Lancelot is busy, and on top of that he's exactly the sort of person who is poor at delegating. Currently he's trying to juggle the influx of investigation results, several other cases, answering the phone to a dog sitter and flicking through his emails trying to work out how he can get out of his normal Met Police job for a day or two without drawing suspicion. He opens the door, phone balanced awkwardly one one hand as he holds out a folder to a very prim woman sat at a desk neatly typing. She jumps up and scampers over to take it from him, then his eyes land on Liadan and widen slightly.

"If you could," he's saying into the phone, "that would really be a great help. Even if it's just the one night. Text me when you can confirm? I actually just have another appointment right now --"

He mouths just two seconds and waves at her vaguely, stepping back and holding open his office door for her. The desk is littered with files, the book shelves behind sparse but for a few reference books, and a photo of a very fluffy white dog sits in a frame.