‘Mm?’ Chanter looked up from his iPad, surprised – like a Lord of the Manor disturbed by a presumptuous butler. ‘Oh, right. Ha!’ As if Meakin had said it to entertain him. ‘As you just discovered, these calls are a waste of our time and will continue to be. No one knows who the guy in the picture is. If they did, we’d have had the same name from a few different people by now. That sketch is hopeless. I’d do a better job and I failed my Art GCSE.’

‘Talking of jobs, I see you’re applying for another one?’ Meakin nodded at the iPad.

‘Yep. Think I’m in with a strong shot this time.’

No shame at all. For months, Meakin had been asking himself why Chanter made no effort to hide what he was up to. Now he thought he knew the answer: Chanter believed he had every right to apply for other jobs, and saw no need to be sneaky about it. He probably had no idea everyone at the nick called him ‘Yosser’. Jack Zlosnik had started it. Apparently Yosser was a character from an old TV show who’d been fired, was skint, and went round saying, ‘Gizza job?’ to anyone who’d listen.

Chanter hadn’t been fired, much to Meakin’s consternation, and wasn’t skint, but nevertheless was seen at least four times a day circling a job advert in a newspaper, or photocopying one, or filling in an online application form; or else he was heard ringing up to make enquiries about posts that were advertised here, there, everywhere. He didn’t seem to be committed to a particular field; anything that wasn’t his present position was eligible for consideration.

Meakin had had enough. He was going to say something, right now. Was he? Yes, he damn well was.

‘Not happy where you are?’

‘What?’

‘Your job, here. Don’t you like it? I can only assume not, since whenever I see you you’re applying to be an airline pilot, a fireman, a farmer—’

‘I’ve not gone in for any of those. A farmer?’

‘I was exaggerating for comic effect.’

‘Oh. Ha, ha!’ Chanter was always ready with a smile. Forgetting he hadn’t answered Meakin’s question, or else deciding not to, he turned back to his iPad.

‘It’s not going to make you popular,’ Meakin tried again.

‘What, if I leave? Well, arguably, one doesn’t need to be well liked in a place where one no longer is. Eh?’

Meakin was taken aback. There was no question about it: Chanter had put on an aristocratic English accent to make his last statement. His usual was standard Culver Valley, the middle-class version.