Michelle had eaten a curry the previous evening, and though it hadn’t given her “Delhi belly,” it had made its presence felt during the night. She wanted something plain, something unencumbered with fancy sauces, something British.

The waitress returned with her Britvic orange and Lancaster’s Guinness and asked them for their orders.

“I’ll have the Cumberland sausage and mashed potatoes, please,” Michelle said. And diet be damned, she added under her breath. Lancaster ordered the roast beef.

“Bangers and mash,” he said, beaming, when the waitress had wandered off. “Wonderful. One doesn’t often meet people who go for the more traditional food these days. It’s all that nasty foreign muck, isn’t it?”

“I don’t mind a bit of pasta or a curry now and then,” said Michelle, “but sometimes you can’t beat the traditional English.”

Lancaster paused for a few moments, drumming his fingers on the table. Michelle could sense him changing gear, from old-fashioned gallant to seasoned street copper, wondering what she was after and whether it could harm him. She could see it in his eyes, their gaze sharpening, becoming more watchful. She wanted to set him at ease but decided it was best to let him lead, see where it went. At first.

“The bloke that put you on to me said you wanted to know about Reggie and Ronnie.”

There, they were out. The dreaded words. Reggie and Ronnie: The Krays.

“Sort of,” Michelle said. “But let me explain.”

Lancaster listened, taking the occasional sip of Guinness, nodding here and there, as Michelle told him about the Marshalls and what had happened to Graham.

“So, you see,” she finished, “it’s not really the twins, or not just them, anyway, that I’m interested in.”

“Yes, I see,” said Lancaster, drumming his fingers again. Their food arrived and they both took a few bites before he spoke again. “How’s your sausage?” he asked.

“Fine,” said Michelle, wondering if he was going to be any use at all or if it was going to be one of these pleasant but pointless sessions.

“Good. Good. I knew Billy Marshall and his family,” said Lancaster. Then he stuffed his mouth full of roast beef and mashed potato and looked at Michelle, eyes wide and expressionless as he chewed, watching for her reaction. She was surprised, and she was also pleased that the information Banks had given her led somewhere, although she still had no idea where.

“Billy and I grew up just around the corner from one another. We went to the same schools, played on the same streets. We even used to drink in the same pub,” he went on when he’d washed his food down with Guinness. “Does that surprise you?”

“A bit, I suppose. Though, I must say, not much about those days surprises me anymore.”

Lancaster laughed. “You’re right there, love. Another world. See, you’ve got to understand where detectives came from, Michelle. Can I call you Michelle?”

“Of course.”

“The first detectives came from the criminal classes. They were equally at home on either side of the law. Jonathan Wild, the famous thief-taker, for example. Half the time he set up the blokes he fingered. Did you know that? They hanged him in the end. And Vidocq, the Frog-gie? Thief, police informer, master of disguise. Criminal. And back then, the days you’re asking about, I think we were a bit closer to our prototypes than the office boys we seem to have in the force today, if you’ll pardon my criticism. Now, I’m not saying I was ever a criminal myself, but I lived close enough to the line at times to know what a thin line it is, and I was also close enough to know how they thought. And do you imagine for a moment those on the other side didn’t know that, too?”