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joy. And it’s gone.’
    ‘We’ll track it on the cameras, sir,’ says Josie.
    Pennington nods to her, suggesting that she does it straightaway, and elsewhere. When she is gone he hisses under his breath, ‘You know what I’m saying, Will?’
    ‘Cut myself in two and hide one half.’
    ‘And take it easy with the e.gang. I don’t want us accused.’
    ‘Accused?’
    ‘You know what the press are like. Pulford is charged with shooting a black man. It could kick off at any time.’ Pennington taps The News. ‘Keep the wolves from our door, Staffe. Be sure you do, but bloody well find what Pulford is afraid of. Now, do you have any of that rum you keep stashed away?’
    Staffe pours them each a cup and Pennington necks his in one, holds out his cup for more. Staffe says, ‘There’s something else, isn’t there, sir?’
    Pennington nods. ‘Keep it to yourself.’
    ‘Absolutely.’
    Pennington sighs. ‘He wanted me to meet him. He called me.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Trapani. The day before he disappeared. I was up to here.’ Pennington puts a hand above his head.
    ‘And you didn’t tell anyone?’
    ‘I have now, but it looks bad. Christ, we’ve got to get to the bottom of this, Will. You wouldn’t believe what shit’s going off at the moment.’ Pennington looks at him hard. ‘Watch yourself, Will, is all I can say.’
    Staffe watches him leave and tries to work out how the hell Pulford had got hold of a Google Earth printout in prison. Soon, his thoughts turn to Jessop, another colleague who ended up on the wrong side of the law – and now Pennington’s behaving oddly.
    The phone rings and it is Finbar Hare saying he has asked around about Carmelo Trapani and does Staffe want to meet up? It is music to Staffe’s ears – the chance to listen to the voice of a different kind of reason.
    *
    The George and Vulture was Jessop’s favourite place, with its dark panelling and linen and silver; its calves’ liver and chops and decrepit waiters.
    ‘I asked around about Carmelo,’ says Finbar, talking low and smearing his potted shrimp onto his toast. Staffe and Finbar didn’t find each other until relatively late in life, but looking at Finbar Hare now, Staffe muses upon how alike they are; and so very different. Finbar has clearly had a couple of sharpeners already and seems not to have a care in the world, even though he is responsible for two billion pounds of shareholder funds.
    ‘What have you come up with?’
    ‘How come he’s on your radar? He’s an old fella. Can’t you let him die in peace?’
    ‘Too late for that. I’ve got his corporate profile.’ Staffe hands a printout across.
    The waiter brings a large turbot to the table, begins to carve, and Fin says, ‘He also had his finger in an investment trust a few years ago. We’ve just poached one of the top banking analysts in Europe from Hispania. Carmelo was in with a fellow called Abie Myers, but he ditched the stock a month or so ago.’
    ‘You’ll keep this to yourself, Fin.’
    Finbar puts a finger to his lips, whispers, ‘You’re in the club, Will. You’re an honorary member. We both keep schtum, right?’ He begins to set about his turbot, says, ‘Now, tell me about that beautiful girl of yours.’
    ‘I haven’t got one.’
    ‘Sylvie, you fool. You don’t let fish like her through the net, my man. I’ve told you before, you should—’
    ‘Leave it, Fin. Please.’ Staffe picks at his fish, listens to the low rumble of secret deals, the chink of silver on china. His thoughts drift.
    ‘Will?’
    He looks up, sees Finbar looking at him quizzically.
    ‘Are you all right?’
    ‘I’m fine.’
    ‘You don’t look it.’
    ‘I’ve been getting tired, just lately.’
    ‘Christ, man, you need to loosen up. Here.’ He reaches across with the bottle and Staffe shakes his head, wonders what life would have been like spent in a suit and on expenses – had he not chosen the Force.
    Fin smiles, raises his glass, as if he hasn’t a