Jack stared at Foxy, waiting to hear words that he understood.

“Using the Y-chromosome DNA haplogroups as a sort of road map, my biologist friend told me—and I’m sorry to break it to you like this—but shoddy dress sense does indeed run in your family. You share patrilineal lineage with the owner of this very distasteful Isle of Man baseball cap.”

Foxy could see that Jack hadn’t really understood a word. He went on.

“In layman’s terms, you and the owner of this cap have the same dad. Is that what you expected to hear? Is it what you wanted to hear?”

Jack said nothing as he absorbed the information.

“How’s Charlie?” Foxy asked suddenly.

Jack snapped out of his trance. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.” Foxy threw Jack a look. Eddie’s words came to mind: We are who we are. Can’t be anyone else.

“Charlie’s fine,” Jack said. “Holding on, you know.”

“So—you going to tell me who you’ll be sending a Father’s Day card to next year?”

Jack managed a smile; he loved Foxy dearly, but he could be a tactless bastard at times. Charlie wasn’t even dead yet and he was making jokes.

Maggie sat at Jack’s desk in the squad room, watching Morgan injecting insulin into his belly. Once that was done, he stood up, tucked his shirt back in and left the room without a word. He wasn’t the most sociable of men. Maggie looked around the mostly empty squad room. The evidence boards were a complex array of photos, single words that meant little to her, dates and times, plans of action. Some of the photos here were the same as the photos on the wall in her spare bedroom; she didn’t recognize the soldiers.

As soon as Jack came back into the squad room, Maggie stood to meet him. But Jack sat her back down, pulled up a chair next to her, opened his desk drawer and took out the battered old file given to him by Charlie. Inside the file were all the photos and paperwork that Maggie had already seen, plus the photo Jack had stolen from Eddie’s album.

“This is Harry Rawlins. He was one of the biggest criminal names in the eighties.”

Jack was whispering. This conversation, in the middle of the squad room, was for her ears only. Even though Maggie knew who Harry Rawlins was, she could see that he needed to say the most important bits again.

“He was respected—reluctantly by some—but people who knew him couldn’t help but respect him. Even the copper who spent his entire career trying to catch Harry respected him. Dolly loved him—even though he had so many affairs. His cousin, Eddie, loved him—even though his youngest son belongs to Harry. Harry could do that . . . He could shit on people and they’d still love him.”

Jack covered his desk with newspaper cuttings from one day back in August, 1984, the funeral of “Harry Rawlins.”

“Hundreds of people, from both sides of the law, turned up to see Harry off—or to make sure the bastard was dead, I don’t know, but look at them, Mags. Look how many people are there. He was infamous. He was Harry Rawlins . . . He was my dad.”