Four minutes past nine.

The time on her phone said the same. How long should she wait? She’d said nine, yet she didn’t know what the other person’s time-keeping might be like, let alone if they were coming at all. Five past nine? Ten past?

Jangle, jangle.

Jessica looked up to see a rake of a girl push her way through the door, a stringy mess of tangled black hair whipped backwards by the breeze as she peered from side to side, taking in the surroundings. She couldn’t have been any older than seventeen at the most. Her face was thin, her skin almost white; her eyes skimmed across the two men sitting at the back of the dining area before settling on Jessica. When their eyes met, Jessica gave a gentle nod, knowing this was the girl.

The young woman stepped quickly and soundlessly across the cafe, moving like a trained ballet dancer on the tips of her toes but without the grace. She was wearing a pair of skinny jeans that seemed loose, betraying the stick-like legs underneath, with a padding of tops and a thin-looking dark fleece covering her upper half. On her hands she had half-fingered gloves with a hole in the left palm. Through her nose there was a small silver ring.

Jessica tried to hold her stare but the girl clearly wasn’t comfortable, looking everywhere except directly at her, before sliding into the chair opposite. Without a word, she reached into her pocket and tugged out a small leather purse, plopping it on the table between them.

‘I suppose you want this back,’ she said, staring at the table.

Her tone made her sound even younger than she looked, even though it had an edge.

Jessica picked the purse up and opened it, unfolding the note she had left inside before going to Piccadilly Station the night before.

‘Thanks for stealing my purse. Sorry there’s no money in here but if you’d like a free meal and twenty quid, then come to Rav’s Cafe in the Northern Quarter at 9 p.m. tomorrow.’

‘What would you like to eat?’ Jessica asked.

The girl glanced at the menu on the wall over the top of the counter. ‘You police or something?’

‘Let’s say “something”. What do you want, or shall I get you the all-dayer?’

For a moment there was no reply. Jessica could hear the young woman breathing in, wondering what she should do. Eventually, the answer came: ‘That sounds good.’

Jessica picked up her plate and empty mug, returning it to the counter and asking the bored man if he could sort out a second all-day breakfast, a rack of toast, and two mugs of tea. She gave him a tenner, told him to keep the change and then sat back down opposite the girl.

‘What’s your name?’ Jessica asked.

The girl still wouldn’t look up. ‘What’s it to you?’

‘If I’m going to buy someone tea, it’s nice to know what to call them.’

‘I only came for my twenty quid.’

‘Fair enough.’

‘You’re Old Bill, aren’t you?’

‘I think “Old” is a bit harsh. I’m still in my thirties.’ The girl didn’t laugh. ‘All right,’ Jessica added. ‘I’m police but it’s just me on my own: no big flashing lights parade, no army of clowns in uniform with truncheons – they’re all over by the Printworks waiting for Tiger Tiger to kick out later. It’s like a bloody zoo down there on a Friday night.’

Not even a smile. ‘Am I in trouble?’ the girl whispered.

This time it was Jessica’s turn to pause. ‘No.’

There was a moment of silence punctured by the scraping of forks on plates from the two men at the back. In the kitchen, there was a sudden sizzle, making the girl jump. Her eyes darted from side to side as her chair slid back.

‘It’s just a pan,’ Jessica said.

The girl righted herself, picking at the hole in her glove. ‘Bex.’

‘Is that short for Rebecca?’

‘What does it matter?’

‘Fair enough, Bex. Nice to meet you. I’m Jessica.’

Jessica held out her hand for Bex to shake but the young woman simply stared at it, unmoving. Jessica put her palms back into her lap. More silence.

‘How old are you?’ Jessica asked softly.

‘Old enough.’

‘Do you have somewhere to live? Parents?’

Jessica already knew the answer, even though it didn’t come. She sat listening to the plates being scraped behind her and the various clatters from the kitchen.

Fourteen minutes past nine.

The man from behind the counter sloped across to the table and plonked a plate in front of Bex loaded with three rashers of fat-laden bacon, two sausages, fried bread, two fried eggs with orange juicy-looking yolks, two slices of crusty black pudding, a mound of chopped tomatoes and a large dollop of baked beans.

Not bad for three pounds fifty.

Bex didn’t hang around, grabbing the bottle of brown sauce, giving everything a liberal coating, and then diving in with her fork. Slop, slop, crunch, squish, swallow, mmmm . . . and then it was on to the toast.

Jessica cradled her tea, watching the waif of a girl demolish the meal in under five minutes and then use the final slice of toast to wipe every last drop of sauce and egg yolk from the plate.

‘Do you want anything else?’ Jessica asked.

Bex’s eyes flickered hungrily towards the menu. ‘You some sort of do-gooder?’

‘I wouldn’t say that.’

‘You’re not a lezzer, are you?’

‘No.’

The door jangled again, three men stumbling through, bouncing off each other drunkenly before collapsing into a booth three tables away from the one Jessica and Bex were sitting at. The biggest one – a fat bloke wearing a T-shirt two sizes too small – shouted that they wanted three all-dayers ‘chop chop’ and then collapsed into a fit of laughter along with his boorish mates.

Jessica turned back to Bex, who had shrunken into herself, knees up to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs.

The fat man caught Jessica’s eye. ‘All right, love?’

‘Oi, dickhead, shut up, yeah?’

He smiled and nudged the friend next to him. ‘Steady on, darling, what is it, your time of the month or something?’

Jessica pulled her identification out of her pocket, striding across the floor and thrusting it under his nose. ‘Fancy repeating that down the station on a D and D charge? If not, then pipe down and shut your pair of monkeys up too.’ She jabbed a finger at the other two men and then returned to her seat. Behind, the other two men had stopped scraping at their plates and hurried towards the exit. The man behind the counter said nothing.

Bex had finally looked up from the table and was staring at Jessica. She dropped her feet back to the floor as Jessica handed over her ID.

‘You’re a detective inspector?’ she asked quietly, passing the card back.

‘Yes.’

‘But you’re not going to arrest me?’

‘No.’

‘I’m sorry for stealing your purse.’

‘Did you steal all six wallets and purses over the past month?’

Bex eyed her feet. ‘Maybe.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Seventeen.’

‘And you live rough?’

She shrugged: ‘Some nights I get into the shelter.’

‘Parents?’

A shake of the head.

‘Y’know, I can probably—’

‘It’s fine.’

Bex pulled her gloves off, putting them next to the clean plate and balling her fists. Jessica could see the scrapes along her knuckles and a separate scab on the back of her right hand.

‘I only pinch from people who have a few quid.’

‘I’m not that rich.’

‘You looked it.’

‘Exactly – and maybe it was like that for the other people you stole from too. Some people just make an effort one day a month, or a year, because they come into the city to watch a show. They might save for months, might have children at home with a babysitter they can barely afford to pay. It might be their only treat.’

Bex said nothing for a little while, though her fists were still clenched. ‘I don’t have the money to give back if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘I’m not – I’m just pointing out that people aren’t always what they seem.’