They waited at the corner of the street, underneath dripping arches, watching dawn make its way into the narrow streets. Costain, because Quill didn’t feel he could call up any police yet and announce he was still alive, had found some National Crime Agency staff who’d stayed at their post at the Hill, and so a car with a driver stood ready round the corner to take their guest into what they now were sure would be safe protective custody. Costain was trying only to think of the moment, though his thoughts kept leaping back to Ross, just as, with the chemicals draining from his system, his brain kept reaching out for dreams. He wished he could see her. He desperately wanted to hear news of her, though he couldn’t bring himself to text Sefton and ask. He wanted to touch her. He’d never get to do that again. The Lisa Ross of his dreams and the real one were, for several moments as the sun rose, mixed up. He felt he’d been told something reassuring by her. Then, a moment later, he knew that wasn’t true.

A taxi pulled up. Out of it stepped someone he had never seen in the flesh before, only on CCTV images – Mary Arthur. She looked very young and very scared. Costain showed her his warrant card and told her his name and rank. Quill and Lofthouse did the same.

‘Is Russell Vincent really dead?’ she asked.

‘Yeah,’ said Quill. ‘Which makes it a lot easier for us to protect you. If, that is, you’re willing to give evidence in the matter of your dealings with Michael Spatley MP, and what happened on the night of the death of Rupert Rudlin.’

That, thought Costain, might begin to sell a new narrative to the public, one which might indeed send London stumbling off on a different course.

Mary seemed to consider for a moment.

‘There won’t be any reward involved,’ said Lofthouse, gently. ‘There can’t be.’

She looked suddenly angry. ‘I’ll tell you all about it,’ she said. ‘Money isn’t everything.’

Epilogue

EPILOGUE

Sarah Quill was startled to see the name appear on her phone. She felt dizzy, felt the blood come to her face, felt anger rising. She was standing in the hallway, having just stood up from buttoning Jessica into her coat. She answered the call. ‘Who is this?’

‘It’s me, love. No, please, don’t hang up!’

She stopped herself swearing. ‘Who is this…?!’

‘If someone else had called you, I knew you wouldn’t believe it—’

‘Who is this?’

‘It’s me! It’s me! It’s because of … the stuff about me only a few of us know. Okay? Nobody else would believe this. But you can. You can, love, you can!’