‘Have your pictures come through yet?’ asks Archer.

Quinn checks his phone. ‘Nope.’

Archer swears under her breath and redials Os’s number. The call goes straight to voicemail.

Archer bristles. ‘No pictures and no Os. That is really helpful.’

‘Let me call Phillips.’

‘No, I’ll get them from Klara.’

Archer makes the call to Klara and moments later the mugshots are on her phone. She forwards them to Quinn.

‘Small things like this are why we need Klara.’

They spend the best part of two hours showing the pictures to the clientele. The three men were familiar faces on the streets yet few can remember when they last saw them. Almost all have learned of their fate and some don’t seem moved or even surprised. ‘When it’s your time to go it’s your time to go,’ offers one unhelpful individual.

Archer approaches a young man wearing a dirty parka with the hood pulled up.

‘Hello,’ she says.

‘All right,’ he replies, quietly, his head down.

‘What’s your name?’

He shrugs and remains silent.

‘Did you hear what happened to those three men on Charing Cross Road?’

His hood nods.

‘Did you know any of them?’

‘Some people get what’s coming to ’em.’

‘What do you mean by that?’ Archer keeps her tone soft.

He looks up.

Archer swallows.

He can’t be much older than sixteen. He has a wispy bum-fluff beard and a grubby face with hollow dark eyes. Underneath the grime, his face is almost angelic, or would have been if it weren’t for the marks of drug use and malnutrition.

‘Did you know him?’ she asks, holding up the shot of Noel Tipping.

He shakes his head.

She shows the picture of Stan Buxton.

He shakes his head.

She slides across the shot of Billy Perrin.

He stares coldly at the picture, shivers and chokes out a hacking cough. He looks down and thrusts his hands into the pockets of his parka. His nose is running and he wipes it with the sleeve of his coat.

Archer senses he knows more than he is letting on.

‘My name’s Grace Archer. Can I get you a coffee?’

He shrugs and shoots a hungry look at the mobile soup kitchen, which has closed up and is moving on.

‘Actually, I’m starving,’ says Archer. She glances across the road at Charing Cross train station. They could talk privately there. ‘There’s a Costa at the station. Why not join me for a spot of lunch?’

The boy hesitates and shifts awkwardly on his feet.

‘They do a pretty good tuna melt or a ham and cheese melt, if you prefer. My treat.’

After a moment he nods his agreement.

‘Stephen. My name is Stephen.’

‘It’s nice to meet you, Stephen,’ Archer says as she walks with him. Turning, she catches Quinn’s eye quickly. He nods at her as he watches them cross the road.