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Sophie Almonds stood around five foot four, with shoulder-length, dark brown hair, often tied back with a simple black ribbon, and increasingly threaded through with silver. She was a still, watchful woman, with big, expressive eyes, and the sinewy build of a long-distance runner. She reminded me of a small, wiry bird of prey, the kind that makes its living on blasted moorlands, and has to keep its wits about it to survive. I’d once thought – maybe because of the way she carried herself and those cool, unflinching eyes, or maybe because of her little black notebook that seemed to have half the world’s secrets tucked away inside it – I’d once thought that this Sophie bird could’ve been a sphinx once upon a time, defeated by some great hero of legend and now living on vastly reduced means. Certainly, it always seemed to me that it would be deeply unwise to cross or underestimate her.

Sophie Almonds was in her mid-forties I thought, and possibly of Scandinavian descent. I didn’t know these things for certain though, because she kept all personal information locked away as tightly as the affairs of her clients. And, as I’ve said, it was never wise to push her too far, except when absolutely necessary.