By the time Fleet found the building he was looking for, the downpour had begun to ease, but too late to make any difference to the state of his overcoat and suit. He had enough of a window before the interview was due to start to find a bathroom and tidy himself up, but as soon as he stepped into the lobby of the glass-fronted building, he found himself face-to-face with a chirpy-looking receptionist seated behind the mahogany front desk. Lattey and Lawe, read the gleaming brass lettering on the wall behind her.

‘Detective Inspector Robin Fleet,’ Fleet told the woman, as he discreetly tried to shake himself off. ‘I’m here to see Callum Richardson. He’s a client of yours, I belie—’

‘Detective Inspector,’ the receptionist chirruped, interrupting him. ‘Mr Lawe and Mr Richardson are expecting you. I’ll take you right through. Would you like me to hang up your, um, coat?’

Fleet’s overcoat was heavy from the rain, and when the receptionist rounded the desk to take it from him, her arm sagged under its weight. To her credit, her smile only faltered momentarily.

Callum Richardson and his solicitor were waiting for Fleet in a ground-floor conference room. The solicitor, the appropriately named Mr Lawe, rose when the receptionist showed Fleet inside. Callum Richardson, Fleet noted, did not. He was seated on one of the expensive-looking leather chairs, pushed back from the table, with an ankle propped on one knee and his hands linked in his lap. Beneath his dark, swept-back hair, he was scowling like a moody teenager, and his right thumb was drumming furiously against the knuckle of his left. It was a marked contrast to the dynamic, forceful persona Richardson projected on his morning television show. Whenever Fleet had happened to catch it, Richardson was invariably holding forth, haranguing his guests and pontificating to his audience.

‘Detective Inspector Fleet?’ said Lawe. ‘A pleasure to meet you. I’m Herbert Lawe, and this is my client, Mr Richardson.’

Fleet shook the solicitor’s proffered hand. He nodded at Richardson, whose only response was to uncross his legs.

‘Please,’ said Lawe, ‘take a seat.’

There were six chairs around the circular table, and Lawe had gestured Fleet towards one directly opposite Richardson, whose pristine navy suit put Fleet’s to shame. In between them on the surface of the table was a tray of china coffee cups and a plate of pastries, but otherwise the room was almost bare. There were no phones, no TV screens. The windows were frosted, and when the door had closed behind Fleet, he could tell from the noise it made that it was probably soundproof. It was like being shown into an airlock.

‘Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? A towel, perhaps?’ Lawe’s tone suggested he was attempting to lighten the mood. Neither Fleet nor Richardson smiled.