‘Sorry.’

And within that apology was the acknowledgement of all that had happened, all that was happening. ‘I know,’ she said.

The next day, I was pondering this exchange, picking it clean, searching for encouragement and finding precious little, when my pager vibrated against my stomach as I drove along Alma Vale East. As usual, there was nowhere to park on the narrow Victorian street, so I dropped down towards Hotwells and stopped in the curve of a driveway. I undipped the pager and looked at the scrolling LED: get to cotham grove NOW— Ian.

I slipped the 4×4 into gear and skittered into Hotwells, along the docks, up Jacob’s Wells and on to Whiteladies, dithered and turned up Ashgrove, swivelling the steering-wheel, constantly having to pull over in the narrow, double-parked streets to let other cars pass. When I yanked up the handbrake as I parked outside the Harpys’ house I was already half-way out of the truck door. Jimmy was sitting on the wall outside, smoking a rollie. His dark eyes flicked to me and he shook his head slightly. I jogged down the side of the house, pushed open the side door and there she was. Psychobitch, standing on the pale, unfinished deck. Darren was squatting, resting his back against a wall of the house, earphones clamped to his skull, his pustule-ravaged face swinging from side to side. Around the edge of the garden the rest of the team were evenly spread along the verges. Jimmy and a couple of others outside. Darren couldn’t get away — they had him covered. I noticed some of the men looking at me and I knew they were remembering my rage, my savage fight to be free of them. They were nervous.

Psychobitch stepped back across the raw deck, drawing her robe round her as I slammed the side door. I remembered myself, remembered what Sonja had said only days before: ‘You’re too damn big to lose your temper.’

‘Good morning, Mrs Harpy. I’ve been told there’s a problem here.’

She glanced at Darren. ‘That …’

‘Excuse me,’ I said, and walked across the deck, dragged the earphones away and pulled him to his feet. He struggled a little. ‘Sorry, Mrs Harpy, carry on.’

‘I came out of my bathroom and there he was, in my bedroom, going through the drawers. He didn’t hear me because he was wearing those.’ She pointed to the earphones. ‘I’ve noticed a few things going missing. Thought maybe I should have had twenty pounds more than I had. You know. A key-ring, a glass, a bit of money. I thought it was me mislaying things until I saw him.’

Darren stood, chewing gum and I knew he wasn’t listening. He was off somewhere.

Psychobitch wrapped her silk gown even tighter, sidled up to me, her lips working furiously. ‘Do you have any idea, Mr Player, of the sacrifices Brian and I have made to have this done? We’ve worked hard, we’ve burned the midnight oil. And what do we get? A bunch of thieves. You may not know the meaning of sacrifice but I can tell you, we’ve made sacrifices for this deck and look at it!’ She turned with a swirl of her gown and pointed to the bare planks on which Darren Whiteside was slouching. ‘We were going to go to the Caribbean this summer and decided to have this built instead. We’ve given up a lot — and for what?’