‘You were the instigator of your own child’s father’s death. You was also the cause of your father and your cousins being locked up and charged with murder. I for one won’t forgive that fact lightly. Neither will your mother or your father, or indeed your cousins. So take my advice, girl, get your act together, and soon. Think on what I said, and tell the police exactly what I told you. Act dumb, in shock. Tell them that Jimmy was a dealer with many enemies. He was always tucking people up. Only you can get your father out of the shit you dropped him in. Only you. Right?’

Delia nodded, her eyes fearful and full of tears.

Briony felt no compassion for her whatsoever. In fact, it wouldn’t have taken much for her to give Delia a blow that would leave her ears ringing for days after.

She didn’t trust her niece. That fact, on top of everything else, saddened her more than anything.

‘What do you mean, the evidence has gone walkabout?’ Limmington’s voice was high with disbelief.

‘What I say, Mr Limmington sir. The pickaxe handle is gone. The back of the Rolls-Royce has been scrubbed clean as a nun’s tits, and that’s that.’

‘What do you mean, that’s that?’

Limmington was beginning to wonder if the young man in front of him had lost a few marbles.

The young detective sighed. He had not wanted this job, knew he would have to take the flak, and it annoyed him.

‘You know the pickaxe handle, sir? The one used by the Cavanaghs to murder Jimmy Sellars?’

Limmington nodded.

‘Well, at some time between late last night and early this morning, it disappeared from the evidence cupboard. Along with all the records and files. It’s as if it never, ever existed. We have no pickaxe, no records, we have nothing on the Cavanaghs whatsoever. Or Mr Dowling for that matter.’

‘But I personally put that pickaxe into evidence myself. I ain’t having this. I’m going to see the Super!’

The PC nodded imperceptibly as if expecting this. ‘He’s waiting for you, sir.’

Harry Limmington stormed through the building, his whole body tense with shock and disbelief. He walked into the Super’s office without knocking, something he had never done in his life.

‘Ah, Limmington, in you come.’ Chief Superintendent Christopher Whiteside’s voice was friendly and calm. ‘Sit yourself down, man. Bad business this. A very bad business. I’m looking into it personally, you can be assured of that.’

Harry Limmington felt his heart sink down to somewhere in the region of his clean nylon socks.

‘I placed that pickaxe into evidence myself, sir. I signed for it. I feel we can still charge the Cavanaghs with murder. I am quite willing to take the stand myself and explain their skulduggery to whoever happens to want to listen.’