Ross and Quill sat in the car around the corner, parked in front of a newsagent, watching the young media folk and the tourists looking for nostalgic thrills pass by in the late evening sunlight. They were listening to what was going on round the corner, via the wires each of the undercovers wore. The two speakers were, at the moment, providing a weird sort of stereo. Now there was just the sound of the two men going through to some other room. Ross had rebuffed Quill’s attempts at conversation. She could feel time running out, could feel tiredness rising inside her. She would take that meth as soon as it was offered. She was desperately wondering whether whoever had accessed her dreams now knew about the Bridge of Spikes, whether the address they had for the owner had already been raided by something with a lot more power than they had. Costain had promised to wait to check the place out until she could come with him. She believed him. Just about.

The sound coming over the speakers changed. ‘Is that someone moaning?’ she asked Quill.

*   *   *

‘That’s from one of our less private rooms,’ said the middle-aged woman, having led Costain and Sefton into what Costain thought looked like the front room of a couple in their eighties, or maybe the stage set of one, because it felt hardly used. It smelt of cigarettes. From an inner door four women entered, all dressed in lingerie that looked as if it had been through the wash too often, all affecting a pose which was meant to be that of a fashion model, but was similarly dulled by repetition. They were professionally present, and that was all. Costain tried not to find that absence exciting. He should really be too worried about the current situation his team, and himself in particular, were in to be aroused, but the body did what it did. There were two white women, an Asian one and a black one. ‘Gentlemen,’ said the hostess, ‘please pick one or more. Our rates obviously increase steeply for more than one.’

There had been a door leading off each room they’d been in. Through it, Costain was sure, would be one or more hard cases, ready to protect the investment here. The prostitutes would be on a percentage, but it would still be more than they’d get on the street. ‘The one on the end,’ he said, picking one of the white girls.

‘You know what I like, Tone,’ said Sefton, and nodded towards the Asian woman.

*   *   *