Archer says nothing.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so familiar.’

Archer doesn’t want to be rude, especially considering he has been so kind to her Grandad. ‘What line of business are you in?’

‘Property. It’s very boring.’

‘How’re you finding life in Roupell Street?’

‘Actually, I’m not living there. I’m having it done up. My PA Victoria is helping me. She was with me when I saw you that night.’

‘You were both working late.’

Jamie laughs. ‘We’re not having an affair, if that’s what you’re implying.’

‘No, sorry, that’s not what I meant.’

‘Victoria is a mate. She’s my PA. Not a very an efficient one by any standards, but she is very good at interior design.’

An awkward silence hangs in the air for a moment, until Archer breaks it.

‘You made quite an impression on my grandad, and one of the nurses too.’

‘Oh really?’ he replies with an embarrassed smile.

Jamie is handsome and has a certain appeal. She figures he is around thirty, perhaps a year older than her and has the confidence that comes with being wealthy and privileged, which he clearly is, yet she wonders if he is a player. Someone who is used to wooing women and getting his own way.

The car approaches Charing Cross and Archer calls to the driver, ‘You can let me out anywhere here.’

The driver pulls over.

‘I appreciate the lift.’

‘Anytime. Remember, you have my number.’

‘Thank you for helping my grandad.’

‘It was my pleasure.’

Archer smiles at him, climbs out of the taxi and heads back to Charing Cross Police Station.

Chapter 17

17

MIKE HAMILTON TAKES A BREAK from writing his opinion piece on the artist-cum-killer who calls himself @nonymous. Zoning out from the ubiquitous pounding of plastic keys, never-ending telephone rings and newsroom banter he flicks through his photographs of the cabinets containing the pickled tramps. He stops at the shot of the toppled cabinet containing the twisted corpse of Billy Perrin. Standing over it like some queen bee is the female detective.

He has since learned her name is Grace Archer and that she doesn’t have a presence on Facebook, Instagram or any other social media platform. Why is that? he wonders. Does she have something to hide? After digging around the electoral data on the Internet he was able to discover where she lives. It’s an address in Little Venice that is also occupied by a Mr Dominic Parker. He tracked Parker down on Facebook, where he also found pictures of Grace Archer. Parker’s mobile number was on his home page too.

The fool.

He called Parker and told him who he was. Parker seemed genuinely delighted to know that Mike Hamilton was on the phone. He was a fan of his blunt reporting style and willingly surrendered his girlfriend’s phone number to run an article on the murders.

Archer.