Cullen, who had been quickly briefed, seemed to pick up Kincaid’s thoughts. “Have you ever met Yarwood?”

“No, just seen him on the telly.” Yarwood was not easily forgotten – stocky and balding, with a face mashed flat like a bulldog’s, his speech and manner as blunt as his looks. In spite of his ingrained skepticism towards all politicians, Kincaid had found himself both impressed and intrigued by the man.

“Why all the fuss about him making a bob or two on a real estate venture?” asked Cullen, deftly negotiating the turn from Waterloo Road into Stamford Street.

Kincaid thought about it for a moment. “It’s not that he’s ever taken an antidevelopment position, but he’s supported projects that benefit the community as a whole-”

“And bringing in yuppie flat owners with money to spend doesn’t?” Cullen asked with evident sarcasm.

“Yes, the new tenants patronize restaurants and shops,” Kincaid said, finding himself in the role of advocate. “But what happens to the lower-income residents displaced by the renovation? They can’t afford alternative housing in the area, and it’s these people who are the backbone of Yarwood’s constituency.” Yarwood had come from just such a working-class Southwark family, with roots in the neighborhood that went back generations.

“Well, I’d be happy enough to contribute to the economy by leasing one of his flats, if I could afford it.” There was an edge of bitterness in Cullen’s voice. Kincaid knew how much his sergeant disliked his dreary Euston flat, and he suspected that Cullen’s girlfriend, the well-off and well-connected Stella Fairchild-Priestly, had friends with flats in the Borough or Bankside.

“How is Stella, by the way?” Kincaid asked.

Cullen glanced at him as if surprised by his apparent non sequitur, but answered readily enough. “Bloody insufferable. She’s been promoted.”