Picking up the two shirts, he opened the wardrobe and laid them carefully away in a drawer. Then he opened another and took out his exercise books from night school. Three years well spent, he thought, as he flicked through the top one, and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was actually a page he had torn out of a magazine. He stared down at the photograph, nodding his head. It was of a conservatory and he had spoken about the idea to Mrs Wilson.

Blackie was full of hope she would take his advice and decide to add one to her little mansion. And that he would be allowed to build it.

Jack Blane was a Yorkshire man from head to toe. Born and bred in Upper Armley, he was the salt of the earth.

Now, as Patrick went into the taproom of the Barley Corn pub on Town Street, he felt a spurt of pleasure when he spotted Jack leaning on the bar with a pint. The two of them had been best friends since the age of ten, and were still going strong. They spent most of their spare time together, had shared interests and beliefs. And they were both loaded with charm.

He raised his hand to acknowledge Patrick, who grinned as he hurried forward, thinking how smart his friend looked tonight.

Jack was a handsome man with black hair, was thirty-four years old like Patrick, and they made a striking pair. Most people looked at them twice when they were out together, struck by their fine looks and good grooming. Jack was tall and well-built like Patrick, with a chiselled face and dark eyes. Despite Patrick’s fair colouring and blue eyes, they seemed like brothers to those who didn’t know otherwise. It was true they had a look of each other.

After exchanging greetings affectionately, Patrick called the barman over.

‘A pint of bitter, please,’ he said, ordering the same as Jack and pushing a few coins over the bar. Once it was poured, he and Jack clinked glasses.

The two men chatted about odd things in general for a few minutes, as they savoured their beer. But after a moment or two, Patrick put his glass down on the bar.

Leaning into Jack, he said, ‘I’ve stumbled into a problem, and I need your help. It could be a bit of trouble.’

Jack frowned and asked in a lowered voice, ‘Not trouble with that bloody housekeeper of Mrs Burton’s again, I hope to God.’

‘No, no, nothing like that. That’s long past and, like I told you, I’ve always declined the work Mrs Burton offered since. It’s to do with young Finn, Blackie’s friend.’

‘What kind of trouble?’ As he asked this, Jack glanced around the taproom, saw that it was filling up and growing noisy. ‘Tell me what’s wrong, Pat. Nobody can hear – a rowdy crowd as usual on Saturdays.’