Dead Beat. Val McDermid

facing the prostitutes, who were enjoying a last cigarette before they went out to brave an afternoon’s trade. The café was so small I was practically sitting among them. I flipped the photograph on to the table and cut through their desultory chatter. ‘I’m looking for her,’ I explained. ‘I’m not Old Bill, and I’m not after her money either. I just want a chat. An old friend wants to get in touch. Nothing heavy. But if she wants to stay out of touch, that’s up to her.’ I dropped one of my business cards on the table by the picture.