Pharaoh laughs. Shrugs out of her coat and gets as comfy as she can on the awkward stool. ‘Why do you presume he’s done anything?’

‘I’m a senior investigator with the National Crime Agency, Trish,’ she says, a smile in her voice. ‘That means I have experience and instinct to draw upon. Also, I’ve met him.’

Pharaoh flicks her hair behind her ears. It falls forward again immediately. ‘Not guilty this time,’ she says, staring through the rain-streaked glass. ‘Obviously he’s due a severe Chinese burn just for being McAvoy, but no, I was rather hoping you’d be able to speed up a request. Proper channels are so bloody congested, and I thought to myself, what’s the point of having all this dirt on Helen Tremberg if you don’t use it to jump the queue.’

Pharaoh hears a sigh, exaggerated to show she had been expecting as much. In truth, Pharaoh knows enough about Tremberg’s past indiscretions to see her lose her job and serve ten years inside, but she would die before she ever shared it. Tremberg is one of the best officers she’s ever had.

‘It’s for Wilma Bradley as much as for me,’ says Pharaoh, laying it on thick. ‘You remember Wilma – she was heading south just as you were thinking about coming over from Uniform. Good lady, done well, wouldn’t object to a little help from somebody who knows how hard it is to get on when you’ve got no balls to scratch …’

‘Fine, fine, what can I do?’ says Tremberg, raising her voice over the sound of an argument nearby. It does nothing to change Pharaoh’s opinion of London: a place where the soundtrack seems to be car horns and angry voices.

‘You have any pals in the Serious Crime Analysis Section?’ she asks, lowering her voice.

‘We’re all pals here, Trish. You’d bloody hate it.’

‘We’ve got a nasty one. Lady killed out at Sunk Island, right on the edge of the world. PME hasn’t even been started yet but there’s enough weird shit to suggest that it’s not your ordinary house burglary gone wrong. Cause of death is hard to ascertain but there’s a crystal shard sticking out of her ribcage. It’s got some similarities to—’

‘Fortune teller, was she?’ interrupts Tremberg, speaking fast. ‘There was a case like that in Scunthorpe, years back. And if you’re asking whether we’re familiar with any other cases, let me ask you something first. Was there a Tarot card at the scene?’

‘Tarot cards everywhere, Helen,’ confirms Pharaoh. ‘Enough to suggest she was giving a reading and somebody didn’t like what the future had in store. Why?’

‘SCAS, like you said. We don’t get anywhere near enough officers taking the time to fill in the database correctly, but it’s right up their alley.’

‘What a thought,’ says Pharaoh with a smile, pulling a pad and pen from her pocket. She puts the unlit cigarette to her mouth. Talks around it. ‘There are injuries to the mouth. Somebody may have been trying to cut her tongue off, which implies she’s talked about something she shouldn’t have.’