‘Perhaps,’ says Tremberg. ‘I remember the one in Scunthorpe pretty well. You’ll have been down here at the time, swanning around with the Met, but my old sergeant, Ken Cullen – he used to talk about the injuries to test out the stomachs of the young PCs. She was Traveller stock, as I recall. Unsolved, if I remember rightly, but word was that two lads who owned a scrapyard out towards Doncaster had something to do with it. It was when Roper was boss of CID, so draw your own conclusion. And if you’re asking if it has some similarities to other active cases, I can tell you that yes, it bloody does. Can I get back to you when I’ve gone and kicked some geeks in the shins?’

‘The sooner the better,’ says Pharaoh, drumming her fingers on the tabletop.

Tremberg seems about to say goodbye. Instead, she pauses, clearly taking her time with a memory. ‘There was a girl,’ she says. ‘The case in Scunthorpe. A witness, at first. There were Traveller connections. Irish Traveller …’

Pharaoh gives a little grunt, confirming the unasked question. ‘We’ll be having a chat,’ she says, pointedly. ‘Once I know what I need to know.’

‘Jesus, Trish. He’s like a bloody great vacuum for trouble, isn’t he?’

‘Quick as you can please, Helen,’ she says, and ends the call.

Pharaoh sits for a time, watching the rain. Occasionally her phone bleeps, as a report or an update drops into her inbox. McAvoy doesn’t call. She sends an email to Wilma Bradley, asking for information on what happened to the men who were prime suspects in the Scunthorpe killing twelve years before. Pops outside for a cigarette, and smokes it with her face turned into the rain, defying the gale.

Eventually, she orders another coffee. Boz raises his eyebrows.

‘Not a fucking word,’ says Pharaoh, and returns to her seat. On the table, her phone is buzzing. It’s the Grimsby CID office: direct line to DI Tony Blake. She has a vision of a thin, grey, bookish man, perfectly bald on top with a ring of yellow-grey hair starting just above his ears. He always makes Pharaoh think of an egg stopped halfway out of a chicken’s cloaca.

‘Tony,’ she says, brightly. ‘Tell me something good, please. I’m near the water and the only reason I haven’t jumped in is because I haven’t got enough money in my pockets to weigh me down …’

‘Good and bad, boss,’ says Blake, without preamble. ‘Good news is, the missing urban explorer isn’t missing any more.’

‘No? Well that’s—’

‘Bad news is he’s dead.’

‘Oh for fuck’s sake, Tony.’

‘Body washed up at the nudist beach down Mablethorpe. You know the one.’

‘Professionally speaking, yes …’ says Pharaoh, through gritted teeth.

‘Lincolnshire Police but they checked against missing persons. Not confirmed yet, but it’s your missing anarchist.’

‘His father’s going to go to pieces,’ says Pharaoh, closing her eyes. She wishes she could find the time to go and deliver the news personally. As senior officer, she hates having to delegate the awful duty to somebody else. As far as she’s concerned, doing the horrible jobs is one of the duties that comes with seniority. ‘Suspicious?’