I sighed, almost a gasp of frustration. ‘It’s not going to happen,’ I said. ‘Not here, anyway – probably not anywhere. Not when there’s two of us. What do you want to do, pay a bloke in a pub?’

‘No, no,’ Pierce said. I knew his tone, I knew his whole stance: a writer in the Monday meeting whose pitch is bombing, and they’re trying to talk it back to life. ‘It has to be—’

‘Real?’ I said, and I didn’t edit the contempt from my voice.

Pierce didn’t respond. He was gnawing on the problem, pinching his top lip, scowling at the eroding crowd. The T-Rex had made its final appearance in Jurassic Park and people were drifting home. One by one the shipping container boutiques were closing, doors clattering. ‘Maybe the streets around here,’ Pierce said. ‘I mean, they must be a good hunting ground, right? With all these …’ He stopped, groping for the right word.

‘Mumfords,’ I supplied, drawing a wolfish smile from Pierce.

‘Mumfords, yeah. The Nathans. If anyone deserves to get mugged—’

‘No one deserves to get mugged,’ I said sharply.

Pierce cocked his head. ‘I know it’s a delicate subject for you, maybe you didn’t deserve it, but – no one, really? You sure about that?’

I frowned at him.

‘Not even me?’ he asked.

I was stopped. I had something ready, some remarks on how I wouldn’t wish street crime on my enemies, Twitter-scented piety. But I was stopped.

‘I lied about being attacked,’ Pierce said. ‘I profited from that; quite handsomely, I might add. Wouldn’t it be fitting if I was mugged?’

Although I wanted to disagree, I could not.

Pierce leaned in to me, eyes dark and filled with conspiracy. The old Pierce. The man I had wanted to meet, and to interview. ‘If I deserve it, there must be others, right? You know there are. This is important – this is what I wanted to say in Night Traffic. The crime might be horrible in individual cases, but in general – in general it might be important, it might even be vital. The city needs it. It’s part of the ecology. The city needs fear. It keeps the balance, it stops the wrong sorts getting the upper hand. It stops the Mumfords taking over. And we’ve lost that.’

‘But it’s not the “wrong sorts” who get the worst of it, is it?’ I said. ‘It’s the terrified little old ladies in council flats, getting their jaws broken for two quid. It’s poor kids who know they won’t get a bike for Christmas because it’ll get taken off them while the tree’s still up.’

Pierce closed his eyes, as if impatient with this objection. ‘Yes. Yes. And I said the same to Quin.’

To Quin? Why was he talking about this to Quin?