I stared at the photograph from when Ryan was homeless. ‘Christ. Ryan looks half-dead in that picture of him at Waterloo.’ He was on a bench with Nicola Grant. Filthy, ripped clothes. Sores speckled his dirty face and hopelessness seeped from every pore. ‘Look at the difference between then and now. The Manor House job saved his life.’

‘Then some arsehole took him out, and all that struggling and determination were for nothing.’ Alexej thumped his fist on the desk, spilling tea from his mug. ‘You know what gets me? I bet the one thing that helped him to stay alive was probably the desire to see his daughter grow up, to be a part of her life.’ His voice faltered. ‘And now . . . now he won’t and she’s going to grow up without her dad.’

His words hung in the air, like a spectre.

All murders were awful, but there was something even more tragic about someone having their life taken from them just as they’d turned it round.

Shen’s voice snapped us back to the room. ‘Boss, Dan’s just rung. He’s got Kelly Turner’s address. The mum was pissed, and he couldn’t get any sense out of her, but he managed to spot her address book. Kelly’s got a four-year-old daughter, Abbie, and they live in Romford.’ She passed me the message slip.

‘I bloody well hope she got her kid looked after while she was over at the soup shop.’ Alexej’s voice was strident.

All eyes were on me as I read out the address. ‘Flat 5, 257 Bridge Road, Romford. We can’t take any risks. We’ll need back-up to meet us at her place with an ambulance, and we’ll need an enforcer in case no-one answers the door.’

It had been three days.

If Abbie wasn’t already dead, she’d be a whisker away from it.

Maya, midday

Maya, midday

Minutes later, I was in the car, scooting from Limehouse towards Romford, blue lights and siren on.

‘There’s no mention of Kelly living with anyone or having a partner.’ Alexej was paraphrasing what we’d learnt about Kelly through the in-car radio.

When I arrived, Dan was standing by. Two officers from armed response were at the door of the flat, pressing the buzzer. The entrance was beside a café.

‘No response, Ma’am,’ said one of the armed officers. ‘There’s either no-one in or they’re not answering.’

‘Right. Ram the door,’ I said. ‘It’s got a feeble Yale lock, so it won’t take much.’