He glanced over at his car and for the first time I noticed his wife huddled deep in the back seat, her face hidden behind dark glasses, and so impassive that she could have been sleeping or dead.

‘I should go,’ he said. ‘My wife. The doctor gave her something and … Look, I don’t wish to be rude, but I’ve already spoken to one of your colleagues.’

‘I’m not here about the death of your son,’ I said. ‘That investigation is being conducted by detectives from Essex Police. I’m part of an ongoing investigation into a smuggling operation that led to the death of twelve young women.’

He looked genuinely shocked. He dragged on his cigar and then grimaced with distaste.

‘Stephen was a petty criminal,’ he said. ‘I am well aware that he was no angel. But do you really think he was involved in something like that?’

It was a genuine question. And a novel experience for me. In the criminal world, what you usually hear are protestations of innocence. You hear men with blood up to their elbows swearing on their dead mother that they would never harm a fly. So I was shocked to hear Barry Warboys even consider the possibility that his son had been in the people-smuggling business.

‘It’s one lead we’re following,’ I said. ‘We know of at least one lorry that was due to drop off its cargo of illegals in this car park.’

He thought about it. Then shook his head, dismissing the idea.

‘Stephen was not some criminal mastermind,’ he said.

‘Neither were the people who smuggled those girls,’ I said. ‘They were stupid, vicious little villains.’

Just like your son, I thought, as he looked at me sharply. Then he softened.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I just can’t believe it.’

‘Any idea who would want to burn this place down?’

He did not smile but some black brand of humour flickered for a moment in his eyes.

‘I think the obvious candidate is Stephen himself,’ he said. ‘What’s the expression? He had form.’

‘You think this was an insurance scam? The usual idea is that you torch the building but not yourself.’

He looked at me with real anger. And then it faded. Anger did not come easily to him and he did not relish the feeling. Perhaps he had seen too much of it growing up with Paul Warboys as his father.

‘I don’t know what happened. None of it makes any sense. And, to be frank, finding out the truth will not bring my son back.’ He looked over at the car. ‘With you in a moment, Mr Doherty,’ he said, and the chauffeur slipped into the driver’s seat, his leather gloves at ten to two on the steering wheel. Then Barry Warboys turned back to me.