‘Give you that break into photojournalism you’re craving? Not a chance. I’d have my nuts in the mangle for the rest of my life. Now you’re going to tell me that sources are always protected. What would you do, when Special Branch pulled you in? And threatened you with jail, unless you cough up the name of your source?’

‘Ah.’

‘Yeah. Ah. Plus you were stupid enough to ask me over an open line. So all they’d have to do is examine your phone records in any case.’

A sigh. Concession of defeat?

‘OK, tell you what, my best offer. I stop stalking Mr Murderous. You have a drink with me.’

He stared at the phone for a moment. ‘Why?’

‘Because you sound like a decent guy. And a girl needs all the friends she can get, in this game. Will you?’

17

‘Detective Inspector Felgate.’

‘Mr Castagna.’

With most of his associates, Joe would have been happy to use first names. The fact that he didn’t do so with his tame policeman spoke volumes as to their relationship. Something Felgate knew only too well. In days gone by Joe would have met a bent copper on the car park’s top deck. Appreciating the lack of potential watchers, seven floors up. These days, who knew what might be overhead. Or, for that matter, overheard. So the two men were sitting in the back of the Rhino. Parked on an intermediate floor, with solid concrete above them. Felgate having been patted down and scanned for bugs first. Lewis and Lewis’s deputy Rocco on guard. Rocco at street level to provide warning of any unexpected arrival. While Lewis was leaning against a concrete pillar close to the car. His jacket open to display the butt of his pistol. Giving precisely no shits whatsoever.

‘What have you got for me then?’

Straight to business, Joe. No time to waste on small talk. Especially with a man he despised.

‘Not very much, it has to be admitted.’

Joe fixed the shark eyes on his employee, wordlessly communicating his disappointment. Following up with a terse instruction.

‘So tell me what you do have.’

‘I already know all that. And that you lot don’t have any sort of any handle on it.’

Felgate shrugged. ‘It was a professional job. At least from the look of it. All the killer left behind was the bullet. No shell case, no DNA, no footprints. Nothing. He was either a pro or bloody well coached.’

‘And there are no suspects?’

‘I did go for a word with one of our sergeants. Bloke I used to serve with, when we were both constables. His younger sister died after taking a contaminated pill he bought from Margetson.’

‘You fancied him for it?’