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God’s sake. You can take the weekend off.’
    ‘Yes, normally, but there’s this crisis.’
    Nicole’s voice became firm. ‘Kathy, Rusty’ll be devastated if I don’t go, and I’m not going on my own. I’ve paid for the flights, and the hotel room. You were so keen.’
    ‘Sorry I can’t talk now, Nicole. I’m due somewhere. I’ll call you tonight, okay?’
    She rang off, feeling a tightness in her chest. It was still therewhen she arrived at West End Central where, it was rapidly made plain, Brock’s assessment of their ability to help was wildly optimistic.
    ‘I can let you have one PC and a couple of PCSOs for the best part of tomorrow,’ the inspector said. ‘That’s about it.’
    After prolonged haggling, he promised to see if the West End and Chinatown Team could spare another constable and another police community support officer.
    She felt as if she were running in soft sand, making no progress. It was dark when she emerged from West End Central, a light rain falling, and she drove back to Queen Anne’s Gate with the swish of windscreen wipers and the glitter of lights on raindrops. When she got to her office she found Pip looking fiercely busy at her desk. There had been no missing person reports for Marion, she said, and someone from the media unit had left a draft press release on her desk for her urgent attention. Kathy checked it and rang them back with a couple of amendments, then forced herself to sit down with a cup of coffee and think.
    Towards seven, typing up a report, she became aware of Pip checking her watch and looking edgy.
    ‘Time you went home,’ Kathy said.
    ‘Will that be all right? Only I’m supposed to be going out.’
    ‘Of course. Have a good evening.’
    ‘Thanks.’
    Kathy watched her go with a touch of envy. Pip had a private life, it seemed.
    A little later she took a call from an officer in the Counter Terrorism Command. They were inclined to discount a terrorist angle to Marion’s death, he said. It didn’t fit with anything else they had, but they’d be pleased to hear if anything new cropped up.
    She also heard back from someone in the Environment and Planning department of Westminster City Council. They hadcollected over a thousand tonnes of rubbish on the third of April, and whatever Kathy was interested in had almost certainly been incinerated by now.
    She rubbed her eyes, feeling suddenly exhausted. This was not going well. She stared at the picture of Marion Summers that she’d propped up beside her phone. ‘Why does nobody know where you live?’ she murmured. ‘Why is your phone blank? Where is your boyfriend?’
    She was distracted by the smell of food and looked up, puzzled. She had thought she was the last one left in the building. The door of the office opened, and Brock stood there holding a cardboard pizza box. ‘Hungry?’
    She realised she was—very, and he nodded and said, ‘Let’s go down to the pub.’
    In the basement of the Queen Anne’s Gate offices was a small Victorian bar, the Bride of Denmark, assembled by earlier owners of the building, and it was there that Brock would go when he needed a quiet retreat, or inspiration. He got a couple of bottles of beer from behind the bar, and they sat at one of the tables and ate and drank in silence for a while, overlooked by the large salmon and stuffed lion in the glass cases mounted on the walls.
    Finally Brock wiped his mouth and asked Kathy about her day. He nodded sympathetically and said, ‘Tell you what, why don’t we just get West End Central to take over the whole case? There’s plenty of other things you could be doing. I’ll square it with Sundeep.’
    ‘No.’ Kathy surprised herself with the firmness of her decision. ‘No, I’ll run with it.’
    He gave her a little smile. ‘You’re intrigued.’
    ‘Yes, well, it is different.’
    ‘And the victim, Marion, she interests you.’
    Kathy shrugged. He was right of course, perceptive as always.
    ‘Okay.’ He yawned