open prisons.

  There were over thirty more cuttings, all about the Home Office’s inept handling of the deportation of illegal immigrants and the appalling situation that had resulted. Why had Langton kept them? Not only had he cut them out, but his handwriting was also scrawled across them, and he had ringed photographs of suspects.

  She wondered if any of them had any connection to his own case, but they were all dated before he was attacked. Anna packed them away in a folder; she would bring it up next time she went to visit. Then she worried: maybe she shouldn’t ask him about them, as it would look as if she had been snooping around his flat. She decided she would contact Mike Lewis again.

  Lewis agreed to drop by her place later that afternoon. It was almost three when he turned up and said he couldn’t stay long as he was working. He seemed very uneasy.