If I was lying, would you protect me, Charlie? Am I pretty enough to be given the benefit of the doubt?

She felt a flush of shame and scolded herself inwardly for being unkind. After all, Charlie had been right about Jessica and she had been wrong. I must be more trusting.

She wrinkled her nose in the mirror before scurrying out past Li’s room, hoping she wouldn’t run into her client on the way out. Maybe she would burn the Martin papers tonight. They told her nothing anyway.

Yes. Georgie would buy matches on the way home.

*

Priest felt vaguely guilty about pulling Georgie into the office on a Saturday but, until Peters said otherwise, the trial was reconvening on Monday and there was no guarantee she would give them another grace period, dead witness or not. Consequentially, time was of the essence.

He calculated that she would be there in half an hour relying on the Tube and then a brisk walk through Holborn. Time for a quick cigarette on the rooftop garden of his penthouse. He rarely smoked nowadays – he avoided most intoxicants – but recently he felt the need for something tangible to anchor him; something other than late night Hammer horror films and dreamless sleep. Dreamless except for Jessica. Moreover, something about seeing Fox cling to the cigarette in her hand when they had met outside the police station yesterday had reawakened an old craving within him.

So, wrapped in a coat and scarf, Priest took out a menthol cigarette, sat down underneath the shade of a white-tipped amelanchier tree and lit up. He’d barely taken a drag when his phone rang for the second time that morning. This time he managed to hit ANSWER before the voicemail overrode him.

‘Hi, Sarah,’ Priest said.

‘Are you smoking?’

How the hell do you know that? ‘No.’

‘You’re outside at nine o’clock in the morning on a Saturday,’ she said with certainty.

‘That doesn’t mean I’m smoking.’ Priest took a drag.

‘Whatever. I was just ringing because I wondered if you were OK.’

He groaned inwardly. I hate it when you take on Mum’s role. ‘Sarah, I’m fine. Really.’

‘You just seemed a bit on edge yesterday – you know, when you randomly turned up with Georgie and demanded the keys to Bristol Road without explanation. It’s not a safe house, Charlie. Who have you got in there?’

‘Sarah . . .’

‘And you looked even more unkempt than normal. I mean, you generally look unloved, like one of Tilly’s rag dolls she’s forgotten about and keeps under the bed for months.’

‘Well, you know what they say, Sarah.’ Priest looked along the strip of flower bed dug around the edge of the square patio, dotted with purple crocus heads protruding cautiously out of the soil in anticipation of spring. ‘Some flowers thrive on neglect.’