She nodded. ‘She worked at the new place. The better one – where we went after. She worked on reception, organized who went with who, took the money.’

Heart pounding, Robin took out her phone and scrolled to a picture she’d taken at the end of November. Before she’d been fired from the Met, before any of this had started. Before – she’d actually believed until two days ago – it was thinkable. Josh and Corinna.

She turned the phone around and handed it to the girl. In her head she was praying, Robin realized. Please. ‘What about him? Do you know him?’

With a sensation like a fist in the stomach, she saw the girl’s expression soften.

‘No,’ she said.

‘No?’ An absurd swell of hope.

‘I know her.’ She pointed at Corinna. ‘Holly.’

‘Her? She was … working?’

‘No.’

‘Then … I don’t understand.’

‘It was her place. She ran it.’

Robin’s hand shook as she took the card from her wallet. She fumbled as she entered the number.

The call was answered after two rings, a crisp ‘Thomas.’

‘It’s Robin Lyons.’

‘Hello.’ Interesting, said the tone, not a moment’s hesitation about who she was. They probably had her picture up on their whiteboard; she was probably looking at it right now.

‘Is your guv’nor in?’ she asked. ‘Jafferi.’

‘Yeah. Shall I put you through or do you want me to give him a message?’

‘I’d like to speak to him, please.’

‘Hold on.’

Perhaps ten seconds later, ‘Robin?’

‘I think I know who killed Shannon Harris.’

Chapter Twenty-five

As she came down the long steps to Station Street, she saw the black VW saloon on the other side. A double-decker barrelled round the corner; she crossed the road in a whirl of exhaust.

He leaned over and opened the door. ‘Get in.’ She did as she was told. The door clunked shut, locked automatically as he indicated out. ‘Put your seatbelt on.’

Through the tunnel under Smallbrook Queensway, traffic thumping overhead. He had his coat on and a dark plaid scarf but the heaters were going and the car was warm. As she got in, she’d been sideswiped by déjà vu. The smell – like his old Golf, like his T-shirts, when she’d lain on lawns and beaches and beds with her head on his shoulder. His skin.

He took the lane signposted for the ring road. ‘Where are we going?’ she said.

‘Don’t know yet.’ Samir checked the wing mirror. ‘Tell me. All of it – from the beginning.’

‘You know that I’ve been working for Maggie Hammond,’ she said. ‘And that we’ve been looking for a girl who was missing, Rebecca Woodson?’

‘Referral from Alan Nuttall last week. Yes.’