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McRae.”
    “Trust me, I don’t know why you’re worried about losing your job. I don’t see any competition. Not in here.”
    “Remind me to introduce you to my editor. I need to be ten times better than the next man. That’s how it is. I need new material, new angles, new stories. All I do is report what I
hear sitting in the Old Bailey.” She pointed up towards the Aldwych. “And then some follow-up with the victim’s family. The personal angle. Any fool can do that. I want to
report stories before they get to court.” She had that gleam in her eye again, the one I saw in my office when she got enthused at the idea of patrolling the dark side of town with
me.
    “Right, then. Have you got your walking shoes?”
    She looked down at her leg and lifted her foot.
    “Will these do?”
    I admired her slim brown leg for a moment longer than I needed. “They’ll do nicely,” I grinned.
    “I meant the shoes,” she said dryly. “Where are you taking me?”
    “Tea with Mary.”
    We cut through the green stench and slippy cobbles of the market at Covent Garden. Several stalls are still serving fruit and veg, but the real business finished long before
sun-up, unloading the fresh produce from the lorries and carts. The bars down Longacre are full of the porters who breakfasted on full fries and stout, and stayed on for the fun of it.
    We resist their siren calls and cross Charing Cross Road into Soho. Along Rupert Street, trying to look businesslike rather than furtive. But a red-light district on a sunny afternoon
isn’t an easy place to blend into. The denizens of the night are creeping about in mufti pretending to be normal citizens doing normal things like shopping, getting a haircut and chatting
with their mates on street corners. It feels like a stage-set before the evening performance. We get the odd offer: two for the price of one, guv? You and your girl looking for a threesome, luv?
But there’s no conviction in the solicitations, just practising their lines for when the curtain goes up.
    “And this Mama Mary, you know her purely through business?”
    I pretended not to hear the irony in her voice. “I helped her with a little thieving problem. Then she helped me over the Caldwell case.” That was as far as I would go. I just hoped
that Mama Mary would heed my phone call plea to stick with that line. It was no business of Eve Copeland what I got up to in my private life, but I didn’t want her thinking badly of me.
    We stopped outside the green door. “Now remember our bargain, Eve. Whatever is said in here is off the record. No mention of Mary or her girls in anything you print. Or all bets are
off...”
    “Relax, Danny, I’m like a priest.”
    “You are nothing like a priest. Shall we?” I knocked and waited. Mama Mary must have been watching for us. The door eased open, a bird-like head darted out, looked each way, and a
tiny but strong hand dragged us both inside. We crowded into the hall with its tasteful fake Rubens, a big fleshy girl with dimples in her rear.
    “Scared what the neighbours might say, Mary?”
    “Scared of big fat rozzer. Always sticking nose in.”
    My blood cooled. “Not Wilson? Don’t say he’s back on the beat?”
    “No, no. Silly man. You stopped him plenty good. Shoulda stopped him dead. Tea for you too, missy?” she asked Eve as she brought us into her private room.
    Eve was too busy gawping at the sea of crimson to respond.
    “Sorry? Tea would be lovely. This place of yours, Mama Mary, it’s very… very…”
    “Red,” I whispered.
    “… charming,” she finished.
    We slithered among the silk and satin cushions, and Mary smiled at us as she poured the tea.
    “Danny say you write in paper. Not ’bout us!”
    “No, no. Mary. I promise you. I just need some help. Some advice.”
    “I got advice. Stop. Don’t you go looking for trouble. Enough come to you.”
    “It’s my job, Mary. All I want is to get a little closer to the action. Danny tells