From Ruislip, she drove back to Shepherd’s Bush, found a metered space in the knot of residential streets off Uxbridge Road – cheaper than parking at Westfield, look at her being sensible – then walked to the Underground station. She could have driven again but who knew what the traffic would be like trying to get back out later, and parking would be a nightmare over there. And to be late for Lennie today would feel particularly crap, much as Len’d probably enjoy the extra time with her friends.

The Central Line took her all the way, stations clipping by one after another, people getting on, getting off, all purposeful, three-dimensional, while she felt to herself like a wisp, less and less substantial by the minute. Sodding Gid – scratch what she’d said about sanctimony, another thing she’d been wrong about. Sitting there lecturing her – what the hell was that? A spark of outrage glowed behind her ribs; she blew on it, encouraging. Yes, how dare he? Talking to her like that, as if grasping the concept of ‘team’ was somehow beyond her intellectual reach. The ember of fury glowed – better. That was what it was, wasn’t it, the emptiness behind her ribs? Disappointment. Gid had been her right-hand man; she was disappointed because he’d turned out to be a fake like everyone else, setting aside his principles – who cares if Jay Farrell’s real killer goes free if it means we can get Hinton? – for a pat on the back and a quiet life.

And how dare he suggest she was the one with a problem with the system? Like Freshwater, he seemed to have forgotten that it wasn’t the police who decided who was guilty or not. Why bother with a judicial system at all, judges and juries, due process, when the police could administer justice? Just sling the crims in jail, cut out the middle-man – think of the money it’d save. Actually, why not go one further and dispense with the police, too, devolve responsibility to roving squads of vigilantes?

By the time she came through the ticket barrier at Liverpool Street, she felt substantially better, galvanized. She bought a Twix for some energy and ate it Maggie-style, three bites per finger.

The café was a couple of minutes’ walk away, tucked off Bishopsgate in a little arcade. It was busy, and she was still in the queue when Boz appeared briefly in the doorway, blond hair with the light behind it, the same boxy build. He materialized momentarily at her side. ‘Mine’s a big latte, takeaway cup. Oh, and one of these.’ He handed her a wrapped brownie from the shelf then wove his way back through the room to where, she saw, he’d spotted a couple of suits getting their coats on.