‘Last week. Wednesday. The DCI has something of a chequered record. He’s been investigated three times. As a young PC he was implicated in the Hillsborough cover-up. Then there was an allegation of attempted rape ten years ago. It was from a witness on one of his cases; she dropped the charges. And he was recently investigated again. There were rumours he was taking back-handers from a local crime family to look the other way.’

‘I see.’ Bloom opened her tablet. ‘Can you give me his name?’

‘Detective Chief Inspector Warren Beardsley.’

‘Anything else from your Chief Constable?’

‘That we need to be careful what we say. And to who. His priority is public relations.’

The line went quiet for a moment and then Barker said, ‘I’ve got a horrible feeling you might be right about this, Augusta.’

While Bloom was speaking to Chief Superintendent Barker, Lana Reid was struggling to get comfortable in a shop doorway beneath a stolen blanket that smelled of stale beer and urine. She’d picked bad marks; that was the problem. A banker and a barrister. It was too ambitious. They weren’t keen on her drinking – bedtimes were early; work in the morning – and they were ruthless too. The barrister had kicked her out two hours ago and refused to give her the things she’d accumulated over the past two weeks. He’d said it was collateral for the shit he’d put up with. She was supposed to be fleecing him, stealing his money, manipulating him.

It was the drink. She needed to stop. She was better than this. She should be flying through this game.

Sometimes she couldn’t cope with the boredom of suburban life as a single mum. So she took off – just for a few months – and created a separate life. She found a bloke, strung him along, manipulated him, lived off him, call it what you will. She was good at finding affluent, needy men who would fall for her particular brand of sexy, the vulnerable heroine. She enjoyed the role. But she could never desert Jane completely. Jane was her child, her responsibility, and so, eventually, she always returned home.

24

Jameson considered taking the main road to work, past the British Medical Association building, but instead followed Bloom’s normal route, left off Euston Road and through the quieter back streets. It was a fortuitous choice. A few minutes from the office, he came across a small independent cafe called Fork. Nestled in between tiled partition walls, its pale wooden panelling and large arched windows reminded him of the cafes of continental Europe. There, in the queue at the counter, stood Dr Sarah Something. She was wearing a simple black dress and black heels that showed off her toned calves. Her blonde hair was in a neat bun.

‘Hello again,’ Jameson said, joining the queue.

She turned. ‘Oh,’ she said, bemused. ‘Hello.’