She didn’t look very CID, and she didn’t look much like a Scannon either. She was about his height, but wider, somewhere on the bulky side of buxom. Jet black hair cropped to a quarter of an inch, a full face, dark complexion. Her faded black jeans strained until the studs squeaked, and her cleavage was deep and unashamedly on view beneath a black v-neck T-shirt and a black leather jacket.

‘Jesus,’ she said, setting her pint on the table and lowering her considerable bulk down onto a stool opposite him, ‘is this your Friday night gear? Talk about a sore thumb. You might as well have a warrant card on your friggin’ lapel!’

He looked around. Plenty of people in work clothes, or what he supposed went for smart-casual. Thin jerseys tucked into tight ripped jeans. Was that still in fashion?

‘I did take my tie off,’ he said.

‘Oh, we’re gonna have fun!’

She leant in close, until he could see tiny flecks of olive-green in her large brown eyes.

‘That young lad serving at the bar? We think he’s spiking drinks to order. What d’you reckon? Is he the spiking type?’ She took a sip of lager. ‘I read the stuff you sent about the late Mr Shaw. What else’ve you got?’

He took a drink of his Tetley’s Bitter. It was way too cold.

‘We’re not doing small talk, then? Getting to know each other a bit?’

She did a pantomime roll of those massive, olive-flecked eyes.

‘What? Speed-dating for coppers? I’ve done my homework, partner. DS Joe Romano. Degree in French and Italian, stint as a schoolteacher, then joined the Force when you were twenty-eight. First time you’ve been SIO on a murder since you came back from France. I guess Interpol didn’t work out too well, eh?’

‘I didn’t send you any of that.’

‘No, I’m a detective, mon brave. No university degree to my name, either.’

She sat back, downed about a third of her lager.

‘Don’t tell me,’ he said. ‘School of hard knocks, university of life. And,’ he raised his arm in an exaggerated gesture and pretended to consult his watch, ‘let’s just see how long it takes her to inform me of her lowly, working-class roots.’

‘Tou-friggin’-ché, Monsieur. But,’ she said, pointing at her face, ‘I don’t have to play the working-class card. I’ve got the ethnic ace up my sleeve, or hadn’t you noticed.’

‘Can’t say as I had, to be honest.’

‘A colour-blind male! Look at you! The wokeness! Anyway, I’m half Bangladeshi.’

‘Which half?’

The slightest flicker of a smile? He thought so.

‘The half that means I can’t go more than forty-eight hours without a lamb biryani.’

He watched as she took another long drink.