‘Anything on your missing anarchist?’ asks McAvoy, to fill the silence.

‘Waiting for the tide to answer that one,’ says Pharaoh, quietly. ‘His dad’s losing his mind. Daft sods on Cleethorpes beach threatened him with a caution if he didn’t stop bothering the lifeboat crew. I mean, a bit of compassion wouldn’t go amiss.’

McAvoy gives a grunt. Pharaoh’s case load is immense, but the missing person case being dealt with by Grimsby CID is weighing heavily on her. The ‘anarchist’ in question is twenty-three-year-old Christopher Timothy Stoker, though he’s known to his followers as Topher-T. He lives with his father on the outskirts of a little village in North Lincolnshire, and left school at seventeen to pursue his dreams of becoming a political activist. He’s been arrested several times for his involvement in various protest marches and stunts, using his skills as a climber and outdoorsman to maximum effect. He managed to scale Grimsby Dock Tower in 2018, hanging a huge great banner urging the locals to Eat the Rich. He’s as much a performance artist as a rebel, and Pharaoh thinks he’d do more good for society if he put down the spray paint and had a wash. Pharaoh can’t make sense of which movements he’s against and which he’s in favour of. He’s a lithe, straggly-haired young man with facial piercings and purple dreadlocks, seemingly incapable of talking in full sentences and steadfast in his belief that the police are fascists. Pharaoh reckons he’s probably been born in the wrong decade. She’s watched some of his YouTube videos and rather likes him. He’s earnest in a way that stops just short of real conviction. She was present when his father picked him up from the station following his last arrest, and saw a pleasant-looking old hippy who couldn’t seem to decide whether his only son was doing the family proud, or making a prick of himself. Topher went missing nine days ago. He’d promised his few hundred social media followers that he had ‘something special’ planned. His dad believes he may have been the target of agents of the state, determined to silence him for disrupting the establishment.

‘He thinks he’s gone in the water?’ asks McAvoy.

‘Flippers are missing from the garage,’ explains Pharaoh, tapping at her computer. ‘I’ll have to head over at some point. His laptop’s gone for analysis, which means we should hear back in about a year …’

‘I can come, if you like,’ says McAvoy, quietly.

She looks across at him, a little smile on her face. ‘Day trip? A walk on the beach? Maybe an ice cream …’

‘If you like,’ he says, again, and the darkness in the vehicle does nothing to hide his blush.

‘Ah, it’s alive,’ says Pharaoh, as the screen fills with images. ‘So … right … call came in at 10.46 p.m. Neighbour, Edwin Dash. Bloody daft name, innit? … reported seeing the body of his neighbour … concerned for her welfare – well you would be, wouldn’t you? – uniforms dispatched, back door open, discovered the occupant deceased … contacted CID, wheels in motion, call went to senior officer on call, DI Grover, who doubtless remembered the fact that he’s a fucking moron and made the wise decision to head out and get a look at the situation before alerting me …’