2) Somebody had cloned his number plate.

Option one was unlikely; option two left them trying to track down all the black cabs in the city, close to the city and possibly any others that had been bought second-hand and stored in a garage for what could have been years. For now, as the full list of anyone with a licensed Hackney cab within a fifty-mile radius was put together, they could do little else other than hope their number plate recognition system flagged up that particular plate in a place where it wasn’t Hamish going about his daily business.

After deciding there was nowhere in the station she could get away with catching half an hour’s sleep, Jessica found Rowlands on the main floor.

‘Any luck with that symbol?’ she asked.

Dave started typing on his keyboard and then pointed to the screen.

‘Why are you showing me rugby players’ thighs?’ Jessica asked, peering closely at the screen. ‘I’m not complaining – I just didn’t realise this was what you spent your days looking at.’

‘This is the Wales rugby team,’ Dave replied.

‘That guy looks like he sleeps in a ditch,’ Jessica said, pointing at one of the hairier players.

‘I thought you might be more interested in the badge.’

Dave zoomed in on one of the players’ jerseys until the image appeared of three feathers arching in a similar pattern to the one on the corner of Jessica’s envelope.

Jessica stared closely at the screen but shook her head. ‘That’s not it.’

‘I know. When you first showed me it, I thought it reminded me of something but I was wrong – it was only this. This is the Prince of Wales’ crest – it’s close but not the same.’

‘If the Prince of Wales is stalking me, he can sod right off.’

Before Jessica could start to list the ways the royal family annoyed her, her phone rang with an unregistered number. She quickly thanked Dave and hurried towards the corner, phone at her ear.

‘If this is double glazing, then I’m not interested.’

There was a confused male voice at the other end: ‘Huh?’

‘I said . . . forget it. Hello.’

‘Jess?’

‘Yes, who’s calling?’

‘It’s Garry. Can we meet – usual place as soon as you can?’

Jessica checked her watch: ten past eleven. Early lunch it was.

For the third day in a row, Jessica surveyed the scene of the supermarket cafe. Pensioners: yep. Single parents: yep. Bored-looking assistants: yep. Half-asleep copper and journalist who looked like he’d had a near-death experience huddled around a table looking sorry for themselves: yep.

Jessica had gone for three espressos, with a Danish and vanilla slice on the side. Added to the chocolate biscuits at three in the morning, this was a new high for sugar intake before midday. As she returned to the table, Garry groaned, closing his eyes and turning to stare out of the window.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ Jessica asked.

‘I can’t even look at food this morning.’

Jessica dangled the pecan Danish in front of his face. ‘Sure you don’t want a bite?’

‘Bleugh. I knew I shouldn’t have come out this early.’

‘Did Mrs Ashford keep you up with her arthritis?’

Garry turned back to Jessica, almost focusing on her but not quite. ‘One day, you’re going to meet her and then you’re going to have to take all this back.’

Jessica downed the first espresso and took a bite of the cake. ‘Whatever – why are we here for a third day running? The staff are going to think we’re having an affair. That might be something that raises you in their eyes but what about my reputation? They’re going to think I’m having a breakdown.’

‘I was on the lash last night.’

‘You called me here to tell me that?’

Garry shook his head but his bottom lip was hanging limply and his eyes were slits. ‘I’m too old for this. I remember being at uni and we’d go out through the night, sleep for two hours and then roll up to lectures as if nothing was wrong. Now I can barely get through the afternoon without needing a kip.’

‘You’re younger than me!’

‘Ugh. Anyway, I went out with the editor last night. Like I said, he’s been brought in from down south and doesn’t really know anyone. Everyone’s been saying for months that someone should make friends with him – actually go out with him, find out what he’s all about – that kind of thing.’

‘So the pair of you were out and about in town, being turned down by numerous women – then what happened?’

Garry didn’t even have the good grace to smile. ‘It wasn’t like that. I didn’t want to risk being out with the boss, so we went to this dive out Eccles way.’

‘Bloody hell, what were you thinking?’

‘Evidently I wasn’t thinking. I’ve been in some rough places when I was a student in Liverpool but they were nothing. The barmaid had a baby in one arm and was pulling pints with the other, there was a fight on the other side of the bar, and I’m pretty sure the stain on the carpet by my feet was blood, not red wine.’

Jessica nodded in agreement. ‘It’s not really a red wine kind of area. Why did you go there?’

‘For you! You had me thinking there was something going on and I knew the only way I’d be able to get the editor talking was if I got him laryxed. I didn’t want to be seen dead with him in the city centre and if I was going to be buying drinks all night, then it had to be somewhere cheap – so we had a quick half down this side street off Deansgate, where I didn’t think anyone would notice, then we got a bus.’

‘Aww, and you got hammered just for me? You’re so sweet.’

‘Anyway, for every pint of cheap lager I had, I was ordering him a pint of this local ale that’s about eight per cent. After three drinks, he could barely say his own name. Mind you, I wasn’t much better – I can’t remember the last time I was on the beer.’

‘Were you at least sober enough to ask him who phoned and asked him to change the front page?’

‘I’m getting to that.’

Garry paused to wipe strands of sweat-drenched hair away from his forehead.

Jessica downed her second espresso. ‘You really don’t look well.’

‘Moonlighting as a doctor, are we?’

‘I’ve had the odd alcoholic beverage in my time.’

Garry downed the rest of a glass of water – the only thing he’d attempted to eat or drink – and then rubbed his eyes. When he spoke again, his tone was lower, more serious. ‘This is a big thing for me.’

‘What is?’

‘I’ve never broken a source. It’s one of the biggest things in this job, like a doctor or a lawyer with their confidentiality – you have to keep your sources.’

‘Anything you tell me will stay between us.’

‘Promise?’

‘Of course.’

‘The person who called to talk about our front page is the same person who leaked the initial story about Holden Wyatt to our reporter. I asked what was talked about but the editor said there were no threats, just that he was told we’d get a lot more cooperation on all sorts of fronts if we could do a favour.’

‘Do you do many favours?’

Garry shrugged. ‘More than you might think – usually it involves PR companies who ask if we can be nice about something in return for access to a celebrity or two. Sometimes the council tries to get a bit smart. It shouldn’t really happen but it’s hard to stop. You and me have had agreements in the past, haven’t we?’

That was one way to put it.

‘Who made the call?’

Garry reached across and touched Jessica’s third and final espresso. ‘Can I have this?’

‘Go for it.’

Garry drank the coffee in one go and breathed out deeply. ‘I need to know you’re going to look after me if it comes down to it – I’m getting married; I’ve got a life.’

‘You can trust me.’

Garry gulped and then finally said the name. ‘It was Graham Pomeroy.’

Jessica paused, breathing through her nose, repeating the name in her mind. ‘. . . As in Assistant Chief Constable Graham Pomeroy?’