‘My guess would be – anything,’ he said.

We watched the boxers for a while without speaking. They were both very tired now.

‘A room in one of your homes,’ I said. ‘How much would something like that cost?’

‘Retirement communities,’ he said. ‘We have several financial packages that we find suit most incomes. Did you have a guest in mind?’

‘You call them guests?’

‘Yes.’

‘And do you take people who are unwell? You know – struggling to remember things?’

He leaned on the side of the ring.

‘We take anyone,’ he said. ‘Is this a member of your family?’

‘The grandmother of a friend,’ I said.

Barry Warboys gave me his card.

Golden Years

Residential and retirement communities

Elderly care for every pocket.

There was a personal mobile number on the card.

‘Tell your friend to call me,’ he said.

The black boxer bounced off the ropes and walked straight on to a hard right cross that caught him on the point of his chin. He was unconscious before he hit the floor. The white boxer stared at him, dumbstruck with shock.

Then Fred was in the ring, kneeling over the floored fighter, pulling out the gumshield to stop him swallowing it, shouting for Nesha to call an ambulance.

I saw that Barry Warboys was trembling.

‘Will he be all right?’ he said.

‘He’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘But that ring is not for everyone.’

He nodded.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘And if it’s not for you, then it’s the loneliest place in the world.’

23

The white ten-ton truck came hurtling towards us, the morning sunshine turning the windscreen a solid block of molten gold, the growl of its diesel engine growing louder as it picked up speed in the wide-open space of the landing strip.

The abandoned aerodrome was on the north-west edge of London but it could have been the middle of the countryside. There was a lake on one side, shimmering with a thin film of ice, and nothing but flat fields on the other side, all edged with trees that grew close enough together to keep out prying eyes. The big engine howled like a trapped animal as the driver changed gears. The truck wobbled in protest but kept coming towards us.

‘Where’s this one from?’ asked the bespectacled man standing with us, his eyes never leaving the truck.

‘We seized it from a crew who were bringing in counterfeit money inside kitchen appliances,’ I said.

‘Not the vehicle,’ the man said. ‘The driver.’

The sun was suddenly gone from the windscreen and Billy Greene’s face appeared behind the steering wheel, holding on as if it might possibly fly from his grip.

‘PC Greene is one of our detectives,’ Whitestone said.

‘Better stand back a bit,’ said the man.