‘What made you think this was a recent photo?’ he asked.

Georgie replied in between chews. ‘He’s wearing an Apple Watch.’

Priest turned the photo back his way. Well I’ll be damned. ‘Well done, Eagle Eyes.’

‘We could run a reverse search through Google,’ she suggested. ‘Solly will know how to do that.’

‘I’ll take it to him, just as soon as I’ve finished this incredibly greasy meal.’

‘Who makes the black pudding? It’s delicious, although probably very bad for you.’

‘The hairy hand.’ Priest motioned to the hatch in the wall. ‘You don’t see it often but that’s where the food comes from.’ They were the only two people sitting in the cafe which, judging by the cleanliness of the tablecloths, was perhaps understandable. It was the extraordinary black pudding made by the hairy hand that lured in those in the know.

‘Who would have thought it? I must stop shaving my palms if I’m to cook like this,’ Georgie garbled, taking another bite.

It was a long time since he had sat in this same seat opposite Jessica and she had turned her nose up at the Hairy Hand Special, much to Priest’s amusement. It was refreshing to see Georgie’s enthusiastic reception of it.

Although, it begs a question. Priest recalled the voicemail message Jessica had left him earlier: she was coming round to his flat at seven tonight. And she’s expecting me to cook a meal. I promised lemon sole, my speciality. Priest felt a sudden surge of anxiety. Once again, his inadequacies as a human being were about to be exposed in all their glory for her to see.

*

Priest took the Tube to Kew Gardens Station and skipped past the market stall holders who were boasting about the quality of their fruit and veg in loud Cockney accents. He headed towards the Thames. Rows of houseboats lined the bank, most of them sunk deep in the low tide riverbed sludge. Solly’s home was one of these: a short gangplank led to a fifteen-foot houseboat with an upper deck peppered with plants and gnomes and a single deckchair and table at the stern looking out towards the estuary.

Simon Solomon, Solly to those who knew him, was a short, elusive man of almost indeterminable age with a mottled complexion and black hair that looked as though it was permanently wet but, unassuming as he was to look at, his planet-sized brain and talent for numbers had endeared him to Priest as the team’s financial genius. He had qualified as an accountant, but his hobbies included computer coding, studying quantum mechanics and avoiding all non-necessary human interaction.

Priest rang the bell. After a while, Solly answered, wearing the same tweed suit he wore for work.

‘Priest,’ he said, without surprise or interest. ‘My contracted hours don’t begin until nine o’clock on Monday morning.’