‘Me and Pikey can handle friends and families, ma’am,’ says Tozer.

‘Stop calling me that, Bulldozer!’

Tozer punches him playfully on the arm.

‘Os, look into the ANPR system and find the details of that van.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Archer’s phone buzzes in her jeans pocket. She removes it and reads a message from Klara containing the name and address of the van owner, and three ANPR shots of a large battered Ford van. Klara’s timing is, as ever, perfect.

‘Are we keeping you, DI Archer?’ asks Pierce.

Archer hears Hicks’s snort.

‘No, ma’am. I have the delivery van registration details from the NCA. Perhaps DS Quinn and I could head there immediately.’

‘The NCA . . .?’

‘The pictures have gone viral. One of their analysts has jumped on the case.’

Archer can almost feel Pierce bristling. ‘Have they now? How fortuitous that you have a direct line.’

Archer holds Pierce’s gaze but doesn’t respond.

‘Go,’ says Pierce.

Archer addresses the thickset officer next to Hicks. ‘What’s your name?’

‘DC Felton,’ he replies, ‘ma’am,’ he adds as an afterthought.

She turns to Hicks, who wears a faux smile. ‘DI Hicks and DC Felton. Could you go to Trafalgar Square and start asking round local businesses, shops, bars, restaurants and check if anyone saw anything early this morning.’

Hicks’s smile disappears from his face.

‘Thank you all,’ says Archer and hurries out of the incident room with Quinn by her side.

Chapter 5

5

ARCHER AND QUINN SIGN OUT a squad car and make their way to Streatham and the home address of Josef Olinski, the registered owner of the van used to deliver the three bodies to The Connection at St Martin’s.

Archer has typed the address into the satellite navigation system. As Quinn drives, Archer uses her phone to find the address on Google Maps, zooming in on the photograph of the property, a tired-looking Victorian red-brick house with a faded pale blue door. It takes them twenty-five minutes to steer through traffic and navigate the backstreets of the Streatham estate.

‘There,’ says Archer, pointing at the house.

Quinn pulls over. They step out of the car and scan the surrounding area. The houses are shabby, the gardens overgrown and the road pitted with holes. To Archer this is just another forgotten estate, neglected by an underfunded, or uncaring, council. A scruffy, one-eyed cat leers at them from the top of a weathered power-box.

As they walk to the front door Archer glances at the ground-floor bay windows for a sign of life. She sees a shadow move behind net curtains.

‘Someone’s home,’ she says, ringing the bell.