‘Sure thing,’ says Daniells, making a note. ‘I tried that estate agent. Left a message. He’ll call the sarge, but maybe I should ring back and take that on myself, for now …’

Pharaoh nods. Licks dry lips.

‘All OK with you two?’ asks Daniells, with the facial expression of one who knows they are walking on thin ice. ‘You and the sarge, I mean?’

‘Peachy,’ she says, stuffing her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket. Behind her sunglasses, the pupils in her blue eyes have shrunk down to tiny pinpricks. Beneath her dress, it feels as though tiny insects are biting at her skin. She feels overwhelmed suddenly, and Pharaoh isn’t somebody who ever believes she has taken on too much. There just aren’t enough officers any more. Too much crime and not enough people to deal with it all. And she, as a very senior officer, constantly being told to do more with less. Of course her officers are cracking. Of course they’re quitting in droves. Of course they’re running from a crime scene without so much as a word. She’s started to expect it. But not from him. Not Aector.

‘Should I get that?’ asks Daniells, helpfully, gesturing at the light shining from her pocket.

‘Another coffee would be nice,’ says Pharaoh, taking the call and turning away. Daniells, accepting the closest thing he’ll ever receive to an apology, hurries away.

‘Boss, I got a message to ring …’

Pharaoh tries to gather her thoughts. She may as well be using a fishing net.

‘Trish?’

‘Sorry, Wilma – staffing issues. If I commit murder, can you provide a character reference?’

‘My pleasure,’ says DCI Wilma Bradley, in her ear. ‘Cool, calm, composed, not the sort to push somebody’s eyeballs into their head with her thumbs …’

‘I’ve told you, it was an ugly rumour. One eyeball, just one …’

Pharaoh forces herself to relax. To concentrate on the job in hand. Turns to face the wind and lets it cool her flushed skin. ‘Case you were on,’ she says, lighting another cigarette. ‘Eva-Jayne Puck. I’ve requested all the files but I thought you could give me a precis. I was with the Met for that god-awful eight months – first job back after my last lot of maternity leave. I barely remember.’

There’s a pause, as Pharaoh’s former colleague gets herself comfortable. ‘This to do with our mutual friend?’ she asks, quietly.

‘Sorry?’

‘Your big friendly giant, I mean. Scottish chap. Muscles like piglets in a pop sock. Blushes. Did for Roper and nearly got himself killed. In hospital more often than he’s not …’

‘I know who you’re referring to,’ says Pharaoh, testily. ‘I just don’t follow.’

‘It’ll be in the file,’ says Bradley, taking a slurp of something hot. ‘The witness. Briefly a suspect. He married her not more than a few weeks after it all happened.’

Pharaoh stays silent. Sucks on her cigarette. Considers for a moment.

‘Trish?’

‘That’s an oddly specific thing to remember, Wilma,’ says Pharaoh, at last. ‘I’ve got a good memory myself, but you knowing that, it’s a bit uncanny.’