It was just after ten on the following morning and Max Vernon was having a late breakfast at a small table in front of the fire when there was a knock on the door and Carver came in.

‘Now what?’ Vernon demanded irritably.

Carver held up a large and very beautiful wreath of white lilies without a word.

‘What is it, for God’s sake?’

‘It’s the wreath you told me to get for the Craig girl’s funeral. The one I had delivered yesterday. The porter’s just found it pinned to the private door in the alley.’

‘Has he now?’ Vernon said softly.

‘But that’s not all, Max,’ Carver said. ‘This came with it.’

Vernon took the small pasteboard card that Carver offered and held it up to the light. It was edged in black and the inscription was simple and to the point. In memory of Maxwell Vernon. 1929–1967. R.I.P.

8

Miller came awake slowly and stared up at the ceiling through the early morning gloom. He checked his watch. It was just coming up to six and then he remembered that he was on a rest day. He gave a sigh of pleasure and turned over.

The outside door opened suddenly and as he struggled up on one elbow, there was laughter and the pounding of feet across the floor of the lounge. A moment later, the bedroom door was flung open and his nephews erupted into the room, a large and very eager Airedale leading the way.

The dog scrambled onto the bed and Miller shoved it away with a curse. ‘Get down, you brute.’

Tommy was eight and Roger ten and they moved in on him from both sides gurgling with laughter. ‘Come on, Uncle Nick, we’re taking Fritz to the park for a run.’

‘Not with me you aren’t,’ Miller said, hitching the blankets over his shoulders.

‘Uncle Nick, you promised.’

‘When?’

‘Oh, ages ago.’

Fritz leapt clear across the bed and circled the room briskly and Miller sighed. ‘All right, I know when I’m beaten. But get that brute out of here. You can wait for me in the yard.’

After they had gone, he went into the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face and dressed quickly in cord slacks, polo necked sweater and suede boots. He lit a cigarette and went outside.

His brother’s house stood in two acres of garden, a large Victorian villa in grey Yorkshire stone, and Miller’s flat was above the garage block at the rear. As he went down the fire escape, an engine roared into life inside the garage and the Mini-Cooper reversed into the yard.

Tommy and Fritz were in the rear, Roger at the wheel and Miller opened the door quickly and pushed him into the passenger seat. ‘Don’t you ever let your mother catch you doing that,’ he said. ‘You’ll get me shot.’