‘About what?’

‘About tonight.’

‘Too late,’ said Costain, slurping his tea as he moved off. ‘I booked the table.’

Ross stood there for a moment after he’d left, annoyed at how easily he’d shrugged that off, and at how it turned out she didn’t mind that.

*   *   *

That evening, Sefton put the Xbox controller down on the table and closed his eyes. ‘I killed someone,’ he said.

Joe took a deep breath and slowly lowered his own controller. ‘I wondered what you hadn’t been saying,’ he said.

Sefton told him everything.

Joe held on to him. Finally he said, ‘You killed someone by accident, someone who was trying to kill you.’

‘I know that.’

‘You lot would normally get counselling and compassionate leave—’

‘And be investigated and interviewed and all that, and I could do with that and all.’

‘Because that would end up with you being officially told you hadn’t done anything wrong.’

‘Probably.’

‘Well, you haven’t.’

Sefton considered for a moment, and realized that, as always, Joe had helped him frame how he really felt. ‘No,’ he said finally, ‘I have.’

*   *   *

‘Russell Vincent bought our paper,’ said Sarah, dropping her bag onto the kitchen table.

Quill motioned for her to be quiet. He’d just got Jessica to sleep. He went and closed the door of her room. ‘And that’s a good thing?’

‘It’s a great thing. We get to keep our jobs.’

‘Then that’s a brilliant thing. Russell Vincent is … that media tycoon who’s on telly all the time, the one who—?’

‘He’s the owner of the Herald. Opinion leads, long lenses, that one.’

‘Oh.’

‘Oh indeed. He’s personally famous for taking on the Bussard Inquiry into phone hacking. He told them his firm had once used it to get celebrity gossip, but that when he found out, he’d fired everyone involved. He gave the inquiry access to his entire communications network and told them to go fuck themselves.’

‘I remember.’

‘But, hey, whoever owns my paper, I am still, thank God, employed as a journalist.’

‘Excellent.’ Quill rooted around at the back of a cupboard and found a dusty bottle of cava, which he uncorked and poured into two glasses, after giving them a quick rinse under the tap.

‘He actually bought our whole group. Seven local papers in all. There’s a reception on Sunday night for all the employees. You’re invited too – there’s a plus one.’

‘Sure. Depending.’ He clinked glasses with her. ‘I can ask him how he got the inside track on the Ripper murders.’

‘Yeah, don’t do that.’

‘Like he’d tell me.’

*   *   *

Costain parked outside Ross’ housing block in Catford half an hour early. This he never did. It felt as if he was conducting surveillance. He was only early because he was nervous. He knew he looked good and smelt good. He’d prepared. But still he was nervous.