There was sweat sliding down Joel’s backbone; he had no idea how an empty saloon bar without a fire could be at once so cold and so stuffy. “Mr. Sabini, I’m sorry, but if you’re after dirt on Fowler, you’ll need to ask whoever he’s doing the dirty with, because it’s not me. I’m not tupping a copper! I’m not stupid and I’m not going back inside if I can help it, so—”

Darby slammed a hand on the table. Joel’s terrified yelp as he recoiled was entirely unfeigned. “Are you lying to me, you little pansy?”

“No!” Joel said, his pitch rising. “Who’s been saying this? Why’s anyone talking to you about me?”

“Nobody cares about you,” Darby said, with chilling unconcern. “I’m asking about Fowler.”

“I’ve no idea who he’s screwing! It’s not me, that’s all I know!”

“And when he took you out for a nice Indian meal—what about that?”

“That? Oh my God, is that what this is about?” Joel pantomimed relief with a hand on his chest. “For goodness sake. That wasn’t a candlelight meal for two, Mr. Sabini, it was work. He reckons he can get me to solve his cases.”

Darby’s eyes were cold pools you could drown in. “Are you taking the piss?”

“That’s what I said to him! I said, I’m not magic! The only way I can tell you if someone’s committed a crime from looking at their handwriting is if they wrote a full confession!” Darby grunted at that, which was a relief. Joel did not want him worrying about his powers later on. “But he wouldn’t listen. He wants to get ahead, and he reckons I’m a secret weapon. You know how people want to believe things and you can’t tell them anything else? Well, he’s decided I’m about four times as good as I am. He offered me a retainer if I agree not to consult for any other police clients.”

Darby leaned back. “You got many of those?”

“None at all,” Joel said. “So I told him I had several and he’d need to double the offer.”

“Hah!” Darby gave a proper laugh this time. “And?”