She looked at him hopefully. He noticed that she had averted her eyes back to the ground where she began playing again with whatever it was under her foot. He hesitated, processing all the little contradictions he had observed. The hard-nosed investigator and the little girl, all fighting for supremacy in her head. No doubt that she’s shaken, though. The slight tremor in her hand confirmed it. What harm can it do?

Against his better judgement, Priest relented. ‘I’m parked around the corner. I’ll give you a ride home.’

Fox’s face lit up. She tightened her arm through his and let him lead the way.

*

It took them about thirty-five minutes to negotiate the queues of black cabs, buses and those other city itinerants foolish enough to drive a car south-east through London to Blackheath. When they arrived, the sun had managed to penetrate the cloud covering and Blackheath Park was bathed in a pallid autumn light.

They had talked sporadically during the journey. For most of it, Fox had been playing with her hair, but she seemed calmer now and they had mostly talked about her life as a freelance journalist – how she came into it after getting an article on abortion published in a local newspaper. Eventually, she indicated for him to slow down.

‘It’s just through there.’ She pointed to where a secondary road pulled away to the left through a regiment of large oak trees. Priest hit the indicator.

‘Nice place,’ he remarked, staring up at the swaying trees as the old Volvo rumbled underneath.

‘My parents helped me buy it. Otherwise, I couldn’t afford to live here, not when every pound I earn comes from writing.’

Hidden away from the main road, they came to a small row of terraces that fronted an orchard. Through the trees, Priest could see the park and, in the distance, a white-stoned church silhouetted by the low-hanging sun.

‘It’s the far one.’ Fox motioned towards the end of the building – a four-storey house, but one that was barely wide enough for the front door and single window on each floor.

‘You mentioned your boss – Max,’ Priest reminded her, pulling the Volvo up at the gate.

‘He’s more of an agent, I guess. I go out and get the stories and he sells them on. I get commission and the chance of a desk job. It’s a shit deal but there aren’t many avenues for those of us that aren’t prepared to fuck our way into a newspaper.’

‘Raw deal.’

‘Alexia could have done it, you know.’

‘What?’

‘Murdered Simeon.’

Priest did a double take. ‘You really think so?’

‘She wouldn’t have done it herself, of course. She wouldn’t get her hands dirty. She’d have hired someone.’

‘I’m not sure . . .’

‘Really? How much would it have cost her? Fifteen thousand? Twenty at the most? A drop in the ocean for her.’