McAvoy has had few dealings with Grover. He pictures an ebullient, fitness-obsessed chap. Short, but wiry. Shaved head, and long ears: a sporty goblin. Late thirties, perhaps – younger than McAvoy and already a rung higher up the ladder. He drinks protein shakes and cycles to work. Draws elaborate mandalas in his notebook to help himself centre his thoughts. They haven’t had much of an opportunity to work together, and even less to chat. Their one attempt at conversation – conducted at the temperamental vending machine at Priory Road police station – had seen Grover enthusiastically extolling the virtues of vitamin D supplements and the ingestion of powdered ants, while McAvoy gave well-meaning nods and stared longingly through the glass at his captive Galaxy Ripple.

‘He’s there now?’

‘Yep, with two uniforms. Science officers are on alert but haven’t set off – same with the dog unit. We’ll have a look see. The accountants wouldn’t thank me for popping my cork this early.’

‘And the victim?’

‘Dymphna Lowell,’ she says, pulling out the ashtray and crushing out the stub of her cigarette. There’s a trace of red wine on the filter tip – a gift for Roisin. ‘Only name on the electoral register, lives alone. No formal ID, of course, but you and I both know it’s going to be her. Would be nice to think it’s an accident. Maybe an aneurysm. Painless. Just drops, and whatever comes next, that’s just meat …’

‘Lowell?’ asks McAvoy. The name is vaguely familiar. ‘You said something about a clairvoyant.’

‘Aye. And anybody who says that she never saw it coming has to put a tenner in a charity jar, yeah?’

‘You said that, Trish …’

‘I’m allowed to. I’m funny. I tell bad jokes well. The shrink says it’s a defence mechanism.’

‘But the clairvoyance,’ presses McAvoy, trying to keep her on track.

‘Oh, right, Grover said that when he woke me up. I’m trying to find something on her now but this bloody phone …’ Her tone changes, as she makes connections. ‘Oh, of course! That’s your Roisin’s world, isn’t it? Tea leaves and reading palms, or reading palm leaves and leaving tea, or however it all works.’

McAvoy is grateful for the darkness. Feels his cheeks colour. Feels her eyes on him. ‘She’s a herbalist. And she’s helped a lot of people.’

‘I know,’ says Pharaoh, brightly. ‘All of her lotions and potions – bloody godsend. That elderberry stuff shifted Sophia’s bronchitis overnight and she sorted Fin’s earache with an onion. That’s not a talent to be sniffed at. No, honestly, I know she’s good at all that. It’s just a shame she was born in the wrong century. They used to burn witches at the stake.’

‘Trish …’

‘Oh shut up, man, I’m just playing.’

She lights another cigarette. Glares through her own reflection into the blackness beyond. In her hand, the phone gives a weak vibration. She opens the message, and barks a little laugh.

‘All good?’ asks McAvoy.