Jamie blushed a little. She had used a picture of herself in black leather, standing with arms crossed against her motorbike, black hair loose in the wind and the City of London in the background. Her gaze was no-nonsense and capable, with a hint of challenge. It was a look she had never been able to fully embrace when she worked as a Detective Sergeant, but now she worked as a private investigator, she could do whatever she liked.

It was hardly idyllic, however, and Jamie pushed down her guilt at lying to Missinghall. Her new business as a private investigator was only just paying the bills, and the cases were dull and repetitive. Prenuptial investigations and matrimonial surveillance were not quite as fascinating as homicide cases. It seemed that the pull of death was in her blood, echoing the pulse of the city. She missed the all-consuming cases in the way that an addict missed a fix – with the sure knowledge that it was killing as she indulged. She missed the camaraderie and the sense of doing something good for the community – though she didn't miss the paperwork, or Detective Superintendent Dale Cameron.

"And what about you, Al?" Jamie said. "How's life as a DS?"

"The promotion's alright and the missus appreciates it. But to be honest, I miss the way we worked together. I guess I'll get used to it soon enough. Nothing stays the same in this city …" Missinghall's voice trailed off as he looked up at the Gothic cathedral in front of him. "Well, nothing except the architecture anyway. I'm glad we can still meet up though, and you know I'm happy to help out if I can."

Jamie took another sip of coffee, letting the hot, bitter liquid soothe her tired brain.

"Do you know anything about the homicide that happened here last night?"

Missinghall chuckled. "I thought you'd want to know more about it when I saw your name on the witness statements. We off the record?"

"Of course. I'm part of the community here now and I was there, so …"

Missinghall nodded.

"Turns out that the murdered man, Nicholas Randolph, worked here at Southwark Cathedral. He was part of the community outreach team, working closely with the toms. There have been suggestions that he used to be a sex worker himself, but not confirmed as yet. You might be able to find that out more easily than we can. People round here are pretty tight-lipped about that kind of thing."

Jamie frowned. "What about his arms? They looked flayed."

"We got some pictures from the next of kin. Randolph had full-sleeve tattoos that revealed quite a bit about his past. A combination of religious iconography and gay-pride images."

Jamie raised an eyebrow. "You can see how some might have objected to that. Any suspects?"

Missinghall shook his head slowly. "You know I can't talk about that." He paused and looked up at the sky. He took a deep breath and Jamie waited, taking another sip of coffee and allowing him the silence.

Finally, his dark eyes met hers and she saw concern there. "Look, tell your mates round here to keep an eye out." He paused. "Off the record, this isn't the first homicide with this MO. There've been two other bodies found recently in Southwark – undesirable characters by some definitions. They also had flayed parts of their bodies where tattoos had been excised. But they were illegal immigrants and this is the first high-profile case. A man of the church, whatever his past. Even the Mayor has gotten involved. With the run-up to the election, he'll be antsy to get this solved."

"Is Dale Cameron really running?" Jamie asked.

Missinghall grimaced at the name. Dale Cameron was a rising star in the Met with the looks of a corporate CEO and the slippery shoulders to match. He had been their superior officer on previous cases, and crossing him had directly led to Jamie's resignation from the police. When she'd woken from nightmares of smoke and burning body parts, she'd been sure that he had been in the drug-fueled haze of the Hellfire Caves.

"Yes," Missinghall said, shaking his head. "He's got a good chance, as well. Loads of the top brass want someone with a hard line on crime in the Mayor's seat. And Cameron is a hard bastard, that's for sure." He sighed. "But whatever we think of him, he certainly gets results. Crime's down across the city. He's cracking down on immigrants and he's moving the homeless and mentally ill out of the central areas."

"That's what people want, I guess," Jamie said. "As long as it doesn't upset their own lives in any way."

Missinghall looked at his watch. "I've gotta go, sorry." He stood up and brushed pastry crumbs from his suit. "Do this again sometime?"

Jamie smiled up at him. "That would be great. Thanks for coming, Al. Stay in touch."

Missinghall turned and walked away but after a few steps he came back, his eyes serious.

"There's also been a rise in reported missing persons around here," he said. "Prostitutes, illegal immigrants, homeless addicts. You know we don't have the resources to pursue all the cases in detail, especially with people who move on so quickly. But it's worrying, so stay out of trouble, Jamie."

Jamie put her hand on her heart and gave him a look that made him grin before he walked off into the crowded streets. But she knew she couldn't let it go. The police would do their investigation into the murder, but there was something wrong in Southwark and after last night, she was already involved

Jamie stood and walked to the cathedral door, her eyes drawn to the flint cobbles embedded in the walls on either side. She reached out to stroke one of the rocks, its surface smooth and almost metallic to the touch, the colors layered like the center of the earth. Then she pushed open the door to Southwark Cathedral and walked inside, determined to find something of Nicholas Randolph here.

The Gothic cathedral was a mixture of the architecture of ancient faith and a modern sensibility, appealing to tourists and the faithful alike. A series of medieval bosses were attached to the back wall, fastened there as remnants of the fifteenth-century church. One of them portrayed the Devil devouring Judas, its face blackened by fire and time.

One of the stone tombs caught Jamie's eye. It had Thomas Cure 1588 written above it, a memorial for a saddler to the Tudor King Edward VI, Queen Mary and Queen Elizabeth. With a prominent ribcage and skeletal bones with an over-large head, it looked nothing like the tombs usually seen in churches. Instead of a representation of the man in life, this was a cadaver effigy, a decomposing body, a direct memento mori to remind people that our physical remains will soon be as this. Jamie shivered a little in the cold of the stone church.

"May I help you?"

Jamie turned to find a bright-eyed older woman, leaflets clutched in her hand and a 'Volunteer' badge pinned neatly to her lilac knitted sweater. Jamie smiled.

"Thank you, that would be great. I'm doing some research about the area and I've heard that the medieval church here was involved with the brothels. Is that true?"

The woman frowned, her face showing distaste. "As much as many of us would like to erase the past, it's the truth. The church used to be St Mary Overie and it was owned by the Bishop of Winchester. He licensed the stews, as they were known, in Southwark for four hundred years. But of course, that was a long time ago and we are now actively working to clean up the community, to rid it of that dirty past."

"I'm interested in the work the church does with the community," Jamie said. "Is there someone in particular I could talk to about that?"