‘OK… give me a minute.’ Mickey waited while Mark wrote the number down. ‘Got it. So, what’s your n—’

He cut the call off. The probability was that she’d either call within the next five minutes or not at all. If it was the latter, then the matter was out of his hands. He waited, flicking through the newspaper. The same crusading tone as ever. “Your Clarion”. “A challenging newspaper for challenging times”. “We sound the alarm on uncontrolled immigration/top boss’s pay rises/Islamist extremist infiltration of society”. Populist pick ’n’ mix. Taking undoubtedly uncomfortable truth and adding an unsubtle political twist.

His phone rang.

‘Mickey Bale.’

‘I thought this was Thames Valley Police?’

There’s that self-assurance, he thought.

‘Ah, well I didn’t say I was Thames Valley Police. Just that I was a policeman who arrested you in Beaconsfield.’

‘You’re the man with the gun, right? The all-right-looking one.’

‘You’re too kind.’

‘Well you did me a huge favour. Being arrested at gunpoint is the sort of thing the grumpy old bastards with cameras like to boast about. So now I can tell them to stop whingeing and get away with it!’

He laughed softly. Flashing on the image of her defiant expression after arrest.

‘I’m glad being thrown off the premises was so good for you.’

‘My dad always tells me to take the positives, Mister Bale. So tell me, what can I do for you?’

He paused for a moment. Knowing how unlikely his answer was going to sound.

‘I saw your pics in the paper. On the front page. Faces of evil. Great work, by the way.’

‘Thank you. And…?’

‘I’m guessing you got those shots from somewhere quite close by. Longish lens, to get in nice and close, but not from a mile away. Right? More like two hundred metres.’

‘Keep talking.’

He laughed softly. ‘You’ve been hiding in the bushes again, haven’t you?’

‘It’s not exactly illegal, Sergeant.’

‘No.’ He allowed the silence to drag out a little. ‘It isn’t. But I’ll tell you what it is. If you want to know?’

Make her ask the question. And, therefore, listen to the answer.

‘You’re going to tell me that taking photographs is dangerous?’

She’d seen where he was going with it. And sounded unimpressed.

‘More than you’ll ever know. Unless they catch you at it. But if that happens, you’ll get far too intimate an understanding of the risk I’m trying to point out.’

‘Really? What, you think they might rough me up?’

The last three words in that mock-terrified “ooh I’m scared” tone used by people who weren’t scared.

‘Rough you up?’ Gave her that acid tone back, with a good squeeze of sarcasm. ‘No. I don’t.’

A hint of perplexity crept into her voice. ‘So…’