He looked around the luxuriously furnished room, at the thick carpets, the coloured sheepskin rugs and expensive furniture and thought of his own small semi-detached house. A police dwelling on one of the less desirable slum clearance estates on the other side of the river where men like himself and their families lived in a state of perpetual siege.

The irrational anger which he was by now quite unable to control, bubbled out of him. ‘And look at this place. More like the waiting room of one of those Gascoigne Square knocking shops.’

‘You would know, presumably?’ Nick said.

His face had gone very white; had changed completely. The skin was clear and bloodless, the crisp hair in a point to the forehead, the eyes staring through Brady like glass.

They should have warned him, but Brady was long since past the point where reason had any say in the matter. He reached out, grabbing at the black tunic, the silk ripping in his hands and then pain coursed through him like liquid fire and he staggered, a cry rising in his throat as he swung on his right arm, quite helpless.

The pressure was released and he sagged to one knee, and almost at once the pain left him. He got to his feet, dazed, rubbing his right arm in an attempt to restore some feeling to numbed muscle and nerve and looked into the dark, devil’s face. Nick smiled gently.

‘You need brains for everything, even the heavy stuff, these days. You made a mistake, Dad. You weren’t the first and you won’t be the last, but don’t speak to me like that again. Next time I’ll throw you down the fire escape. Now get out – and that’s an order, Detective Constable Brady!’

Brady turned, wordless, and stumbled to the door. It closed behind him and Nick stood there listening to the sound of the feet descending the iron fire escape. He sighed heavily, and went into the bathroom.

He stripped the torn tunic from his body and stood looking into the mirror for a while, waiting for the coolness to thaw inside him. After a moment or two he laughed shakily, opened the glass fronted door of the shower cubicle and turned it on.

When he stepped out five minutes later and reached for a towel, he found his brother leaning in the door holding the torn tunic.

‘What happened?’

‘A difference of opinion, that’s all. Brady’s the sort who’s been around for a long time. He finds it difficult to get used to someone like me jumping the queue.’

Phil Miller tossed the tunic into a corner and swore softly. ‘Why go on, Nick? I could use you in the business right now. We’re developing all the time, you know that. Why waste yourself?’