‘Tarryn,’ Maggie said, as if she’d read her mind. ‘I’m not going to help you dig your own grave, poking round Corinna’s case.’ She was so worked up, she didn’t register the turn of phrase. ‘It’s the sneakiness – deleting the messages, emptying the trash.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m desperate, I wasn’t thinking straight.’

Maggie had given her a hard look: not good enough. ‘He’s my best contact – you nearly made me look like an idiot. And you can’t say you weren’t thinking straight, I don’t buy it, because this is hardly the first time, is it? Taking matters into your own hands?’

For a mad moment, she thought Samir had told her. No, paranoid, no, of course he hadn’t. Of course he hadn’t, for fuck’s sake.

Maggie’s lips had been a pale line. ‘Let me just say this: at the moment, I’m seeing things from your man Freshwater’s point of view.’

The Get out of my sight subtext was hard to avoid but it’d been a relief anyway when, as soon as they got back, Maggie had despatched her to Hockley again in pursuit of Michael Dixon. And of course, being both bodily there and awake this time, she’d got him. She’d emailed the pictures back and received a terse Thanks in reply. Two minutes later: Now go home, get a proper night’s sleep and sort yourself out.

Instead, she’d driven back to the city centre, parked the car and come here.

The Spot opened at six; she’d been in position since half past five. David had already been in; a couple of minutes after she arrived, one of the Gillette barmen, not Justin, had rung the bell and from her spot behind a small van, she’d watched him open the door. Lisa and another woman she hadn’t seen before were next, let in by the barman, and soon after that, two more women. None were in the tight black gear, the leggings and ballet wraps; if they were waitresses, they clearly changed on the premises.