The reception was held, to Quill’s surprise, behind a completely nondescript door, without even a letter box, in a tourist-packed street in Soho. Sarah, done up and smelling of some new perfume, had buzzed an intercom and told a receptionist they were there for the Vincent do, and they’d been let in to walk up a flight of stairs to a coat check. Another staircase took them to a surprisingly spacious bar with a stage and corporate logos everywhere. There was already a crowd; Sarah had insisted that they did not ‘do the copper thing’ and arrive early, as if this was a crime scene that might be disturbed. Quill gratefully switched off the demanding bit of his head that was a police officer and kept a step behind Sarah as she found her editor, Geoff, and some others from her work, who all looked equally out of place in evening wear and starry-eyed at being in this media nirvana, while forcing themselves to remain cynical in almost every utterance.

Quill recalled he’d enjoyed their company on the last few occasions he’d encountered them; he let himself relax further. He hoped he could get out of his head the news reports of which boroughs were burning. Had it been his imagination, or had there been fewer tourists on the streets? The journalists who didn’t already know indeed asked him what he did for a living and what he was working on now, and he circumnavigated the truth. The room filled up a bit more, and a suit came onstage to general applause and thanked everyone for coming. He introduced, to Quill’s pleasant surprise, the comedian Frankie Boyle, who did a highly entertaining routine that was unexpectedly harsh towards their host. Sarah nudged Quill in the ribs and indicated where the familiar figure of Russell Vincent stood among a gaggle of close advisers, all of them laughing uproariously at the jokes being told at his expense. A bit too enthusiastically, Quill thought. Vincent was in his early fifties, with saggy jowls, hair that was a bit uncontrollable and a twinkle in his eye. ‘I bet,’ Quill whispered to Sarah, ‘if he suddenly stopped laughing, the whole room would too.’

‘Yeah, Quill, except you.’

‘Probably.’

Vincent happened to look over at that moment, saw Sarah’s party and clearly pointed them out to his inner circle, who nodded along, looking approving.

‘I hope that isn’t “sack them all anyway”,’ said Geoff, who was a very balding man with a continual sigh in his voice. ‘I’ve been warned he might come over. If he does, don’t tell him you’re a copper, Mr Quill. We don’t want to scare him off.’

Boyle came to the end of his routine, and told his audience that now he’d got paid they could all fuck themselves, which produced another cheer. He departed with a jolly wave. Almost immediately, Vincent headed over.