He watched them for a while, as he often did in times of deep rumination. We’ve been through a lot together, these fish and I. In his darkest moments, after William’s fall from grace, when Priest’s connection with life was at its most fragile, the lionfish had been there; a calming, non-judgemental energy. He found it relaxing just to be near them. Hell, they were a lot better company than most people.

He was flipping through a playlist on his iPod trying to decide what music Jessica might like when the doorbell rang. Shit, she’s early. He quickly settled on a live Crowded House album that he judged to be inoffensive and went to open the door wishing sincerely that he had never suggested this whole ridiculous idea.

But it wasn’t Jessica Ellinder who greeted him on the other side.

‘Elinor?’

She was wrapped up in a long cream-coloured coat, with an impish expression on her face, her head cocked to one side. That was something she did, he had noticed. Cock her head in that purposeful way.

‘Can I come in?’ she asked in a tone that was verging on childlike.

Priest hesitated – he had no wish to be rude but equally no desire to be hospitable, either. Notwithstanding the mild inconvenience she presented in view of Jessica’s imminent arrival, he had hoped not to be reminded of the Elias case disaster, if only for a few hours.

‘Actually, it’s not entirely convenient right now—’

She pushed past him anyway and wandered into his kitchen. Fuck it, come on in, why don’t you?

‘I’m sorry.’ She spoke to him over her shoulder in what she clearly must have realised was an overdramatic stance. ‘I didn’t know what else to do.’

‘How did you get my address?’ he asked, walking around the kitchen island to avoid having to talk to her back.

‘I’m an investigative journalist,’ she said by way of explanation.

He was mildly irritated by her already. ‘How can I help you, Elinor?’

‘Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?’

‘I don’t have time for this.’

She shrugged; made a face like it was his loss and slipped off her coat. She was wearing a low-cut knee-length red dress that would have made her look overdressed at most presidential balls, let alone Priest’s kitchen. He had anticipated asking her to leave. Telling her that her visit was compromising for her and she ought to cut it short before . . . before what? But, staring at the way that dress caressed her slim figure, he couldn’t find the words.

‘I just want to talk,’ she said softly. ‘This whole thing – finding that dead man in my car – I feel . . . violated. It was like my university stalker all over again. You understand, don’t you?’