He pushed his way into a space near a gang from the construction site, wet overalls, orange hard hats on the floor.

It was Nora on the counter, missing nothing, shouting out orders over the din, with little Benjy shoving through plates of sausages, bacon, eggs, burgers, chips, chips, chips.

Fats wasn’t here though, he had a good look round, table by table, making sure the little weasel wasn’t concealed by someone broader, taller.

His phone rang and he ignored it. There wasn’t much signal in here and he wanted to eat in peace. Bacon. Two eggs. Mushrooms. Black pudding. Three rounds of toast. The extractor fan roared from the galley kitchen. He shook the plastic ketchup bottle and made worms of dark red round his plate, remembering doing the same thing as a kid, with the bottle glurping out too much in a huge pool, drowning his food, ruining it.

‘That’ll teach you, and you’re eating all of it.’

He looked round as the door opened, and then again.

No.

He bent his head to his plateful. If Fats turned up, he wouldn’t miss him.

*

‘Serrailler.’

‘Vince.’

‘I’m on my way into a conference. I’ll contact you later.’

Serrailler switched off. There was no conference and he had no appointments. He didn’t feel like talking to Vince about a lowlife drug runner. Fats was a nobody, he didn’t know anything, he couldn’t lead them to those at the top of the food chain, so it was a waste of time to go looking for him.

He felt sick to death of the business, the way its tentacles reached out and curled round the innocent, and drew them in, enslaving them to men who got filthy rich on all the misery and fear. Liam Payne, dead in the now burnt-out flat, his devastated, shocked, grieving family, blaming themselves, other young men and women like him, dead from accident or suicide, in their teens and twenties. Girls working on the streets to feed their drug habits, kids with addicted parents. Kids like Vince’s boy, innocently hooked in with presents by scum like Fats. It was sordid, degraded, filthy. Those who gained most paid nothing.

He sighed. That morning he’d rung his father, who had put the phone down on him. Cat had sent a message about Sam. That kind of a day. That kind of a year so far.

His laptop flickered. Ten minutes later, he was on his way to the Cypriot cafe.

‘Hey? You out on calls?’

‘In theory, but my next patient just cancelled.’

‘What, they died?’

‘Not funny – no, they’ve gone into BG with pneumonia.’

‘Same difference. You anywhere near the station? I’m having a coffee and I’ve got something to show you.’

‘No, I’m on the Bevham side. What sort of something?’

‘Nope, you’ve got to see.’

‘You have a puppy?’

‘God, no thanks. Come on, try harder.’