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Laurence turned his attention to photographs of the boy. Shaw had been barely fifteen years old when Hyde attacked him, and there was a strange contrast between their appearances. While Hyde looked older than he was, Christopher Shaw appeared far younger. It made the images themselves harder to view. The wounds to Shaw’s side, where Hyde had plunged the knife into him. The defensive injuries to the boy’s thin forearms. And theangry slice down the side of his face. In the photograph of that particular injury, Shaw’s jawline was horribly swollen, the stitched cut there forming a stark black tramline on the risen hill of his skin.

Laurence leaned on the table.

Just as with Hyde, there were other photographs of Christopher Shaw on file. The wounded boy in these pictures had grown into a troubled young man who had accumulated mug shots of his own over the years. But Laurence had been unaware of that when he watched the security footage last night. It was this particular image that he had recognized.

Shaw as a victim. Not only of Michael Hyde but of chance.

The door opened suddenly, with too much force, and Laurence jumped. And was then annoyed with himself as he looked up to see Pettifer grinning at him.

“Gotcha.”

Laurence picked up his phone and held it to his ear without dialing.

“Chief Barnes?” he said. “I’d like to report an attempt on an officer’s life.”

“When I’m really trying, it won’t be an attempt.”

Pettifer closed the door, put her bag on her chair, and shrugged off her coat. Then she came and stood next to him, looking down at the photographs.

“This our boy?” she said.

“It is. Or rather, itwasour boy. Back in the day.”

“You worked this case?”

“Yes. Although it wasn’t really a case as such.”

“What happened?”

Laurence considered just handing her the file and letting her read through it for herself but then relented and filled her in with the basic details. The way Hyde had attacked Shaw and attempted to cut off his face before a passerby intervened and subdued him.

“Motive?” Pettifer said.

“The passerby? Probably common decency.”

“Hyde, I mean.”

Laurence shrugged. “He was delusional. Paranoid. By that point he already had a fair few burglaries on his record. Breaking and entering. Setting fires. He told us he had been hearing voices and driving around for days. When he saw Christopher Shaw, he felt like he had to attack him, but he didn’t understand why. Basically, Shaw was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“What happened to Hyde?”

“Twelve years for assault with intent,” Laurence said. “He didn’t have an easy time of things in prison. He was attacked several times and beaten so badly that he almost died. Men like him don’t have a good time inside.”

“I have no problem with that.”

“Do you not? I’m undecided. Anyway, he was released from prison a few years ago. He is registered disabled. As of this moment in time, he has not reoffended.”

Laurence walked over to a whiteboard mounted on the opposite wall. He picked up a cloth and then wiped away a swathe of notes.

“What are you doing?” Pettifer said.

“Clearing some space.”

“Did you even check what was there?”

“Yes, it was very important.”

He took the top off a marker and began writing, the nib squeaking against the whiteboard.