At present, both he and Lucy existed in a sort of limbo, in a permanently uneasy truce which lasted only because what they knew about each other could be mutually fatal to their careers. No police detective could be trusted by her colleagues if it was known that her father was an underworld bigwig. Likewise, no underworld bigwig could expect to maintain his status if word got out that his daughter was a hotshot copper.

But Lucy didn’t make things easy, he thought.

If only she’d remained a plod, going through everyday routines, nabbing shoplifters, telling kids to stop riding bikes on the pavement. That would have been okay, it would have hurt no one. But, instead, Lucy was a bloodhound, a real hunter-killer; she was out to knuckle every name on the list, making it very clear to him the last time they’d spoken – in rather harsh terms, given that he was her father – that he was on that list too, and that the best way for him to avoid trouble lay in him avoiding her.

Not one of these conciliatory coppers, his Lucy.

Yet again, as he increasingly did these days, McCracken wondered just how long this fragile arrangement could last.

‘The main thing is,’ he said, ‘we haven’t seen her with any of these Robbery Squad goons?’

They’d now parked up in an empty bay close to the lifts. Shallicker applied the handbrake and switched the engine off. ‘None of the ones we know,’ he said. ‘My gut instinct is she’s just doing ordinary CID stuff … but even if she wasn’t, what would it tell us?’

‘I don’t know. I’m scrabbling around in the dark here, Mick. We all fucking are.’

They climbed out of the car, all talk of Lucy now suspended because Nick Merryweather was crossing the car park towards them, with two of his own heavies in tow.

Whereas McCracken represented the smoother face of the syndicate, the sharp suit and handsome features, but also the wit and wisdom to be charming and diplomatic, Nick Merryweather, the Crew’s whoremaster-in-chief, fulfilled the more traditional stereotype. The brutish outline, shaven head, sunken eyes and leery smile could only belong to an organised crime figure. If that didn’t convince anyone, his nickname, Necktie Nicky, ought to, referring, as it did, to his preferred method of despatching opponents: slicing the throat and pulling the tongue out so that it hung down the chest.

‘Frank,’ he said.

‘Nick,’ McCracken replied.

They entered the lift together. Shallicker unlocked a steel panel with a special key, and hit the button that would take them express-fashion to the top floor.

‘Bill’s fucking fuming,’ Merryweather said, as they accelerated upward.

‘I wonder why,’ McCracken replied.

‘I wouldn’t like to be Benny B.’

‘Agreed,’ McCracken nodded. ‘For lots of reasons. Thick bastard’s made things fifty times worse by offering that reward.’