Barry Warboys was standing by the ring, watching two young pros spar, an unlit cigar in his fist. The boxers in the ring only had a handful of fights between them. One of them, the tall rangy black kid, already had a loss on his record. The other one, a white kid who was smaller but wider and stronger, was having trouble with his hands. Their careers, in the hardest of professions, were under threat before they had really begun.

So they sparred furiously, loading up with heavy punches, trying to knock the other guy’s head off, both of them aware that they would know very soon if they were going to make a living at boxing, or if they were going to have to put the dream away forever.

I went over to Warboys, noticing his driver – Doherty – standing by the entrance to Smithfield ABC, still impeccably suited and gloved, magnificently out of place in a boxing gym.

Barry Warboys was watching the sparring with a horrible fascination. I stood by his side, remembering the photograph I had seen at the Black Museum, that black-and-white photograph of Paul Warboys in all his grinning pomp, posing in a boxing ring with a small boy wearing box-fresh shorts, vest and a pair of boxing gloves that were larger than his head.

I remembered the way the man and the boy both had their fists raised as if they were about to start fighting. I remembered Paul Warboys’ leering amusement. But most of all I remembered the terror on the face of his son, Barry.

‘This is the last place I expected to see you,’ I said.

Barry tore his eyes away from the sparring fighters.

‘I wanted to talk to you,’ he said. ‘But I didn’t want to come into your place of work. I trust that’s not a problem?’

‘Go ahead.’

‘You asked me about my father’s finances. And I couldn’t give you an answer because I didn’t know. But now I do.’ He looked back at the ring. ‘My father’s money has gone, Detective. He may have made a fortune with his brother, but it’s long gone.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because the bar my son ran owed everyone money, from the tax man to the company who supplied the beer. The Champagne Room was mortgaged to the hilt but that was only the start. My accountants are still going through the books, but I have seen a summary of the debts and they are in the high six figures.’

‘And why have you suddenly seen these figures?’

‘Because I’m the executor of my son’s estate. My father wasn’t Stephen’s next of kin. I am.’

I thought about it. ‘Do you know what long firm fraud is, Mr Warboys?’

‘No.’