She rose and offered her hand to shake. The black Lab looked up, regarding Abbott disinterestedly.

‘Mr Abbott,’ she said, regaining her seat. ‘How very nice to meet you.’ There was something weird about her that it took Abbott a moment to put his finger on. Although she spoke with the language of a character straight out of Agatha Christie, her voice was just ever-so-slightly at odds with that, as though she were putting on airs and graces.

‘That’s correct,’ he said.

‘Can I call you Alex?’

‘You may indeed. Can I call you Lady Norton? It’s not every day I get to mingle with aristocracy.’

‘Aristocracy,’ she laughed, a slightly coarse bark. ‘Hardly. A comprehensive education and a job in a bookmaker’s is what got me here. My husband and I had the titles and the wealth, but we never really got a sense of belonging.’

‘Well, I suppose you’d have to say that two out of three ain’t bad.’

‘You see? A true member of the aristocracy would have no idea that you were quoting Meat Loaf.’

Standing nearby, McGregor chuckled.

‘Would you mind leaving us, Peter?’ Lady Norton asked him, squinting slightly in the sun.

Peter, thought Abbott. You live and learn.

‘Aye, of course,’ said McGregor. ‘I’ll just take a lap around the park.’

Abbott watched him go before he spoke. ‘It’s not so long ago that Raymond Doyle told me that I was only alive because he permitted it. Sitting here next to you, I wonder whether I’m only alive because you say so.’

Lady Norton nodded. ‘Well, that’s partly the case. But in fact, I was also responsible for trying to have you killed. In fact, it’s far more accurate to say that the only person responsible for your ongoing existence is you.’

‘OK, I’ll take that. How about we agree to split the difference and we move on to the bit where you tell me why I’m here?’

‘God, where to start?’

‘Try the beginning.’

She smiled. ‘Let me tell you a little bit about my husband. It may not surprise you to learn that he was brought up the son of a working-class man in Derby. As a child he was best friends with a boy who lived two streets away, your friend Raymond Doyle. They would get into the usual kind of youthful scrapes together. You know the kind of thing, I’m sure?’

Abbott, veteran of more than a few ‘youthful scrapes’ himself, nodded.