So Layla applied for university, and life with the Sarrafs and LeBracs was forgotten. A boyfriend or two, but nothing serious enough to get in the way of her work. She was ambitious and she wanted the junior partnership, and she worked hard for it.

And now a second bomb has gone off in their lives and Layla has a feeling that everything is heading downhill fast.

Outside on Fetter Lane Bish walked ahead of Elliot. Surrounding him were buildings housing state-of-the-art courtrooms that reeked of multimillion-dollar cases. London had outgrown him. It was for people with a burning desire. People like Layla Bayat and those young ambitious faces that had surrounded him in the lift, talking apps and tweets. He felt like a little man in a big city and it frightened him to the core. Had he reached an age at which he no longer had access to the riches of the greater world? At his work in the Met, at least there was a place for authority. Seniority. Until his suspension, there was respect for a man who’d worked hard for longer than some of them had been alive. Bish had no idea who he was without his work, and nothing reminded him of that more than standing amidst the city’s high achievers.

Elliot was at his heels, further confirmation of the regression of Bish’s life. Six years sharing a dorm weren’t enough? What gods had Bish angered to have him and Elliot sharing space more than three decades later?

‘Much appreciated if you’d give me a heads-up on when you’re going to threaten people,’ Bish said.

‘You’ve spent too much time behind a desk, Ortley. You’re getting soft.’

‘I wasn’t the one associated with a little dick,’ Bish said.

‘And I’m not the one whose wife ran off with the school principal.’

Bish began counting to ten in his head to stop himself from responding. Before he got there Elliot’s phone rang and he answered it wordlessly. There was a bit of nodding, a few ‘yep’s. Then Elliot said, ‘Well, the thing is, my phone’s running out of juice and you can’t send it to him because the idiot doesn’t have a smartphone.’

Bish refused to feel held back by the Nokia brick he carried. He knew plenty of dumb people with smartphones.

Elliot hung up. ‘Grazier’s on his way up north and can’t deal with this – Violette’s made contact with her grandparents. The Australian Federal Police have taken their time sending us the recording. Grazier wants to know if there’s anything of importance in it.’

A few moments later, Bish heard the alert and watched Elliot retrieve the attachment. He tapped on a link and they waited, only to hear Arabic being spoken.

‘Shit. Fuck. We’re going to have to wait till the translator gets to it.’ Elliot stopped at a filthy black Prius, retrieved a parking fine from the wipers, and stuffed it in his pocket just as his phone rang again.