They find a table close to the door. Rabbani huddles round her corrugated cup of tea while he watches a handful of students and lecturers meander their way through the building. Term may not have started in earnest yet, but already the institution is beginning to wake from its long summer slumber. He knows Sophie Denham the minute she walks in. She’s tall and blond and very beautiful. She’s wearing a pair of dark jeans, a plain white T-shirt, and unbranded trainers. Her hair is tied back in a functional ponytail, and she carries a brown satchel-style briefcase that no doubt contains her lecture notes meticulously organized and color coordinated. She already has lawyer written all over her. She’s one step away from a designer suit, paid for by her corporately negligent clients.

But she also spots him. He sees her glance him up and down as he gets to his feet. She comes straight toward him, clearly not doubting for a moment that she has the right man. First Wentworth in the churchyard, now her; perhaps he has the word cop written across his forehead. Perhaps it was there the night he met Oscar.

The way Denham holds herself, she looks as though she’s heading into battle in the courtroom. “Detective Sergeant Tyler,” she says, not bothering with the question.

He holds out his hand and warrant card. “I’m DS Tyler. This is Constable Rabbani.”

Denham takes the warrant card from him and examines it closely. Then she does the same with Rabbani’s. The gesture reminds him of Edna Burnside checking for bogus gasmen. “Can I get you a drink?” he offers.

She sits, tucking her satchel very precisely under her chair. “I’ll have a green tea, please. And a banana.” She stares at him, the banana clearly some sort of challenge.

He goes to fetch her order, using the queuing time as an opportunity to examine her more closely. She sits perfectly still and upright. Rabbani tries her best to make conversation, but Sophie Denham shuts her down each time with the barest of smiles. She seems out of place here, surrounded by partying students whose motivations for attending university differ widely from her own. But she’s unembarrassed about it. He struggles to work out how the chaotic Oscar might fit into this tidy, focused life.

When he returns she seems to have softened a little. “Thanks,” she says. Perhaps the banana did the trick. By contrast Rabbani looks ready to take the girl down and restrain her. He doesn’t know what was said but it’s clear Denham got the upper hand.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “I don’t have very long.”

“This shouldn’t take long.”

She eats the banana in small bite-sized chunks, breaking them off with fingernails neither long nor short, coated in clear nail polish. “To be honest, I don’t really know what I can tell you.”

“We’re speaking to as many people as we can who are involved with the case.” He watches her chew; everything about her is so measured and precise. “You were at school with Oscar Cartwright, is that right?”