'Well?' She dropped the towel. 'Who's his deputy, then? Someone out of Kingswood?'

'Someone new. No one I've heard of.'

'What's his name?'

'Can't remember. One of those who sounds like a wasted old Irish soak. Old-school — beer and takeways. High blood pressure. Type who every year sends someone younger with a snide ID to do his bleep test for him.'

She smiled and peered down at her arms, flexing her biceps. 'Don't say the bleep word. Annual medical in two weeks' time.'

'Up to Napier Miles, is it, Sarge? Need to start eating, then.' He pushed the ciabatta at her. 'Protein drinks. Ice-cream. McDonald's. Look at you. Underweight is the new overweight — didn't you know?'

She took the sandwich and began to eat. Dundas watched her. It was funny the way he seemed protective of her when she was his boss. Dundas never wasted time lecturing his son. Instead he saved it for Flea. She chewed, thinking he was someone she could tell — explain what was really going on, explain what had happened last night.

She was trying to sort out the words, get them into a line, when behind them the door opened and a voice said, 'You the divers? The ones pulled the hand up?'

A man in his mid-thirties, medium height, wearing a grey suit, stood in the doorway holding a cup of machine coffee. He had a determined sort of face and lots of dark hair cut short. 'Where is it, then?' he said, leaning inwards, one hand on the doorframe, looking round the changing room. 'There's no one on the quayside except your team.'

Neither of them spoke.

'Hello?'

Flea came back to herself with a jolt. She swallowed her mouthful and hastily wiped crumbs from her mouth with the back of her hand. 'Yeah, sorry. You are?'