They went up the short flight of stone steps on the left side of the hotel that led to the Artesian Bar. I watched the main entrance and I watched the steps to the bar. But I saw no sign of anyone who looked even remotely like Madam Theresa. After what felt like a hundred years, Ginger came out of the main entrance alone.

The staff hailed her a black cab.

Moments later my phone vibrated with a message from Ginger.

She is in.

I realised my hands were shaking. I felt sick. Fighting back my panic, I called the number yet again.

But the phone just kept on ringing.

It took me ten minutes to walk to West End Central, where DCI Whitestone was on stage in the first-floor briefing room. Our boss, the Chief Super, Detective Chief Superintendent Elizabeth Squire, stood behind her.

On the screen behind them was a picture of the Hopewell Centre and a map of the neighbourhood it dominated.

There was standing-room only in the briefing room. Uniformed officers in shirtsleeves. Special Firearms Officers in their black kit. Some plain-clothes men and women from SC&O 10, the covert policing department of the Met, undercover agents. With luck, the penthouse suite would not know we were there until the doors were kicked in and they had a Remington pump-action shotgun pointing at their faces.

‘The premises are located on the fiftieth floor of the Hopewell Centre,’ Whitestone said. ‘The penthouse suite. We will – we hope – have two undercover officers inside the building – DC Wolfe and DC Wren, both of West End Central. They will both be in radio contact.’ She paused and made sure she had their full attention. ‘When they have positive visual ID they will release a Grade A response code. You will have a target time of eight minutes to get inside, establish our authority and secure the building.’ Whitestone looked at the Chief Super. ‘Ma’am?’ she said.

DCS Swire stepped forward.

‘Human trafficking is a blight on the modern world,’ she began.

The Chief Super was a good speaker. She would make our people think that they were a part of history. But I could not concentrate on her words.

Edie, I thought, slipping outside the briefing room.

I remembered the words of John Caine in Room 101, New Scotland Yard.

She knows enough not to take anything, right?

I fought down my nausea.

I dialled the number again.

And this time someone answered.

29

‘Mr Dempsey?’

I looked up from my still mineral water. In the hour before midnight, the lighting was subdued in the Artesian Bar of the Langham Hotel. The man smiled politely in the expensive twilight. In his dark suit and tie, and with his air of calm efficiency, you would have mistaken him for a hotel employee.

I glanced at my watch. He was exactly on time.

‘I’m Dempsey,’ I said.

‘Your car is outside, sir.’