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JIM We worked closely with John Finch all day. The feeling of recognising myself in him didn’t abate, if anything it got stronger as we talked. It troubled me. He waited at Kenneth Steele House with me while my officers began checking out families who he’d identified for us. We sent a pair of DCs down to the hospital, hoping there weren’t going to be too many confidentiality issues and bureaucratic hoops to jump through before they would release information to us. ‘Do you ever tire of it?’ Finch said to me in a long moment of silence when my thoughts had flown to Emma, to when I might see her next. ‘Do you ever tire of the daily contact with people when their lives are shattered?’ We sat in a windowless interview room around a grey-topped table. A strip light above us threw out a glare that made my temples ache. I didn’t answer him. If I had, I would have lost my separateness, my professional distance. I had to remember that John Finch was not my friend, but it was hard not to answer, because there were parallels between what he did and what I do. For a moment or two I was overwhelmed with a desire to say yes, to talk to him, to compare notes and admit that there were times when it was very, very difficult to stand back. In another universe, I thought, we might have been able to do that, and it would have been nice, but not here, not now. ‘Do you know what this room reminds me of?’ he asked. I shook my head. ‘We call it the bad news room at the hospital. It’s where we take families when we have to tell them the worst. It’s exactly like this, except that there are brochures.’ I kept my reply neutral. ‘We’re hoping to bring you good news, Mr Finch.’ ‘Do you know how they know?’ he said. ‘The smart ones, the clever families? They see the china teapot and the china cups with saucers, and the door closing behind them, and the unusual number of staff all together in one room, and they ask themselves why all this fuss, just for us? It doesn’t take them long to work it out. They read the situation before we’ve even started talking. They start to grieve before the milk goes into the cups.’ ‘Well, you’re safe on that count,’ I said. In front of us was a tray of four polystyrene cups with grey coffee remains swimming in the base of them. Torn and half-emptied sachets of sugar littered the table like doll-sized body bags. He understood why I’d given such a shallow response. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Of course you don’t want to have this conversation because to do so would be unprofessional. That was stupid of me. I’d do the same in your situation.’ He barked out a noise that was supposed to be a laugh, but instead was a noise that crept sullenly around the edges of the room, mocking his attempt at forced jollity. I wondered then if all the pain and difficulty of his profession, the hopelessness and the encounters with death, had become toxic for John Finch, too toxic to bear any longer. I let my guard down then, just for a moment, because I was curious. ‘Do you get emotional when you lose a patient?’ I asked him. I wanted to know how much failure hurt him; I wanted to know if he was like me. ‘Very occasionally there’s one that gets to you, no matter how hard you try. It’s very rare. You learn early on, when you’re training, that you have to keep your distance emotionally, because if you don’t, you can’t do your job.’ ‘What makes that one stand out?’

‘Sometimes you don’t even know. Once I operated on a boy who reminded me a little of Ben, and I met his mother, she wasn’t unlike Rachel. They reminded me of us, of our family. It wasn’t that long ago, Ben was about seven at the time. The boy’s operation was quite a simple one, but there was bleeding, and he died. His heart failed. There was nothing we could do. It was an unexpected death and when I went to tell his mother, I… I’m afraid I broke down.’ Distress swam deep in his eyes but John Finch had obviously learned to be stoic too. He didn’t lose control, he said, ‘It was unprofessional of me.’ ‘It’s understandable.’ ‘Do you think so, Detective? Has it ever happened to you?’ I looked at my watch. It was late. I was in danger of confiding. I had to get things back on track. ‘I think we could do with something to eat,’ I said. ‘Chances are, it’s going to be a long night.’ We took John Finch home at ten that night. By midnight, we’d narrowed things down based on the information he’d given us, and we had a standout suspect for the letter. By the early hours of the morning we’d disturbed countless colleagues and we were as certain as you can be. We’d checked and double-checked the details, gone into background, and triple-checked that we had the correct address for our suspect. Fraser, on what must have been her fiftieth cup of coffee, tasked me with leading a dawn raid. We wanted the element of surprise, and that’s the best time to get it. I chose my men, and we went through our preparations carefully. We were due to go in at 5 am.

‘Sometimes you don’t even know. Once I operated on a boy who reminded me a little of Ben, and I<br />

met his mother, she wasn’t unlike Rachel. They reminded me of us, of our family. It wasn’t that long<br />

ago, Ben was about seven at the time. The boy’s operation was quite a simple one, but there was<br />

bleeding, and he died. His heart failed. There was nothing we could do. It was an unexpected death<br />

and when I went to tell his mother, I… I’m afraid I broke down.’<br />

Distress swam deep in his eyes but John Finch had obviously learned to be stoic too. He didn’t<br />

lose control, he said, ‘It was unprofessional of me.’<br />

‘It’s understandable.’<br />

‘Do you think so, Detective? Has it ever happened to you?’<br />

I looked at my watch. It was late. I was in danger of confiding. I had to get things back on track. ‘I<br />

think we could do with something to eat,’ I said. ‘Chances are, it’s going to be a long night.’<br />

We took John Finch home at ten that night. By midnight, we’d narrowed things down based on the<br />

information he’d given us, and we had a standout suspect for the letter. By the early hours of the<br />

morning we’d disturbed countless colleagues and we were as certain as you can be. We’d checked<br />

and double-checked the details, gone into background, and triple-checked that we had the correct<br />

address for our suspect.<br />

Fraser, on what must have been her fiftieth cup of coffee, tasked me with leading a dawn raid. We<br />

wanted the element of surprise, and that’s the best time to get it. I chose my men, and we went through<br />

our preparations carefully.<br />

We were due to go in at 5 am.

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