IT’S MID-AFTERNOON AND ARCHER AND Quinn sit alone in the incident room analysing the modest amount of evidence and data they have acquired so far. Archer glances at her phone and notices a missed call from Grandad. He has left a voicemail asking if she will be home for dinner because he has decided to go shopping and cook for them both. Guilt spirals through her. She has been working all waking hours since the case started three days back and hasn’t seen a lot of him. So much for moving in to help with his care.

That’s how it is with this job and she knows he understands, but that doesn’t ease her remorse. She will phone him shortly, explain the situation and promise to make it up to him.

Archer starts searching through profiles of possible suspects with an artistic bent on the Police National Database. After twenty minutes she finds nothing, which is no surprise considering being artistic isn’t yet a crime.

‘So, what made you want to be a copper?’ asks Quinn, out of the blue.

Archer looks up from her computer and shrugs. ‘Seemed as good a career as any other.’

The Irishman frowns at her. ‘Yet a career in the police isn’t like any other career.’

Archer folds her arms and considers her response. She has been asked this question many times over the years and gives a different answer each time, although all are valid. ‘My dad. He was a DI, here in Charing Cross. He was a good man and believed in his job and the difference it made to the community.’

‘Mark Beattie and I sometimes used to have a few drinks together and he reflected on the mad old days of the Frankie White gangland murders. He always spoke fondly of your dad.’

Archer focuses back on her computer. She appreciates what Mark Beattie says about her dad and she knows Quinn means well. But her father was murdered by a lackey of London drug lord Frankie ‘Snow’ White. She doesn’t need to be reminded of that.

Quinn continues, ‘He would often repeat himself if he’d had a few too many. He would talk about his old colleagues, but your dad . . .’

‘It was a long time ago,’ interrupts Archer.

Quinn hesitates before saying, ‘I’m sorry to bring it up.’

They work in silence for a moment before Quinn says, ‘Holy LGBT!’

Archer looks up from her computer and follows his gaze.

Klara Clark has stepped into the third-floor office. All heads turn to look her way.

Archer gives Quinn a withering look and wonders if she’ll ever understand his sense of humour. She exits the incident room. ‘Klara!’ she calls.