The ceremony had been mercifully short. Two tuneless hymns and a generic eulogy read to a modest gathering of family and well-wishers. Kenneth Ellinder’s life had been reduced to fifteen simple minutes before his remains were swallowed by the earth.

When a bearer threw the first handful of dirt over the coffin, Priest turned to go. He had paid his respects and discharged what would have otherwise been a nagging burden. He had felt his phone vibrate several times in his inside pocket; no doubt Georgie trying to ascertain his whereabouts at Okoro’s request. The Priest & Co. in-house counsel would be furious, but the trial wasn’t starting for another hour and a half and Okoro always over-prepared. Besides, Priest’s job was done. Everything had been meticulously organised. All he had to do was wind Okoro up, put Ali on the stand and watch the media lap up the hype.

He was halfway down the hill when he felt a hand on his arm.

‘Charlie,’ said a voice that was neither pleased to see him nor overtly hostile.

Priest turned round and there she was. ‘Jessica.’

She stood on the elevation at his level, the breeze gently playing with her hair, her eyes fixed on his. For a moment he just stared, searching. But he couldn’t read her. This mysterious woman who haunted his dreams stood so close that he could smell the sweetness of her skin, a sensation that was both familiar to him and, at the same time, despairingly alien.

‘Say something,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry for—’

‘Not that.’ She broke her gaze and let her eyes drift into the middle distance. ‘Where were you?’

Priest didn’t know. So much had happened. He had first met Jessica Ellinder the previous year, at his office, with her father. Reluctantly, Priest had agreed to investigate the apparent murder of Jessica’s brother, Miles. The case had almost been the undoing of him and had ended with him exposing her family’s links with a secret neo-Nazi cult.

Jessica was the only positive thing that had come out of that case. They had agreed to meet – Priest had wanted to meet. But he never turned up.

‘Charlie. Where were you?’ she repeated.

‘I’m sorry,’ he offered, but he knew it wasn’t enough.

She nodded. He didn’t need a psychology textbook to tell him that she was disappointed, and angry, but whether that was because she had wanted to see him again or because she wasn’t used to being stood up was beyond him.