He takes a moment to scan the room. Empty, dirty desks: paper overspilling, phones set atop mounds of files, printouts, pizza boxes, cans of drink. The bins are empty, suggesting a cleaner has done their best, but the room looks more like a student hall of residence than the home of an elite team of detectives. He shoots a glance towards Roper’s office, at the far end of the room. Beside it is the Murder Wall: a big, blue, fabric-covered board, with pictures, printouts, maps and names stuck up like mismatched paving stones.

‘Help you?’

The officer has hung up on whoever had her attention and risen from her chair, giving McAvoy the once over. Looks him up, and further up. Smiles, nicely. She seems glad of the interruption. She’s a smallish woman in her early thirties, with sensibly bobbed dark hair. In her unremarkable polo neck, dark trousers and walking shoes, she has the look of a teacher taking a bunch of kids away on a residential break.

‘PC McAvoy,’ he says, stepping over some discarded foil containers and extending his hand. He takes hers in his, and holds her gaze while they shake. He reminds himself, as he always does, that he must treat other people’s palms and fingers as if they were a frightened bird, having been chided many times at school and university for leaving people in agony having accidentally crushed their hands like an empty lager can.

‘We haven’t met,’ she says, brightly. ‘I’d remember. What are you, six foot six? Seven?’

‘Five,’ he says, colouring.

‘Bollocks. You’re bigger than that. My ex was six foot five and you’re bigger than him. You’d be bigger still if you stood up straight.’

McAvoy doesn’t know how to reply. Just stands, lost, a little awkward, fiddling with his hands.

‘I’m Bradley,’ she says, suddenly. ‘First name is Wilma, but if you use that in earshot of these bastards I may have to kill you. You can imagine what it leads to. So, Bradley works for me.’

‘Aector,’ says McAvoy, self-consciously.

‘Bless you,’ says Bradley with a smile, stretching to ease some tension in her back. ‘You’ll be Scottish.’

‘I will. I am.’

‘And you want me to say that name, do you?’

‘Hector will be fine,’ mumbles McAvoy, sweating. ‘Or just McAvoy. Call me what you like.’

‘Oh, don’t give me that kind of permission.’ She grins. ‘That’s carte blanche with me. I’ll be up all night thinking of nicknames and I’m bound to cause offence. Anyway, what can I do for you? Were you after the boss? I think he’s off doing his thing, talking to whoever it is he talks to when he slithers away from his desk.’

McAvoy notices the slight look of distaste on her face. ‘Slithers?’

‘Oh, he’s an oily one, that’s all,’ replies Bradley, nonchalantly. ‘Bit greasy. Got that Portillo quality, y’know? You can imagine him sitting in a bath of Vaseline in his leisure time. I’m not one of his, so I can say this stuff. I’m from the other side of the water. Part of a specialist team my proper boss has set up: domestic abuse and incidents of violence against women. Quite a broad brief. But in the eyes of CID, that means I’m available, and I have local knowledge, so they’ve got me here as office manager.’