‘Did we make love?’ he says presently, squirting ketchup over the bacon.

‘Did we make love, guv’nor,’ Bernice corrects him, her eyes fixed on the TV screen.

‘I’ll take that as a no, then,’ Huggins says. He reaches for the tea bags and drops one in an empty mug. ‘Where’s the milk?’

‘I’ve run out.’

He slumps into a chair and shoves most of the sandwich in his mouth. ‘This will all change when we’re married, Bernie,’ he mumbles. ‘You will bide my words and ensure that when I come down for breakfast the larder is well stocked.’

‘What time did you come in last night?’

‘Dunno. One-ish?’

‘Bullshit. You rang here begging for a bed at two. Where did you end up?’

‘Talking bollocks with Frank Jarvis and the lads at Adriano’s.’

‘Was Fallow with you?’

‘Nah. John’s going through one of his periods of self-flagellation. I think he’s taken up running this time. It won’t last. It never does.’

‘You don’t help him,’ Seagram says.

Huggins feigns hurt. ‘Am I my brother’s keeper, Bernie? He’s a grown man. A grown married man.’

‘Not for much longer if he keeps hanging round with you.’

‘Dah, Shirley’s never liked me. I don’t even think she likes John. She just likes wheeling him out on social occasions so she can tell her friends from the riding club that she’s married to a policeman.’

Seagram slides off the kitchen stool and makes her way to the door. ‘I’m going up to get dressed now, DC Huggins. Then I will be leaving for work. If you want a lift – and I expect you do – you’d better be ready. And don’t get ketchup on my T-shirt.’

Seven forty-five a.m. Ptolemy is in Asda’s car park in Gosforth, watching the staff arriving for work. Although they don’t call them staff any more; they call them colleagues. ‘Colleague announcement: would a colleague please go to aisle six . . .’ And off they go, with their bucket and mop, thinking they’re making a significant contribution to the hive. Jesus, she thinks, the most frightening thing about this headlong assimilation into corporate-speak is that people have just sat back and accepted it.

Severin’s late. He’d said he might be, and his tone had suggested that he didn’t give a shit if he was. During the course of their meeting last night, Ptolemy had got the distinct impression that the world marched to Sam Severin’s beat and she’d better keep in time.

He’d told her to come plain-clothed, which is why she’s wearing jeans and Uggs and one of Ray’s old rugby shirts under a fleece jacket. She wonders, though, if maybe she’s too plain-clothed. Maybe she should have worn a blouse, or a skirt, or at least something more feminine. She wonders, as she sits in her car watching the colleagues trudging into the supermarket’s gaping, floodlit maw, if she just looks like a plain-clothes handler waiting to meet her undercover contact.

Shortly after eight thirty a black Ford Focus enters the car park and swings into the space next to her vehicle. The thud of the bass speakers cuts abruptly as Severin kills the engine. He climbs out and crushes his cigarette under a boot. He opens the back door of Ptolemy’s car and gets in. She immediately smells smoke and sweat and the faint tang of stale booze.

‘I don’t have long,’ he says, and when she looks in the rear-view mirror she sees his dark eyes staring straight back at him. ‘And I’ll need you to work fast, too.’

‘No problem. What do you want me to do?’

He reaches into his jacket and hands her a battered padded envelope. ‘That’s the first lot of paperwork. Get it copied and I need the originals back. There’ll be more where that came from.’

‘What do I do with the copies?’

‘You log them. And then you crosscheck them. And you make fucking damn sure you don’t make a mistake, because when this goes down the case against Tiernan has got to be watertight. Understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Then I’ll be off. I’ll meet you here tomorrow, same time.’

He opens the door and swings his leg out.

‘What if I need to contact you?’ she says.

Severin frowns. ‘You don’t, DC Ptolemy.’

And with that he is gone.

Nobody in the squad knows what time Una Cattrall arrives at the Bug House in the morning, because she is always at her desk before they are. But then she is the gatekeeper, and none shall pass without her permission.

‘Mr Vos will be in later,’ she informs Seagram, eyeing the dishevelled Huggins with suspicion. ‘He has a meeting at headquarters.’

‘Thank you, Una,’ Seagram says primly as Una buzzes them through the security door and into the squad room. ‘I was aware of that.’

It’s just before eight, but Fallow and Mayson Calvert are already there. Fallow’s normally red cheeks have an even rosier glow to them this morning, and his collar-length hair is still damp.

‘Where’s the boss?’ he says.

‘HQ,’ says Seagram, hanging up her coat. ‘He’ll be in later.’ She looks at him suspiciously. ‘What’s up, John?’

‘Brains has discovered something very interesting,’ Fallow says, putting his hands on Mayson Calvert’s skinny shoulders.

‘Time travel?’ says Huggins, heading for the coffee percolator. ‘Anybody gone for bacon sarnies? Where’s Ptolemy when we need her?’

‘Tell them, Mayse.’

Mayson clears his throat. ‘I did a thorough check of all known organizations, criminal or otherwise, that favour branding or tattooing as a form of initiation.’

‘Jesus Christ, Johnny-boy! Have you pinched my mug?’

‘No I fucking haven’t. Listen to Mayse, will you?’

‘Worldwide, there are over 17,000,’ Mayson continues. ‘You see bodily mutation – or is it art? – is viewed by some as being the ultimate expression of membership—’

‘Where’s my fucking mug, John?’

‘Listen!’ Fallow exclaims.

Fallow rarely raises his voice, but when he does it is surprisingly loud, and it has the effect of instantly silencing the room.

‘Thank you,’ Mayson Calvert says, fingering his collar.

‘You could just get to the point, Mayse,’ Seagram says.

He looks momentarily put out but continues nevertheless. ‘I believe I have identified the peculiar branding marks on the victim’s testicles,’ he says.

Huggins chortles. ‘You really do know how to enjoy yourself of an evening, don’t you, Mayson?’

‘The KK symbol stands for Kaplan Kirmizi, which in turn is Turkish for Red Tigers. The Red Tigers began life in the 1950s as a gang exporting heroin across the Kurdistan border on its way to western Europe. In recent years, they have spread across Europe to the extent that there are cells in most of the major cities synonymous with the drug trade.’

‘And they go around branding each other’s balls?’ Fallow winces.

‘Only those with a direct connection to the original gang,’ Mayson says. ‘It’s a sign of leadership and of clan membership. And if it makes you feel any better, the branding is done at the age of two.’

‘Trust me, Mayson,’ Huggins says, his expression aghast, ‘there is no good age to get your balls branded.’

‘So if Ahmed Doe is a member of this Red Tigers organization,’ Seagram says, ‘what the hell is he doing hanging from a railway bridge in Stannington? The last time I looked there was no big-time heroin trade in Newcastle.’

‘None that we are aware of,’ says Mayson. ‘But that has always made Newcastle an exception to the rule in this country.’

Huggins, happy now that he has found his mug, sits down on the corner of his desk. ‘Maybe our friend was trying to set up some business over here.’

‘Which someone clearly took exception to,’ Fallow says, nodding.

‘Which is why they were keen to send the Turks a message,’ says Seagram. ‘Good work, Mayse. You’d better print something out for the boss when he gets back. Meanwhile, you two hit the phones; I want to know where our Turkish gangster came from.’