‘It seems to be working,’ says Archer.

Quinn opens the CCTV file Os has acquired, and displays the recording of the cabinets being delivered to Charing Cross Road earlier that morning.

Archer watches as the Olinski brothers casually offload the cabinets. One of them has a squat build with short cropped hair. The second is thinner and wears a beanie hat. She recognises him from the picture on Agata’s wall. Josef Olinski. He steps into the glow of the headlamps, removes something from his pocket and writes in it. The diary. He slips it back into his pocket.

‘Unless they’re utter brass-neck psychopaths, they don’t seem like people who are delivering corpses, if you know what I mean,’ observes Quinn.

Archer agrees. Judging by the lack of urgency and jocular banter from the two men, this seems to be just another job for them.

Archer sees Dimitri Novak emerge from the top of Trafalgar Square pushing his dust cart. He watches them for a few moments and then carries on with his job, exactly as he told her. The brothers wheel out the final cabinet, placing it into position just as a police car arrives. One of the officers steps out and speaks to the men. He is a broad man whose belly is a little on the hefty side and who they have since learned is a PC Kevin Simpson.

‘Any word from Simpson?’ asks Archer.

‘He’s on his way in,’ replies Quinn.

Simpson is talking to Josef Olinski and pointing at the cabinets. After a moment, the two men laugh. Olinski leads him to the driver’s door of the van, opens it, pulls out some papers and hands them to Simpson, who scans them briefly before handing them back. Simpson then peers behind the covers of Billy Perrin’s cabinet. Olinski says something and both men laugh again. They shake hands and Simpson leaves. Five minutes after that the brothers pack up and leave the scene. The cabinets sit alone on the street, awaiting their 9 a.m. reveal, their covers fluttering in the early morning breeze. It’s a sombre, chilling picture.

‘That’s it then. Fancy a tea?’ asks Quinn.

‘Yes, please.’

Archer’s phone rings.

Grandad.

‘Hi, Grandad. How are you?’

‘Grace, is that you?’ he asks, his voice sounding tired.

Archer squeezes the phone. ‘Yes, it’s me. I tried to call you this morning.’

‘Oh . . . I don’t remember it ringing.’

‘Maybe you had it on silent.’

‘Yes, perhaps that’s it.’

‘Did you go to mass?’

‘Yes, I was there at eight o’clock. I stayed to help with the candles and clearing up in time for the lunchtime service.’

‘You usually have it on silent when you are at St Patrick’s.’

‘Do I?’

‘Grandad, I’m coming to stay with you for a bit, remember?’

‘Oh yes, I have it marked on my calendar.’ His tone seems brighter. ‘When do you arrive?’