Charlie sent her a text this morning reminding her that because of her high-profile arrest of DI Rees, the staff at Charing Cross will probably do everything in their power to see that she fails. He said it would be a test of her resolve. Archer had bitten her tongue at that. Let them try, she thinks now. After all, she has faced much worse.

She feels an emptiness in the hollow of her stomach. Much worse.

‘Third floor,’ says the receptionist. ‘DS Quinn will be waiting for you.’

Archer nods a thanks and makes her way up the stairs.

DS Harry Quinn is standing at the top of the stairs, watching her. She interviewed Quinn shortly after Rees’s arrest. A softly spoken Belfast man with a dry sense of humour that she considered inappropriate at the time. He has a boxer’s stocky build and is wearing a scuffed black leather bomber jacket. His short dark hair is neatly trimmed; his eyes are pale blue, giving him an icy, insolent look. She takes comfort in the fact that he was no fan of Rees. However, she investigated and nailed a copper and that fact alone has tarnished her.

‘Good morning, ma’am. Welcome to Charing Cross.’

‘DS Quinn.’

She glances behind him into the open-plan office where several leery expressions meet her gaze before returning to stare at their computer screens.

‘Ma’am, the Lord Mayor’s Show has left us a little short of staff. So I was wondering if you’d like to accompany me on a wee assignment.’

‘What would that be?’

‘Nothing important. Some la-de-dah artist has been commissioned to produce street art for the Lord Mayor’s Show itself. We’ve had a complaint – actually four, to be precise – from the show director claiming three of his art pieces are obscene and should be taken off the street immediately. He’s kicking up a right stink, so he is.’

In normal circumstances this kind of issue would be handled by uniform or a DC, however, the Home Office’s cuts to police staff of all ranks have been savage. The force is still struggling to cope with the rise in crime. All coppers, Archer included, understand the necessity to step in wherever they can.

‘Of course, DS Quinn. I’d be happy to.’

‘It’s outside The Connection at St Martin’s Place. We can walk.’

Archer knows The Connection well. It is a homeless charity situated in a tired Victorian block on Trafalgar Square next to the church of St Martin-in-the-Fields. It is where Archer took a short sabbatical two years ago to work with the homeless.

‘Ma’am, do you mind if I make an observation?’

‘What would that be?’

‘It’s not my place to say this, but I will, and excuse me for it . . . but Andy Rees still has friends here.’

Archer swallows. ‘You’re right, DS Quinn. It’s not your place to say that.’