He was sure he could think up a reason in due course – an anonymous tip-off might be the best option, an unknown and untraceable person leaving them a note about the Robbery Squad. But he wasn’t comfortable even with that. Pentecost would want to know much more: why Shallicker had been down on the Archways in the first place, why they hadn’t called in a clean-up unit to remove the body and all traces of Crew involvement.

Clearly, a more complex and carefully devised solution was called for.

As he ruminated on this, he received a call. He checked his hands-free, and was barely surprised, though it still sent a chill through him, to see that it came from the Chairman himself.

‘Bill?’ McCracken said.

‘Where are you, Frank?’

‘In Crowley … chasing up a couple of leads.’

‘Anything solid?’

‘Well …’ McCracken hesitated. ‘I’ve heard a whisper – only a whisper, mind – that this could all be down to some London team who are trying to gain a foothold in the north.’

‘London, eh?’

Was it McCracken’s imagination, or did Pentecost sound even more sceptical than usual?

‘I’ve no more detail, unfortunately, Bill.’

What had seemed like a good idea two seconds ago, didn’t any longer. McCracken had been working on the basis that diverting everyone’s attention south might just buy him sufficient time to work out an effective cover story. But now, even to his own ears, it didn’t sound credible.

‘Enjoy making regular four-hundred-mile round-trips, do they?’ Pentecost drawled. ‘Cost them as much in fuel as they’re actually earning.’

‘Like I say … it was just a whisper.’

‘Well, it so happens, Frank, that I’ve heard a whisper too. And I think this one may have a bit more substance to it. Which is why I’m giving you a call … just to put you in the picture, like.’

‘Okay …?’

‘But first a question, Frank … what can you tell me about a police detective called Lucy Clayburn?’

McCracken couldn’t initially respond. The question hit him like a breeze block passing through the windscreen. In fact, he nearly did have a collision, sailing blindly past a red light and causing a Fiat Brava to skid onto the pavement, tooting its horn.

‘Sorry about that, Bill,’ he said. ‘Some fucking dipsticks behind the wheel in this town.’

‘What about Detective Clayburn?’

‘Yeah, erm … what about her? Who is she?’

‘You don’t know?’

It sounded like a loaded question, terrifyingly so – sweat already dabbled McCracken’s brow – but it didn’t necessarily presage disaster. The older and more paranoid he became, the more Bill Pentecost interacted with his underlings as though routinely mistrustful of their loyalty. Posing questions as if he didn’t expect to get the answer he wanted was a tactic designed to undermine confidence, to make people feel constantly as if they were in trouble; and increasingly it was nothing new.