“Jesus fuck,” Joel said. “Fuck. Have you told anyone?”

“Told them what? And who? The Commissioner of the Met is highly resistant to accusations against his officers. There was that case just recently, Sergeant Josling in Soho. He reported another sergeant for taking bribes, and was dismissed in disgrace for slandering a brother officer.”

“I read about that.”

“The man he accused is notorious for having his hand out. Everyone in Soho knows he was bang to rights, but Horwood wouldn’t hear it, so the Home Office deliberated behind closed doors, threw the charge out, and got rid of Josling instead. And that was just for a sergeant; any sort of accusation against a divisional inspector will need full chapter and verse to stand a chance.”

“So what do you have?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Aaron said. “Sweet Fanny Adams, if you’ll excuse the phrase. Plenty of suspicions, nothing concrete.”

“Hang on. You’re not basing all this on my reading?” Joel asked.

“I’ve seen your work. I believe it.”

Joel’s lips parted silently. “Oh.”

“I don’t understand it but I believe it. Which is alarming, but here we are. But the truth is, when you spoke about number seven, I knew it would be Colthorne, even before I checked. I don’t like him and I don’t trust him, and there’s any amount of little things that have been adding up.”

“Like what?”

“You recall that business with Dapper Melkin, when I was in the papers?”

“You Valentino, you.” Joel was trying for a normal voice, but he looked very pale. “Yes?”

“The defence brief accused me of being in cahoots with the Sabinis. You said yourself, there’s talk they have an in with King’s Cross nick. I think that’s DDI Colthorne. I think he’s been quietly giving them a helping hand for a while, which may explain why they’re returning the favour now.”

“Running his errands. Bothering me.”

“Exactly. I suspect he was setting me up to take the fall there, or at least to look suspicious or unreliable. There’s been a lot of odd things, like him accusing me of being a publicity seeker—I wonder if he arranged that flurry of pieces in the press—or bringing up all sides of my family in the worst manner. Italian blood, Society connections and a union firebrand father: he and his lapdog DI Davis remind my colleagues of it all the time. At this stage—God, I’ve been at King’s Cross for two years, and I truly don’t know if any of them would stand up for me. And I can’t prove any of that is his fault, as I can’t prove anything at all, but Rahim said the man who asked about me was a Sabini man, and I sent that telegram to you from work.”

“From the police station?”