Limmington raised one eyebrow and sipped his tea to give himself more time before answering. All the time he was thinking, Why pick on a DI? Why me? He could smell a dead dog before it was stinking.

The man before him seemed nonplussed at his lack of response. Harry Limmington enjoyed the sensation he was creating.

‘I want you to give everything you collect on them to me, me personally. I think that between us we can nail them.’

‘You do?’ The two words were spoken low.

The man smiled now, happy to have a response.

‘I certainly do. I think you should know, though I have a shrewd idea you already do, that the Cavanaghs have ears in all departments. They know everything, or at least their aunt does, before you can say knife. To catch them we will have to get up very early in the morning, very early indeed. But you look like an early riser to me.’

Limmington smiled back then. A slow smile.

‘I think I get your drift, sir.’

The man rubbed those large hands together and smiled back. ‘All their big friends are getting cold feet these days, you know. The Cavanaghs are making a lot of enemies and now their so-called friends want them off the streets almost as much as we do. But it has to be done diplomatically, which is where you come in.’

Harry Limmington settled back in his chair then. Even his fear of breaking the porcelain tea cups deserted him. He knew what he was here for now, and the knowledge was like balm to him. He didn’t care how many big, well-heeled arses he had to save in his quest to get the Cavanaghs. He wanted them so badly he could taste it. Now it seemed they were within his reach.

Henry Dumas had expired at the select Sunnyside Nursing Home in Torquay, his wife and son with him. Albeit not so much from choice as for appearance’s sake. Now Benedict and his wife sat in the lawyer’s office with his mother, waiting for the final reading of the will.

Isabel, looking younger since her husband’s death, sat with her hands clasped in her lap, wishing this was all already over.

Mr Otterbaum the solicitor looked at the three of them over his pince nez and took a deep breath.

‘This will was made in 1951. It’s short and to the point. Your husband was never a man of many words, Mrs Dumas, as I’m sure you know.’

Isabel nodded slightly, thinking, Get on with it, you silly old fool. Before it occurred to her the man was younger than she was.

‘“I, Henry Dumas, being of sound mind and body, leave everything I possess to my natural son Benedict. He can see to his mother as he sees fit.”’

The three people sat up straight in their chairs, outraged expressions on their faces.