“I want to talk to you about Harry Rawlins,” Jack said.

“I bet you do.” Eddie downed his whisky and poured himself another. “Let me guess—you want to know if old Harry knew your mum, 30-odd years ago.” He eyed Jack. “I’d say he did.”

Jack had expected to have to pry information out of Eddie, then beg for a DNA sample to test against. But here he was, inadvertently terrifying an old man by his very presence. Imagine, then, how Harry must have felt back in the day—strutting into a room and having every fearful eye on him. Imagine having that power over half of the gangsters in London, over Tony bloody Fisher, over any woman he set eyes on.

Jack realized he was staring at Eddie and, in response, Eddie was sweating and fidgeting. My God, he felt like he was Harry’s boy! However, the same gene pool had allegedly produced the wimp sitting in front him, so Jack wanted to be sure. He looked around the room, which looked like it hadn’t been redecorated since the eighties, and his eyes fixed on a photo of two boys in their mid to late teens. He went over and picked it up. One was blond and blue eyed, the other was dark haired with brown eyes and a heavy brow. The second boy didn’t look unlike Jack when he was a teen.

“The blond is Liam—he’s our oldest—the dark one is Jason. Strong genes, our Harry.” Eddie moved to Jack’s side and took the photo from him. “I loved Jason like my own.”

“Jason is Harry’s?”

“Liam’s a microbiologist in Edinburgh. Married, second kid on the way. The house he’s in now is the house he’ll die in, I expect.” Eddie glanced around his own lounge. “Jason, on the other hand, never sat still. Got his first motorbike at 16.”

“Where’s Jason now?” Jack asked.

“Knocked off his bike eleven years ago,” said Eddie. “Dragged a quarter mile under the wheels of a tri-axle truck. Couldn’t stop fast enough ’cos of the rainwater on the road. He died pretty much straight away. That’s what they told me anyway. Said I shouldn’t see him . . . so . . . that was that.”

Eddie put the photo back in exactly the same place, at exactly the same skewed angle. When he sat back down, Jack could now see that the photo was pointing directly at Eddie’s armchair.

“I don’t know your name,” Eddie said.

“Jack. Jack Nunn.” He had no idea why he’d said this.

“You’re Trudie’s boy! Of course you are! Poor Jimmy . . .” Eddie shook his head as he poured himself another whisky. “Why are you here, Jack? What do you need to know?”

“I want a DNA sample, so I can be sure.”

“I’m sure, lad. As soon as I saw you, I was sure. It’s the eyes.” Eddie glanced at the photo of his two sons again. “My Jackie left me for a biker called Harvey Rintle. He bought Jason the bike that killed him. I’ll never forgive that man till the day I die, but Harry . . . I forgive Harry. Harry gave my boy something I never could. He gave Jason ‘spark.’ People can see strength and that gets you respect. I love Liam to bits, but he’s not excited about life. He’ll always be loved, but he’ll never be . . .” Eddie brought his hands to his stomach and made a welling motion like a volcano coming from the pit of his belly. “No, I don’t need a DNA match to tell me who you belong to, Jack.”