He drove into Leeds and parked just behind City Square. Years ago he’d busked here with his brother Tony. It had been their first gig. Only just teenagers, perhaps not even that. Two guitars and half an hour’s worth of Beatles songs. They hadn’t made much money, but it felt like treasure, money for nothing. Their parents hadn’t been pleased, though. The Romanos are performers, they’d said, not beggars.

He walked across the Square, looking up at the bare-breasted nymphs on high plinths that circled the pedestrianized central area. Titty Square, his granddad used to call it, and even now it was puzzling that the city’s strait-laced Victorian fathers had spiced up the plaza in front of the train station with semi-naked women. A nineteenth-century stab at lap-dancing, perhaps. He wondered what they’d done in Manchester.

His phone was pinging less frequently now. The investigation was already well under way. He’d organized most of it over the phone. The teams were assigned, everyone knew what they were doing. He should have been back at Elland Road, overseeing things as people swung into action. Gwyn Merchant had been named as his deputy. Not ideal, but there were no sergeants available. Merchant was a loudmouth, but a decent copper. He’d rally the troops, get the case moving. That is, he would normally. But for a black on black? Maybe not.

His newly assembled band of merry men and women would be huddled together in small groups, double-checking addresses, sorting out search warrants, divvying up the jobs as they prepared for an afternoon of legwork. Others would never leave the building, condemned to trawl through a bewildering array of databases and other digital resources, dragging up info from the National Crime Database and seeing where the possible links were. Meanwhile, the unluckiest of all would be limbering up for a long session of staring at CCTV footage. How long before a computer could do most of this stuff? Or all of it?

Lisa and Craig’s flat was just off the main square, down behind the station. It was in a converted warehouse next to the old canal, impressive in its way, plenty of balconies, cleaned-up brickwork, floor-to-ceiling windows on the fanciest apartments. Exactly the kind of chic city living that would attract an upwardly mobile drug dealer. Back in the day, this area had been somewhere to avoid, a mix of abandoned factories and open land looking onto a dirty, unloved stretch of the water. Since then, gentrification had been pretty much full on. The drugs and sex had moved out. Ironically, Craig Shaw had moved in.

There’d be a team coming to interview Craig’s girlfriend and helper. But Joe wanted to talk to her first, get a clearer picture of where she fitted into things. Also, someone had to inform her that her boyfriend was dead. Joe wanted to see how she reacted.