On the other side of the great edifice, rather bewilderingly, they entered open ground where now there seemed to be ragged people everywhere, raddled and wizened beyond their years, standing alone and contemplating the darkness, or huddled around small fires. It was almost as if Sister Cassie’s friendly welcome had thrown some kind of ‘she’s okay’ switch, and they’d all come scrambling out from wherever it was they’d been hiding.

One young man seemed to be especially unhappy. In fact, he looked out of place here, with his longish hair, tight stonewashed jeans, tasselled leather jacket and leather trilby. He strode quickly away, swerving between the campfires as he glanced repeatedly back at Lucy, or rather at her police radio. In the lurid light of the fires, she saw what looked like a shark tattoo on the side of his neck, and a spotty pizza-face twisted with dislike – and fear.

She let him go. She wasn’t interested in dealers at present.

‘DC Clayburn to PNC, over?’ she told her radio for the umpteenth time, now weary.

Static crunched, and a male voice suddenly replied. ‘PNC receiving. Go ahead, Lucy?’

Lucy sighed with relief. ‘Vehicle check, please.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Full index unknown, but I have the first five characters, which are as follows: Oscar-two-two-zero-Mike, over.’

‘Stand by, over.’

Lucy slipped the evidence bag into her pocket and glanced at Sister Cassie as they walked back towards St Clement’s Avenue. ‘What will you do with the rest of your night?’

‘What I always do, child. Tend to those less fortunate than myself.’

‘There’s a fish and chip van parked on Ellis Lane. If I give you some money, do you solemnly promise you’ll go and buy a few portions, one for yourself and several for the hungriest of your regulars … and that you won’t spend it on smack?’

Sister Cassie gave a conspiratorial half-smile; a hint of how pretty she’d once been briefly flickered there. ‘I’ve already purchased adequate medicine for tonight. You may notice I’m walking uncomfortably. He was a young man, very dirty and … I’m sorry to say, rather rough.’

Lucy shook her head as she opened her purse and handed over a couple of twenties. Her radio crackled to life again.

‘DC Clayburn from PNC?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Index Oscar-two-two-zero-Mike … unknown. No such number listed. Nothing even similar, over.’

‘Roger, received.’ Lucy was thoughtful. ‘Thanks for that.’

‘I assure you I was not mistaken,’ Sister Cassie said.

‘No, I believe you.’

‘So, maybe your computer is wrong?’

‘Trust me, Sister – the Police National Computer is never wrong. But that van is.’ She thought about it. ‘Whether it’s purple, blue or black, it’s running under dummy plates.’

Chapter 11