When Ridley was eventually allowed in, he held up the DNA results in his hand.

“It is Mike Withey.”

Raeburn couldn’t hide her bemusement. “So, Mike Withey, an ex-police officer from this station, was murdered and then disposed of in an arson attack at Rose Cottage, surrounded by an estimated one point eight million in burnt fivers and tenners, less than one mile from the biggest train robbery in UK history. Have I forgotten anything?”

“Rose Cottage belonged to Norma Walker, who was also an ex-cop. Mounted division.”

“I don’t need to tell you how delicate this is. I know I can trust your team, as I trust you, but bloody hell, Simon, remind them, and then remind them again, that this cannot get out.”

Ridley nodded his understanding.

“Right,” Raeburn continued, “how can I help?”

Ridley explained, in his usual to-the-letter way, exactly what he was going to do and in what order. It was only when he mentioned the possible angle of Norma and Mike being “privately known to each other” back in 1995 that Raeburn held her hand up.

“Norma was gay. She kept it very quiet—no other option in the eighties. In ’89, she was injured in the line of duty. It was serious. Her next of kin was contacted—Amelie, I think her name was. I had to liaise for a time and, well . . . You only had to see her at Norma’s bedside to know they were in love. Norma spilled the beans and I said that it didn’t make the blindest bit of bloody difference. Norma and Mike could still have known each other, of course. But, I have to say, I’d be very surprised if Norma had anything to do with your train robbery. I’d assume Mike’s personal connections to London’s lowlife are a better angle of inquiry. Follow the evidence though, Simon . . . I’ve been surprised before.”

“That’s Sam,” Julia said when she returned to the conservatory with a fresh pot of tea. Jack stood by the window, watching Sam teach a younger boy how to play keepy-uppy. “He’s 8 and has scars like you wouldn’t believe, outside and in. His instinct is to fight anyone bigger and teach football to anyone smaller. Battling against the man he’s meant to be and yearning for the kid he never was.”

“He looks happy.”

As Jack poured tea for them both, his mobile buzzed. A text message from Ridley:

In confidence—ID is Mike Withey. Informing family now. No private connection to Norma, as she was a lesbian.

Jack tried to hide his grin. He knew for a fact that Ridley would have agonized over whether to type the word “lesbian” or “gay.” He might even have googled the most PC phrasing.

Jack handed Julia her tea and then excused himself to go to the bathroom.

He perched on the wash basin, reread the content of Ridley’s text, and suddenly felt like he was definitely wasting his time with these bloody Grange women. He should be back at the nick, with his team, looking for a bunch of dodgy coppers with connections to hired hands with enough balls to do a train robbery and kill one of their own.