‘I never saw it. The police told me about it. I expect it’s just marketing for a stupid computer game. Stuart certainly loved those.’

‘Stuart was into gaming?’

‘The bigger the guns, the better. Maybe it’s best he’s not around to influence this little one, after all.’

‘Just one final question, Libby, and then we’ll leave you in peace,’ said Bloom. ‘As far as you know, has Stuart ever suffered from depression?’

Libby frowned. ‘No. Why would you ask that? Why does everyone assume he’s taken off because he was unhappy? He wasn’t unhappy. We were great.’

‘Did you believe her?’ Jameson asked as he and Bloom climbed into the back of a taxi. ‘When she said they were happy?’

‘Didn’t you?’

Jameson ran a hand through his hair. ‘I don’t know. I want to. She seems like a lovely lady. It would be nice if they were happy, but …’

‘You think she might have her rose-tints on?’

‘I know you hate my gut feelings, Augusta, but something was off.’

Bloom told the driver to head to Leeds station. ‘I only object to gut feelings that aren’t fully explained or explored, Marcus. If you have a hunch it’s probably for good reason. Let’s dig deeper.’

Across the Pennines, Stuart Rose-Butler walked into The Principal Hotel, Manchester’s recently refurbished five-star option for businessmen and wealthy visitors. He stopped beside the full-size statue of a horse in the centre of the lobby with his hands in the pockets of his suit trousers. His newly acquired tattoo was covered by the sleeve of his Ted Baker shirt, the Breitling watch Libby had given him for his birthday just visible below the cuff. The tattoo was a half sleeve, a large melting clock face that had won him the previous round and boosted him to level two. He was on a roll.

He watched the stairs and waited. He wasn’t a patient man, but he knew a bad choice would destroy his winning streak.

A dark-haired woman in a suit descended into the lobby twenty minutes later. She was thin, scrawny rather than athletic, stressed rather than fit. Her make-up was heavy but neat and her tailored black suit looked expensive. There were no rings on her fingers. Stuart reckoned this wealthy forty-something hadn’t seen any action in the bedroom for a long, long time.

As she walked towards the reception desk, her right shoe lost traction on the polished floor and she lurched sideways before quickly righting herself. She glanced around – had anyone spotted her ungraceful movement? – and her gaze halted at the man with his hands in his pockets standing perfectly still.

Stuart smiled. He could stop a woman in her tracks when he smiled right. And everything banked on him doing it right.

11

‘Hello, Seraphine. How are you?’

Dr Bloom was sitting as before: hands clasped in her lap, back straight and feet and knees squeezed together.