‘One of these days, Delia, I’m gonna tell your precious family about the way you treat that kid. I’ll tell them all about your little act, good old Delia, mother of the year. Now feed the child, for fuck’s sake, and let me get some peace. I’ve work to do this afternoon.’

She looked into the long-haired, bearded face before her and bit her lip to stop the tears.

She knew what his work was this afternoon, what it was nearly every afternoon. Hanging around the ’Dilly trying to look like he was somebody, selling a bit of this, trying a bit of that, and ending up in bed with some little tart in a cheesecloth top with no bra.

Gathering up all the spittle she could in her drug-coated mouth, she spat into his face.

Then the fight really started.

Detective Inspector Limmington was sitting in the offices of the Home Secretary. His hands were nervously picking at bits of lint, real or imagined, on his good black suit, which last saw the light at his son’s funeral. His only son had died during National Service, one of those freak accidents that mean nothing to anyone but the victim’s parents and the people who witness it.

A woman of indeterminate age smiled at him from behind a large desk and said, ‘You can go in now.’

Harry Limmington walked through the doorway to the right of him and closed the door quietly. The large man behind the desk offered him a seat and Harry sat down, listening to him finish his telephone call.

‘OK ... Yes ... OK then, I’ll be there at about eight-thirty ... Yes, usual place, the Lords’ Bar.’

He broke the connection and smiled widely at the tall, grey-haired man before him. Standing up he held out a large hand, not a gentleman’s hand, more a workman’s. That first impression stayed with Limmington.

‘Sorry to keep you, old chap, a bit of urgent business. Now, can I offer you a drink? Coffee, tea, something stronger?’

Limmington smiled. ‘Tea would be good, thanks, sir.’

The man pressed a button on his telephone and said: ‘Tea please, Miss Pritchard, for two.’

Limmington wondered how often he had tea for one when he had appointments. The man in front of him, despite all his good-humoured camaraderie, looked capable of it. For that reason Limmington was glad he was on the right side of him. He’d seen him on television countless times and now he was with him, was even more aware of the power that emanated from him.

They chatted about nothing ’til the tea was served to them, a weak brew in paper-thin cups that Limmington was not sure he really wanted to hold. Then, when Miss Pritchard shut the door, the man before him grinned.

‘You want the Cavanaghs, I want the Cavanaghs. I think we could help one another there.’