Patrick threw himself at the other man, catching Winkler off balance so they both tumbled to the floor. Patrick rolled on top and grabbed Winkler’s shirtfront again, getting a fistful of chest hair.

Winkler cried out and brought his knees up fast, connecting with Patrick’s thigh. Patrick loosened his grip and Winkler pulled away, getting up into a crouching position and aiming a punch at Patrick’s ear. Pain seared across his head but he was able to block the second punch, balling his own fists, ready to throw a punch of his own.

He felt hands on his upper arms, pulling him backwards, shouts, Carmella whispering to him, though he couldn’t hear what she was saying through the roar in his ears. Two other cops had grabbed Winkler and were pulling him off.

‘What the hell?’

It was Suzanne. From Patrick’s place on the floor she appeared eight feet tall.

‘Get up. Both of you.’

Patrick slowly pushed himself to his feet, panting, and Winkler did the same. With one hand, Winkler held his gaping shirt together; with the other he jabbed a finger towards Patrick.

‘This dick attacked me.’

Patrick counted to five in his head. He wasn’t going to sink to the level of a schoolboy. But he felt like one when Suzanne snapped, ‘Both of you. In my office, now.’

As soon as the door shut behind them, Suzanne demanded, ‘What the hell was going on out there?’

Winkler said in a loud voice, ‘Lennon went for me, ma’am. He grabbed me, pushed me to the floor, attacked a fellow . . .’

‘Why?’ she interrupted.

Taken aback, Winkler said, ‘Huh?’

‘Why did he do that? I am guessing he had a very good reason.’

Winkler’s expression shifted. ‘Oh, I see. Taking the side of your boyfriend. I should have fucking known.’

‘Shut up,’ Suzanne shouted. ‘I am sick of listening to you.’

Winkler looked like a dog who’d been told off for trying to steal its master’s dinner.

‘Patrick, tell me what happened.’

He explained, as calmly and evenly as he could manage, about Winkler’s refusal to hand over the log-in to Helen’s Facebook account.

‘Give it to him,’ she ordered Winkler, who sighed and huffed before finally scribbling it down on a piece of paper and holding it out so Patrick could take it without the two men having to look at each other.

‘This,’ Suzanne said, gesturing to the two of them, ‘is to be continued. I can’t have two colleagues on the MIT acting like bloody Tom and Jerry. But right now, there are more important things to concentrate on. Adrian, go home, change your shirt, then get back here. Patrick, sit down.’

Winkler left the room, grumbling to himself.

As soon as he’d left, Patrick said, ‘Which one am I?’

‘What?’

‘Tom or Jerry?’

She didn’t smile, so he quickly rearranged his own face.