“I see it,” said Stephanopoulis. “OPS plus videotapes, plus story to a journalist, some juicy scandal from the 1960s? Maybe somebody wanted to shut him up. If we find out what the story was we’ll find out who has a motive.”

I told her about Alexander Smith’s presence in one of the photos on the mantelpiece.

“Who’s he when he’s at home?” she asked.

“Nightclub impresario,” I said. “Goes all the way back to the 1960s, had an extended vacation abroad in the ’70s and ’80s.”

“Is he a gangster?” asked Trollope.

“He’s dodgy, is what he is,” I said.

“How did he come to your attention?” asked Stephanopoulis.

“During the course of another inquiry,” I said and glanced at Trollope. I wasn’t sure how much Stephanopoulis would want me to say outside the Met.

“Do you think they’re related?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But it’s definitely a place to start.”

Stephanopoulis nodded and pointed at me. “You get some sleep. I want you nice and fresh tomorrow,” she said and then looked at Trollope. “You—your boss has given you to me as my plaything so I need you to run some errands for me—all right?”

“Yes ma’am,” said Trollope.

“What are we doing tomorrow?” I asked.

“We’re going to have a nice long chat with one Alexander Smith,” she said.

I FOUND it surprisingly easy to sleep across the backseat of the Transit but I woke up to a clear and freezing morning and was really glad when DC Trollope turned up in an unmarked Mondeo to ferry me and Stephanopoulis to the train station. I swapped mobile numbers with Trollope because it never hurts to network and headed inside in search of coffee. Norwich station has your standard late-Victorian brick, cast-iron, and glass shed retrofitted with the bright molded plastic of various fast-food franchises. I gratefully staggered in the direction of Upper Crust and considered asking if I could stick my head under their coffee spigot but settled for a couple of double espressos and a chicken tikka masala baguette instead. Stephanopoulis didn’t approve.

“The chicken in that is embalmed, dried and pressed very flat, and then sprinkled with extra chemicals,” she said.

“Too hungry to care,” I said.

We caught the express to Liverpool Street and Stephanopoulis got us a warrant card upgrade to first class, which on a short route like that meant slightly bigger seats and slightly fewer plebs. This suited Stephanopoulis because she was asleep before the train left the station.

There was no WiFi on the train so I booted up a PDF of Latin for Dummies on my laptop and spent an hour and a half getting to grips with third-declension adjectives. We were twenty minutes out of Liverpool Street and the suburbs were a comforting rainy smear when Trollope called me.