Lucy shoved the laptop and pen-drive into the driver’s door pocket, hit the ignition and put her Jimny in gear. She’d only gone thirty yards before the tall figure turned down a ginnel, but knew where this would take him.

McGlaglen wouldn’t like her following him, but they were past the stage where he was calling the shots. If she wanted to advance her career, it was time to change the nature of the relationship she had with her most productive informant.

The Robbery Squad seemed like the obvious next step for her. She liked the people in there (with the obvious exception of Gaskin), and she felt she had an aptitude for it. It was merely a matter of proving that, and if she managed to confirm that she was onto something here in relation to Andy Northwood’s murder, it could only help. Whether McGlaglen could provide that confirmation, she just didn’t know. He was a very useful grass. She and Harry had only been allocated to him half a year ago, when one of the older divisional detectives, his former long-term handler, had retired. But he’d already proved his worth, passing them numerous valuable tips. The problem was that he worked at his own pace, and that was becoming difficult. Lucy couldn’t keep on hanging around, waiting for the next time he fancied dropping something her way. And it wasn’t just the current case. From here on in general, she’d decided to be more proactive with him.

She pulled off Hollycroft Lane onto the main road and travelled two hundred yards, before veering right onto the parking area alongside The Horseshoe Inn. This was one of those outskirts pubs that were only open these days if they led a charmed life. When rows of terraced pit-cottages had dominated this barren landscape, it had doubtless done a roaring trade, but now the cottages were all gone. The only custom it could draw were locals from the Hollycroft estate, which wasn’t the most moneyed in the borough, hence its low-slung roof of moss-eaten slate, its basic red-brick exterior and shabby, overgrown beer garden.

Inside the pub, which was empty save for one or two elderly male drinkers, she found McGlaglen alone in a nook. He hadn’t removed either his coat or scarf, and was nursing a pint of mild as he leafed half-interestedly through a crumpled copy of the Daily Mirror.

‘Hoped I’d find you,’ she said.

He glanced up at her, his face falling with remarkable speed. ‘I … I … what on earth are you doing here?’

‘I’ve come for a drink,’ she said cheerily. ‘What’ll you have?’

‘But I didn’t invite you.’ His face blanched as he looked nervously around the pub.