‘No,’ replied Jules, deciding she didn’t trust the lawyer very much. His hail-fellow-well-met routine reminded her an awful lot of her father, just before he cheated someone out of a drink, a meal or their retirement savings. Shah, she noted, had said nothing since Downing’s arrival, and was sporting one of his enigmatic smiles as the three of them approached the reception desk.

‘Piers Downing!’ the dapper Brit bellowed to the brown-shirted duty officer, startling Jules in the process. ‘Of Downing, Street and Kemp. Here with my client Mr Shah to see Detectives Palmer and Dennis.’

Julianne gave Shah a curious sidelong glance at the name of the law firm, but his smile remained in place. The man behind the desk, a sergeant whose shirt was straining at the buttons from a few too many years off the beat, stifled a groan as he pulled out an appointments book.

‘Always a pleasure, Mr Downing,’ he grunted in a way to ensure that everyone understood it was not. ‘I’ll just call up and see if the detectives are in.’

‘They’d want to be,’ replied the lawyer. ‘They’re the ones who insisted Mr Shah attend this afternoon. We’ll just head up now, shall we?’

Downing made as if to pass behind the counter but the old cop slammed down a swing-top section, cutting him off. Otherwise, the sergeant ignored the three visitors. He reached somebody on the phone, enquired as to whether they were available, and then hung up.

‘You can take a seat over there. Detective Palmer will be through in a moment,’ he said, before pointedly turning away to busy himself at a computer and switching on a small radio at his desk. Johnny Cash jumped down into a burnin’ ring of fire as Downing led the group over to the small waiting area.

The fit-out took Jules by surprise. A three-piece lounge setting arranged around a glass-top coffee table scattered with fresh magazines and today’s newspaper. The mags held her interest – local versions of now defunct American titles like Rolling Stone and People – while the paper had obviously been published some hours before the bomb blast down at the marina. Its front page trumpeted the arrival of the Combined Fleet and the money it would pour into the coffers of the city’s traders.

She sank into one of the leather lounge chairs. This was all a bit luxe compared to the police stations she’d visited so often as a young lady, to bail out her father. But she supposed they didn’t let any old riffraff swan about here in the foyer at Bagot Road. The villains were most probably bundled into cells via some sort of receiving dock around the back. And if this station serviced an enclave of rich émigré business exiles, as her Nepalese friend had implied, perhaps they felt the need to put their best face forward.