Vince looked deflated.

‘I’m listening, don’t worry, and possibly you can help us – and we need all the help we can get – but it’s not straightforward, you know – get yourself in too deep and we can’t necessarily pull you out.’

‘Understood. Only I want them stopped as much as you do, Mr Serrailler, can’t you see why?’

‘I can. But this is a long game. It could take months. You’re not going to be told the names and addresses of the godfathers the first day you meet up with Fats on the dog track.’

‘What should I do for now?’

‘Finish your tea.’ Simon stood. ‘I’ve got to get back and I need a contact number. Does anybody else have use of your phone?’

‘Occasionally one of my boys.’

‘Girlfriend?’

‘I’m done with women.’

‘If I get in touch it will be a text giving you a number to call and my initial. If you’ve heard nothing by this time next week there’ll be nothing to hear. When we get outside, we take the opposite directions.’

‘It’s like the bloody movies.’

‘No,’ Serrailler said, walking out, ‘actually, it bloody isn’t.’

He walked into an almost empty CID room, with just one DS head down and typing furiously at what was probably a very late a report, and who did not even register the DCS’s presence, and, at the far end, DC Fern Monroe, reading a printout. She looked up to meet Serrailler’s eye.

‘Ah . . . everybody else out?’

‘I’m free, guv.’

‘Well, you shouldn’t be. Where’s DC Sandhu?’

‘No idea . . . out on something or other.’

‘All right, have him find me when he’s back.’

She caught up with him in the corridor. ‘I just finished the arson report, I’m happy to mop up something else.’

‘Thanks but it will be good research experience for Bilaval.’ He went towards his office.

‘Hold on a minute, Simon . . .’

He stiffened and took a step back.

‘One minute you’re taking me out dinner, then I’m not even good enough to do a piffling job for you. I realise this is a bit awkward, but –’

‘I don’t think so. Let’s drop the subject now, shall we?’

He turned away quickly, loathing confrontation of this sort, as he always had, and as his sister had commented on enough times. But Cat knew nothing about Fern Monroe and never would.

A DC passed him. ‘Sandhu – the very man.’

‘I was –’

‘Going off on job? The canteen?’

‘What can I do for you, guv?’

‘In here.’ Serrailler closed his door.

‘OK, before we start, I don’t suppose in a million years you’ve came across someone called Vince Roper?’

‘Don’t think so. What’s the context?’