There are packing cases everywhere in Delphi’s apartment, boxes piled on boxes and carrier bags full of sheaves of paper. The red telephone rings. It is a proper old-fashioned one with a dial and a bell. Delphi wonders why she hasn’t got round to disconnecting it, as she wanders over and answers it.

“Delphi.”

A crackle then,

“Scarlet. I have a job. Details in the usual …,” but she cuts him off with -

“Scarlet, sorry, babe. I’ve retired. Giving it all up.”

“Really, Delphi? Ah. That’s not good news.”

“It is for me, babe. I’m packing up and going to a nunnery. Confess all to the mother superior, that kind of thing. My resolution. It has been a long time coming.”

“Delphi, don’t. Pack yourself away somewhere without an extradition treaty and keep your head down, and …,”

“No, Scarlet. Resolution time for Delphi!” And she hangs up. The red phone rings again, and Delphi ignores it.

Scarlet is very, very worried. He paces his penthouse suite with the sun blinding him through the open windows, and the noise of the traffic outside is befuddling his brain as he tries to think. He closes all the windows, draws the curtains and flumps onto the calf-skin sofa. Think, man, think!

It is 2 a.m., and Scarlet finally has a plan. He puts the Talisker bottle down and goes to his big green safe. His hands shaking slightly, he turns the vernier dial this way and that. It opens, and he retrieves one sheet of paper from the back of the safe, pulls his iPhone from his pocket, and dials.

“It’s late. Early. Must be important. And as you know by now, important is expensive, so I hope …,” Scarlet cuts him off.

“Yes. It is. Very. I need a little black book. Delphi.” And Scarlet hangs up.

Two days later, a courier jumps off his Kawasaki, removes his helmet and rings the bell for number 42. Scarlet buzzes him up, opens the door to the breathless biker and takes the small envelope. Scarlett hands him a twenty-pound note, closes the door and breathes out slowly. Hoping.

The envelope contains a USB stick with “KGB” written on it in Sharpie. My little joke, thinks Scarlet and plugs the stick into his Apple MacBook. The password to the single file is one of twenty-three passwords he has memorised. The file opens. And it is a list.

It’s a list of all of Delphi’s customers. Complete with codenames and contact details. Scarlet gets to work on his old Motorola burner phone. Delphi is mentioned, and all of the customers feel the same panic as Scarlet. And they all agree on one thing - she has to go. And fast.

Scarlet and fifteen other colours are now in a dilapidated warehouse on the outskirts of the city, with a leaking ceiling, peeling paint, and a strange smell of old oil and grease. The faint hum of machinery vibrates through the floor, and the massive doors hang precariously on their hinges. Perfect.

They stand in a circle, suited and masked, but on instruction from Scarlet - not carrying. They argue and bicker for a while, but Lilac’s plan is finally agreed upon. Apart from Delphi, Lilac knows of another hitman - reliable, 100% record, still working. And reassuringly expensive.

There is a loud crack, reverberating around the warehouse, and they all turn to see Delphi standing by the big doors with the private detective and the courier behind her. She is carrying, and it is a large semi-automatic assault rifle. Her two friends have pistols. She laughs: “I knew you’d use my Private Investigator, you fools!”

She advances slowly towards the circle of her old customers. The biker and the PI spread out. They point their weapons…

“Resolution for Delphi!”