Miles O’Grady deliberately ran his private investigations business as if it was a small non-lucrative thing. He always turned himself out well: hair coloured silver to hide the grey, moustache clipped, and wearing his best suit and his £1,800 trenchcoat in all but the hottest and most sultry weather. A thorough professional, first appearances were vital to Miles O’Grady. It had certainly paved the way to immediate success with that braindead footballer Dean Chesham. But when it came to his company, it was a different story. Most of O’Grady’s and his men’s earnings were illicit and therefore non-taxable. So it only made sense that the firm itself, Walderstone Enquiries Ltd, kept a low profile. Hence the shabby little office at the top of the creaking back staircase in Dashwood House, the tired old building in Long Acre, a little-used cul-de-sac off Crowley bus station. It was such an unprepossessing place that no one was likely to visit it on spec, and even if they had an appointment with the firm, most of the time they were suspicious spouses who put great stock in their personal dignity, and so would opt to meet their investigators in neutral venues like coffee shops and wine bars. Almost none would be prepared to call at an address like this.

In fact, it was unusual for O’Grady to be in the office, especially on a Sunday lunchtime. It didn’t contain much – a desk, a landline and a clunky filing cabinet filled with dummy paperwork. But after their recent approach to Dean Chesham, a tactical meeting was now in the offing. And that wasn’t the sort of thing O’Grady wanted to do over the phone. However, the other guys weren’t due for another hour at least, so the last thing he was expecting while eating his takeaway lunch was someone knocking on the door.

He glanced curiously up at the frosted glass panel. An indiscernible shadow stood on the other side.

‘It’s open,’ he yelled, laying down his plastic fork, dabbing his lips with a napkin.

The door opened and a man stood there. ‘Mr O’Grady, is it?’

‘I’m sure you already know that, else you wouldn’t be here.’

The man’s half-smile broke into a chuckle. ‘Wow … do private eyes’ cubbyholes like this really exist, then? Fantastic. Mind you, you’re a bit disappointing. I was expecting to find Humphrey Bogart or a young Robert Mitchum. You’ve got the trenchcoat, though, I see.’

O’Grady’s narrowed eyes flitted to the coat on the hook in the corner, and then back to the man in the doorway. There was something instantly unsettling about him. He was probably in his fifties, but lean and fit-looking, with steel-grey hair, dark eyes and sharp, diamond-hard features. He wore an Armani suit and a Marwood tie, and advanced from the office door with a lithe, easy grace.