One newspaper article from 1984 covered the brutal murder of a man called “Boxer” Davis. It seemed Boxer had been a low-level, gullible dogsbody whose loyalties tended to shift toward the biggest pay packet. He was loosely connected to both the Fishers and to Harry Rawlins—and he was murdered in the spring of 1984. According to police reports at the time, Boxer had been in a Soho alley when a car crushed him against a wire fence, backed up, drove over his body twice more, then drove away. Nobody saw a thing. Boxer was found among the rats the following morning by a chef throwing out the slops.

This was the seedy world that Jimmy Nunn had frequented once his Formula One career went down the pan. Jimmy stuck with the only thing he knew how to do—driving—and he must have done it well, because he never served any substantial amount of time in prison.

Jack called Laura.

“Would you do me a favor, mate? Would you get hard copy police records for Arnie and Tony Fisher?”

“Course,” Laura chirped. “Who are they?”

Laura was so smitten with Jack that she blindly misinterpreted how he called her “mate.” She thought it was an endearment—when in fact, from Jack’s perspective, it was just easy, non-committal and leveling. Everyone was “mate” to him.

“I’m digging about in the pasts of the women from The Grange, and Dolly Rawlins’s husband was a big-time crook back in the seventies and eighties. The Fisher brothers were around at the same time and . . . I dunno. Might be something, might not.”

“Ester gave you those names, did she?” Laura asked.

Jack looked up. Ahead of him was the stunning Cowes harbor, with its motor cruisers, yachts and tall ships. Laura jabbered away in his ear.

“I bet she’s a rough old hag by now, isn’t she? I mean, she was bloody ropey in her younger days, so, Jeez . . . Did she try it on with you? Old habits die hard and all that.”

Then she giggled.

“She wasn’t in,” Jack lied. “I’m waiting—”

The ferry tannoy screeched and the announcer told passengers to make their way to their cars and get ready for disembarking in East Cowes. Laura clearly heard.

“Oh, my God, Jack.” She glanced around the squad room and lowered her voice. “You’re still at sea?”

“Don’t let Ridley know.”

Jack sighed heavily and he was sure she could hear the tension in his voice. She probably thought that Charlie had died unexpectedly suddenly, so he felt he had to correct her.

“No, Dad’s fine. Well, he’s not fine, but . . . They left on a world cruise this morning and, seeing as I was in Southampton anyway, I bought them lunch before they set off. It might be the last time I see him. I can’t tell Ridley that though, can I?”

“I reckon he’d understand, you know,” Laura empathized.

“I’m not taking the risk. I’ll be at Ester’s within the hour, and back by early evening.”