McAvoy furrows his brow. ‘That’s a flag, isn’t it? A Spanish military banner?’

‘Is it?’ asks Red, sitting down in the damp wooden chair. ‘I dunno. Made up a word and he’s too much of a know-it-all to ask what it means.’

Despite the thoughts and fears fizzing around inside him, McAvoy laughs. He likes Red. Should he ever make it into CID, he plans to register her as an official informant. For now, their relationship is anything but official. She’s a thief and a fence and has been known to throw her fists when the situation calls for it. She’s also the long-term girlfriend of a perennial drug-pusher, part-time armed robber and video-nasty purveyor by the name of Grieg Leeming.

‘He’s out, then?’

‘Austerity, innit?’ Red shrugs. ‘Prisons are full. They’re looking for any excuse to let people out. And our Grieg’s no bother to anybody.’

McAvoy looks away, lest his look of incredulity sour the mood.

‘You’ve guessed, I presume,’ says McAvoy, quietly. ‘Why I got in touch …’

‘You’re a silly bollocks,’ growls Red, shaking her head. ‘That number on the website – nine times out of ten he’d answer it. Wouldn’t have had a clue what you were talking about. You must have a charmed life.’

McAvoy stares into his orange juice, wondering how a cursed existence would play out differently. He isn’t sure how to get the best out of somebody like Red. Isn’t sure how to get the best out of anybody. Can never make up his mind about himself – whether he’s good at his job, or a bumbling incompetent, hideously out of his depth. He supposed it depends on who’s doing the judging.

‘Did you know her?’ asks McAvoy, quietly. ‘Eva-Jayne?’

‘Never heard of her,’ says Red, half-heartedly crossing herself. ‘Clairvoyant, wasn’t she? No, meant nowt to me, or to Grieg. The talk weren’t about her this morning, although half the gossens on the site reckoned they knew every gory detail. No, it was her houseguest that had the tongues wagging, if you’ll excuse the pun.’

‘The pun?’

‘Cut her tongue out, didn’t he?’ asks Red, lighting a fresh cigarette from the tip of her last one. ‘That’s what I heard, anyway. Reckon she was a grass? Speak no evil, kind of a deal? Or maybe it’s just Cromwell enjoying himself. Either way, poor lass.’

‘And the girl?’ he prompts. Manages to say her name, cheeks burning. ‘Roisin.’

Red chews her lip, eyeing him up. She fiddles with a gold medallion on a chain, as if asking the saints for guidance. ‘I got the full story, after we met,’ she says, quietly. ‘Heard the rumours, of course, but it’s not the sort of thing a family wants everybody knowing. Eldest daughter, treated like that. Just a girl. And her daddy, such a strong man, and not there when she needed him. Left it to some bloody copper – no offence – and them as did it still able to draw breath? An ugly business. She’d have made a good mammy, from what I’ve heard.’