Ex-military. Security guard. Bouncer. Boxer? Not a man to be intimidated by PC Welby’s six feet four in his socks. All the same, he was nervous, not sure of his surroundings, looking round cautiously, checking this and that, before eventually meeting Simon’s eye.

‘I’m Detective Chief Superintendent Serrailler, and I’m told you want to see me but otherwise I know nothing at all about you.’

‘Is this . . . ?’ He looked round again.

‘Safe? Yes. Bugged? No. Are we on our own? Yes, except for my secretary and PC Welby next door, and whoever might be walking down the corridor. There’s always someone. Sit down?’

He was bald, having shaved his head so often the hair had eventually abandoned hope. His was not an ugly face, nor a pretty one – dark brown eyes. Large ears. They always had large ears. Maybe it was a condition of employment in his trade, if some form of security was indeed his trade. He was still wary, still unsettled, but gradually he stopped sussing out the room and relaxed. A bit. There was something about him that Simon liked, though, as ever, he could not have explained why, any more than he could ever explain why he sometimes suspected, disliked, did not trust any particular individual.

‘Can I get you anything? Tea, coffee – they’re better here than from the machine.’

‘I’m all right, thanks . . . You know, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.’

‘Coming into a police station?’

‘Look, I’m not here to confess anything – anything criminal, I mean.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

He was silent. Serrailler waited a moment, then sat down in one of the two chairs in the middle of the room, not behind his desk.

‘You don’t have to give me your real name Invent one if you like.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘People do, and if you prefer not to sit down, I’ll stand up.’

A silence. The man was clearly uneasy.

‘Listen, would you prefer it if we went for a walk?’

‘Right. Yeah, that’d be better.’

‘Still as cold out there?’

‘Brass monkeys.’

*

Five minutes later, they were walking down the street in the direction of the industrial estate and the cemetery. No one was about, though the roads were busy.

‘I’ll make a guess. You’re in trouble and someone’s threatening you and you don’t know what to do.’

‘No. Well . . . not me. I’ve got four lads.’

‘One of them then?’

‘In a fashion. Yes. My name’s Vince Roper. I mean, really.’

‘Thanks.’

They reached the corner and turned down the long drag past the sheds and warehouses, garages and bays. A dozen firms had premises on this industrial estate and there was plenty of activity.

‘Next left there’s a cafe. That all right with you?’