‘Bollocks to it,’ says Pharaoh, swiping her card against the machine. She snatches the takeaway cup from Boz’s outstretched hand. ‘I pay less for my Brazilian,’ she mutters, turning away and heading to the door. Stops when she sees the weather. It’s still raining out. The sky is an ugly swirl of grey water and black clouds; a fine rain hanging in the air and making everything seem damp and dirty. She can’t face going outside and her enthusiasm for walking back to the office has waned. Daniells dropped her off on Alfred Gelder Street twenty minutes ago, following a somewhat fraught journey in from Holderness. He’d heard every word of her conversation with McAvoy. Watched her grind her teeth like a horse with a sugar cube. Saw the way the colour in her cheeks turned from a wind-slapped red to the slate grey of somebody who needs a drink and a lie down. She’d nearly instructed him to take her to an off-licence. Instead, she demanded he drop her at the tobacconists near the old Victorian arcade. From there, she’s stomped her way down to the old fruit market, and into the area where the hipsters have taken up residence. The building in which she finds herself used to be a warehouse and a ship’s chandlers. The narrow snicket opposite had run straight to the water and the waiting vessels. Now, the high-ceilinged old building is a symbol of ‘regeneration’ – a word that always makes Pharaoh deeply uneasy. Humber Street is the jewel in Hull’s cultural crown. The old warehouses that used to make up the old fruit market have been transformed into restaurants, galleries and bars. It’s a place of chocolatiers and jewellery-makers, barber’s shops and antique dealers. The air smells of craft beer and fresh brewed coffee: the shopfronts all bright graffiti and exposed brick. There’s usually live music and most of the shopkeepers feel obligated to invest in a resident pug or French bulldog. They’re only a stone’s throw from the marina – pleasure craft sitting glumly on freezing grey water, ice sparkling on their peeling paint and their chocolate-coloured timbers. This is where the city’s tourism bosses bring visitors.

‘Fuck it, I’m staying,’ says Pharaoh, pulling up a wooden barrel and taking a seat at a table that appears to be made of old packing crates and a brass radiator. She flashes a look at Boz. Dares him to tell her there’s a surcharge for sitting in. Feels momentarily aggrieved that he’s not remotely interested in arguing. Looks away when she accidentally catches a glimpse of her reflection, peeking back at her through the leaves of a huge bouquet of arum lilies, and a curious copper still draped in rustic coffee sacks.

She sips her coffee. Swears. It’s really fucking good.

‘Oh thank Christ,’ she mutters, as the phone rings in her hand. It’s not who she was expecting, but it’s the next best thing. ‘Helen,’ she says, warmly.

‘Trish,’ says her former officer – her Grimsby accent slightly tempered by the restraining influence of London life. ‘What’s he done?’