‘It’s my Billy. I swear it. I was walking down Cecil Court . . . it was dark . . . quiet too . . . and I saw them two tellies in the windows, lit up like demon eyes, they was. I didn’t know what to think at first, then I saw the bony chest and thought of my Billy. When I got closer I could see his feet too. I’d know his feet anywhere. Hairy and ugly, they are.’ Her voice begins to waver, her eyes water. ‘I stood there watching for ages until I couldn’t stand it no more. They was hurtin’ him. It were horrible. Who would do that?’ Her shoulders slump as she weeps and falls into Eula’s embrace.

‘Sharon, where did you see these videos?’

Eula answers, ‘They were at Flanders Art Gallery in Cecil Court.’

Sharon Collins sobs in Eula’s embrace. Archer looks to Quinn and indicates they should leave. He nods agreement.

‘One more thing, Sharon. Do you know of anyone else who has gone missing from the streets recently?’

Sharon wipes her nose with her sleeve, looks back at Archer and shakes her head. ‘I ain’t heard anything.’

‘Thank you both. Sharon, if you don’t mind, we may have some more questions later. Take care of yourself.’

They leave Sharon in Eula’s care and make the short trip to Cecil Court, one of the oldest thoroughfares in Covent Garden. Small Victorian shops line the pedestrianised street, selling rare books, art, jewellery and general curiosities. In Flanders’ window there are two archaic televisions tilted at angles as if rising up against each other. Each one is showing a film that seems to be shot in a Super 8-style format. The television on the right shows a pair of feet that tremble and then become still. The second television shows a thin dirty torso of a man with faded skull tattoos. Billy Perrin. As with the first video, the man trembles, shaking violently for a few moments, before lying still.

‘Jesus! This a film of Billy’s murder,’ exclaims Quinn.

Archer feels her mouth go dry.

Flanders Art Gallery contains a solitary person: a thin woman in her mid-thirties. Her hair is cut into the shape of a bowl and she wears large round spectacles with thick orange frames.

‘Are you the manager?’ asks Archer.

The woman pushes the glasses up her nose and regards Archer from head to foot. ‘Yes.’

Archer presents her warrant card. ‘Detective Inspector Grace Archer and this is Detective Sergeant Harry Quinn.’

The woman blinks and folds her arms. ‘I have not reported a crime.’

‘Your name is?’

‘Edith Cosgrove.’

‘Mrs Cosgrove—’

‘Miss.’

‘Miss Cosgrove, I have a few questions about the video art installation in the window.’

Her face brightens. ‘It’s quite something, isn’t it?’

Archer isn’t sure what to say to that.