‘Sorry?’ She reacted, incensed, but whether it was feigned or real, Priest wasn’t sure. ‘You’re sorry about what? That I’m still here or for fucking me in the first place?’

He held up his hands, too tired to fight. ‘I simply mean that, given our involvement with the Elias case, it might not be sensible to . . .’

‘It’s funny how you didn’t take that view yesterday.’

Priest realised she was right. He knew how it looked. How could she ever understand that? A lot of the time, he didn’t even understand it himself.

‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated. He looked at her, tried to hold her gaze, ignore what she was doing with her hands.

She snorted, narrowed her eyes. ‘And who is the problem?’

Priest faltered – caught his breath. Are we really doing this? The problem was Jessica, but even without that issue, everything about Elinor Fox was wrong. From the fake smile to the sickly voice, she screamed danger. But still, he couldn’t stop himself reacting to the sight of her body in his bath.

He opened his mouth, choosing his words carefully, but she cut him off.

‘The redhead? From the other day?’

Priest nodded, bit his lip. It seemed like an easy way out. Although Jessica would hate it that anyone had referred to her auburn hair as red.

Elinor Fox paused, appraising him sceptically.

‘Thought so,’ she murmured.

He saw something flash across her eyes. Didn’t like the way she played with the word across her lips. He was about to say something, but then the look was gone.

‘Leave,’ she said, closing her eyes and resting her head back.

I’m pretty sure this is my bathroom.

Priest turned, partly relieved the conversation was over.

She called back to him as he opened the door. ‘By the way, do you know how Simeon died?’

‘Asphyxiated’

She’ll find out soon enough anyway.

She nodded, took the news like it was perfectly natural. She took her hands out of the bath and rested them on the sides. The performance was over.

Priest waited a beat, then left, shutting the door behind him.

He felt hot and tired, with a throbbing in his groin that disgusted him. In the lounge, he collapsed into a sofa and sat, one leg crossed over the other, his foot swaying gently to the muted rhythm of the musicians on the street below.

He waited and, sure enough, after a few minutes he heard movement. She swept into the lounge, her soaking-wet hair tied back hastily. Priest stiffened, waiting for her to say something.

She crossed the room towards him, a nascent smile playing at the corner of her mouth. Dragged her nails across the fish tank. Priest felt a sudden hollowness in his chest – a quivering buzz of anticipation.

‘These are . . . lionfish,’ she said, gazing at the tank.

‘That’s right.’