Priest nodded in agreement and turned the photograph over. Nothing on the other side. Only the black and white image of a young boy of maybe ten standing off-centre with his hands placed on top of each other across his middle. He was standing outside on a grassy incline fifteen feet or more from the camera, but looking into the lens with an expression of complete neutrality. In the background, Priest could see a house further up the incline with boarded windows and a damaged roof – beyond that, the picture quality did not allow any further scrutiny.

‘Who is he?’ asked Fox.

‘I have no idea,’ Priest admitted.

‘It looks like a recent photograph,’ Georgie added. ‘Probably printed black and white for effect.’

But what kind of effect? A memory of some words uttered by one of Priest’s law lecturers echoed in his head – assume every piece of evidence is inauthentic until proven otherwise.

‘I’ve got to go,’ Fox announced all of a sudden, but not before she’d whipped out her phone and taken a picture of the photograph. Priest didn’t have time to hide it.

‘Hey!’ Georgie exclaimed. ‘That’s evidence.’

Fox ignored her. Backed out of the room with an apologetic semblance. ‘A girl’s got to make a living. Ciao for now.’

Georgie was about to get up and follow her, but Priest held her back. ‘Let her go, Someday.’

She turned to him, incredulous. ‘We can’t just let her publish everything.’

‘We can’t stop her either. She said we’d get a head start. That’s the best we’re going to get.’

Georgie huffed in frustration. ‘Fine, but it’s still disgraceful.’

Priest held the picture up to get a better look. ‘Tell Leveson about it. Right now we’ve got more important things to think about. Like working out who our little friend here is and what’s he doing stuck to the bottom of a dead man’s drawer.’

*

Lawrence Baker parked the delivery van outside the pebble-dashed house and checked the address. This is it, all right. He jumped out of the cab and rang the doorbell. There was one of those wind chimes dangling from the porch, tingling eerily in the breeze. Lawrence hated those things – they were the sort of thing that he associated with haunted houses.

Lawrence didn’t pay any attention to the figure that opened the front door. He rarely noticed details like that – as long as he got paid, the client could be Jack the Ripper for all he cared.

‘Hey,’ said Lawrence. ‘You asked for a removal guy?’

He peered inside the house behind the figure. Not much going on there. No evidence of moving house, no boxes piled up on the side or a sofa stuck in the doorway like usual. Lawrence tensed up – This better not be a time waster.

‘It’s through here,’ the figure said, disappearing into the house.