I gunned the ex-Panda, or at least I came as close to gunning it as you can with a ten-year-old Ford Escort, and went through a set of lights on red. There was a yell behind me. ‘Cycle couriers like to hang out there,’ I said. ‘It’s convenient for the pub and cafés, but also close to most of their clients.’

Rain began to splatter on the windscreen and I had to ease up – the streets were getting wet. How long would it take Dr Framline to reach Covent Garden by public transport? Not less than an hour, but he had a head start and this was London, where the tube was often faster than the car.

‘Call Dr Framline,’ I told Beverley.

She grumbled, dialled, listened and said, ‘Voice mail. He’s probably underground.’

I gave her Lesley’s number. ‘Remember,’ she said, ‘you talk, you pay.’

‘That’s the way it works,’ I said.

Beverley held the phone to my ear so I could keep both hands on the controls. When Lesley picked up I could hear the incident room at Belgravia in the background – proper police work.

‘What happened to your phone?’ she asked. ‘I’ve been trying to ring you all morning.’

‘I broke it doing magic,’ I said. ‘Which reminds me: I need you to book me out an Airwave.’ Airwave was the all-singing, all-dancing digital radio handset for coppers.

‘Can’t you get one from your nick?’ she asked.

‘You’re joking,’ I said. ‘I don’t think Nightingale’s got the hang of Airwave yet. Or even radios, for that matter. In fact, I think he might be a bit hazy on telephones.’

She agreed to meet us at Neal Street.

The rain was sheeting down as I crawled up the semi-pedestrianised length of Earlham Street and stopped on the corner, where we could get a good view of the pub and the cycle-courier hangout. I left Beverley in the car and popped across to check inside the pub. It was deserted; Dr Framline hadn’t arrived yet.

My hair was soaked through when I got back in the car but I had a towel in my obbo bag, and I used it to squeeze most of the water out. For some reason Beverley found this hilarious.

‘Let me do that,’ she said.

I handed her the towel and she leaned over and started rubbing my head. One of her breasts pushed against my shoulder and I had to resist an urge to put my arm around her waist. She dug her fingers into my scalp.

‘Don’t you ever comb this?’ she asked.

‘I can’t be bothered,’ I said. ‘I just shave it down to stubble every spring.’

She ran her palm over my head and let it rest, lightly, on the back of my neck. I felt her breath close, on my ear.