The baby-faced one was now holding her fake driving licence. He looked from her face to the photo and back again like an immigration officer inspecting a passport at the airport. She could see him analysing the tiny writing on it. Her name. Her address. The date of issue.

‘How long have you been in London?’ he demanded.

‘A few years.’

‘Where were you before that?’

‘Nottingham.’

She’d picked Nottingham as she was gambling it was far enough away from London for them to be less familiar with it, and therefore less likely to have contact with OCGs there. But it wasn’t so far out that she would have required a regional accent. More importantly, she knew the city well, having been to university there; it was where she’d studied accounting. The less stuff you had to make up in a cover story, the better, because it meant fewer potential slip-ups.

‘Nottingham?’ said baby-face. He smiled unpleasantly. ‘In that case you must know Barry Hale. Anyone who’s done business up in Nottingham knows Barry Hale.’

Bailey cursed to herself. It was a test. He could have just made the name up on the spot, so if she said yes, then he’d know she was lying. On the other hand, it could be a real person who they would then corroborate her story with.

She’d done some research on the Nottingham underworld in preparation for this deployment and hadn’t encountered that particular name, but that didn’t mean he didn’t exist, if he was careful and kept his identity hidden from the police.

‘Yeah,’ she said in an offhand manner. ‘I’m pretty sure I’ve come across the name. I’ve never dealt with him directly or anything.’

She was betting on the fact they’d be expecting a certain amount of bluster from her in her desire to ingratiate herself with them. Hustlers like her would often make out that they knew people even if they didn’t, if they thought it could make them appear more connected and thus more credible.

She waited tensely for their response. A few inscrutable glances flickered between them but nothing more.

‘So whereabouts in Northampton did you live?’ said baby-face, staring at her intently.

She caught herself. It was a trick question to try and trip her up.

‘I lived in Nottingham, not Northampton,’ she corrected him. ‘And to answer your question, I lived in Thorneywood.’

It was the district of Nottingham just north-east of the city centre where she’d once shared a flat as a student.

Again a heavy silence filled the room. She wondered just how long they would continue questioning her. She wondered just how long she could keep up her act under their relentless gaze. Even the dog was now looking at Bailey, watching her with its brainless round eyes.

Finally, Nancy spoke.

‘How did you get those scars?’ she asked, her throaty voice exhibiting a pulse of interest.

As part of her cover look, Bailey was wearing her hair tied back in a ponytail to reveal her facial scar in all its entirety, so a question about it wasn’t to be totally unexpected.