‘Not fond of jokes really, Rose,’ Danny said in his Scottish drawl. He was chewing a matchstick that he moved lazily to the other side of his mouth. ‘I thought you’d have known that by now.’

‘I just want you to know, I was invited this time.’

‘Aye, I do know.’ Danny yawned lightly and pulled his tobacco out of his pocket.

Something strong and painful filled my veins. Humiliation. Anger with myself. ‘Don’t you get bored of being their guard dog?’

‘It’s my job,’ he said, removing the match and rolling a cigarette. ‘Just doing my job, see, doll.’

‘Right,’ I said. I looked up at him, into those inscrutable blue eyes. ‘And how do you square this with yourself?’

‘What?’

‘The violence up at Albion Manor, the heavies, beating people up – men who die, for Christ’s sake – guns, the drug-addicted daughter – shall I go on?’

‘Please don’t.’

‘But, Danny—’

He put a finger on my lips to silence me. ‘I sleep easily enough, Rose,’ he said quietly, and then he just started whistling – right into my face. A taxi pulled up in front of us and a stunning girl in a leather coat got out. He watched her impassively, shrugging down into his parka as he lit the roll-up.

I felt a curious stab of something in my gut. ‘Could you … ?’ I faltered. Our eyes met.

‘Could I what?’ He resumed the whistling.

I could see the freckles on the bridge of his nose. I suddenly wanted to punch him square on it. ‘Could you not whistle in my face, please?’

He just winked at me. I shouldered my bag, making my way down the front steps to the street to the tune of ‘My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean’, gritting my teeth. Then it stopped.

‘Rose,’ he called after me softly.

I turned back. ‘Yes?’

The smoke from his cigarette was a haze between us. ‘Remember what I said. Go home.’

Flushing furiously, I walked towards Tottenham Court Road and the car park. I’d be damned if I’d let them all tell me what to do. And I knew one person who might be able to help me reveal the secret I couldn’t work out. It seemed I wasn’t going home quite yet.

I had half an hour to get to the cuttings office, Cutting Out, before it closed for the day. Naturally I got stuck behind a pathetic procession of anaemic-looking Hare Krishnas banging their drums and ringing their bells down Euston Road. Then a police van screeched past us and blocked off the turning to Camden.

‘For Christ’s sake,’ I muttered, trying to reverse. A surly cab driver was refusing to budge and I was about to get wedged in.