He got a call back a few minutes later saying that DCI Forrest would indeed be free and in central London this evening, and that the Opera Rooms was his quiet pub of choice. Quill was pleased to hear that. He could not only do the business he had to do, but he could also become more au fait with a copper whom he felt was much like himself and could try to begin the process of requesting backup for a raid that they’d have to try and squeeze in before a police strike, the purpose of said raid being one that might well escape the DCI.

So Quill entered the Portakabin with some slight hopes. ‘Today is when it all comes together,’ he said, ‘when the elephant in the Portakabin reveals itself.’

‘And shits on us all,’ said Costain, laughing a tad shrilly, Quill thought.

The team spent the day concentrating on Mary Arthur, exploring possible further links, from geographical to financial, between her and the other victims, not excepting Rudlin, on Ross’ insistence. Quill sent Costain back over to the Soviet bar to ask around about prostitutes using the place. This was not, Costain reported back, having been gone a bloody long time, something the bar staff were aware of, even on the sly. So Quill’s prediction for the day failed to come true. But he knew this was the right line, that this was how they’d crack it. He had some hopes that they might have freed themselves from the problem of being got at when they slept as well, though Sefton looked incredulous at the idea that his defences had worked.

At six that evening, thinking that a bit of bonding with a superior officer might well take him over the limit, Quill headed for the railway station. He fell asleep, as he always did on trains. He realized with a start that he was doing so, but he had some of Sefton’s protective objects on him. Finding them with his hand, he let it happen, and he started to dream.

*   *   *

He was backstage at a Rolling Stones concert, and he was talking to Mick Jagger, who turned out just to want to talk about money, while Quill was all about the music. ‘Nowadays,’ said Mick, ‘the world is just as bad as it was in the seventies, but we’ve had all our illusions scraped off, and it seems people are willing to put up with that without, you know, revolution.’

Quill said something, he wasn’t sure what. This is a normal dream, a wary part of him kept saying.