I knew the old director pretty well. He was a corrupt ex-cokehead, willing to falsify evidence, torture a suspect or even smuggle death-row cadavers to a cannibal if it would close a case. I don’t know anything about the new director. Hopefully she doesn’t know anything about me, either.

A muffled word catches my ear: ‘Warner.’

My skin prickles. I lean closer to the door to listen. The new director could have said ‘warn her’. Or it could be a coincidence, her discussing the notorious crime boss Charlie Warner at the exact moment that I arrived.

Someone’s coming. I straighten up.

It’s Maurice Vasquez—the head of comms intelligence. He’s as handsome as a Bernini sculpture, with a straight nose, trimmed nails, slicked-back hair. He spends his time listening to wire taps, decrypting hard drives, reading hacked emails and text messages.

‘Blake,’ he says, ‘what are you doing here?’

‘Hi, Vasquez. Long time,’ I say. ‘How are you?’

He doesn’t look pleased to see me. Maybe he caught me eavesdropping.

‘I thought you were all done with this place,’ he says.

‘So did I. Thistle called me in.’

He raises his eyebrows. ‘For a new case?’

That hadn’t occurred to me. ‘Not sure.’

‘I’d advise you not to take it,’ he says. ‘You of all people know how dangerous this work can be.’

‘I was thinking it might be about an old case.’

‘Well, whatever it is, don’t do anything dumb. Let me handle anything you’re not sure about, okay?’

I’m oddly touched. ‘Thanks, man. I’ll see you around.’

He nods briskly, and strides away towards the elevators.

When I get to Thistle’s cubicle, I see an unfamiliar man behind her desk. Comb-over, blue polo shirt, big watch. He looks me up and down.

‘I’m looking for Agent Thistle,’ I say.

He snorts, either at her or at me. ‘You a lawyer?’

What? ‘No. I’m—’

‘Blake,’ Thistle says from behind me, ‘thanks for coming.’

My heart kicks as I turn. ‘Any time.’

Thistle is wearing a crisp white blouse and a necklace of imitation pearls, bright against her ebony skin. Her hair is tied back in a ponytail, revealing earrings that match the necklace. The clothes and jewellery are cheap, but she looks good in them. I feel a moment of hope—maybe she’s dressed up for me. Or, more likely, she’s trying to prove that she’s doing great without me.

She sees me looking at her outfit. ‘I’m giving evidence in court later,’ she says.

Oh. Nothing to do with me at all.

‘This way.’ She turns around and strides away. I keep my gaze on the back of her head as I follow.