The girl shrugged. ‘I’m supposed to be waiting for somebody.’ She had an accent that was a combination of Liverpool and Irish and not unpleasant.

‘Anyone special?’

‘My fiancé.’

Faulkner chuckled. ‘Fiancé’s are only of secondary importance. I should know. I’m one myself.’

‘Is that a fact?’ the girl said.

Her handbag was lying on the bar, a large and ostentatious letter G in one corner bright against the shiny black plastic. Faulkner picked it up and looked at her enquiringly.

‘G for …?’

‘Grace.’

‘How delightfully apt. Well, G for Grace, my friend and I are going on to a party. It occurred to me that you might like to come with us.’

‘What kind of a party?’

Faulkner nodded towards Morgan. ‘Let’s put it this way. He’s dressed for it, I’m not.’

The girl didn’t even smile. ‘Sounds like fun. All right, Harold can do without it tonight. He should have been here at seven-thirty anyway.’

‘But you weren’t here yourself at seven-thirty, were you?’

She frowned in some surprise. ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘A girl after my own heart.’ Faulkner took her by the elbow and moved towards Morgan, who grinned wryly.

‘I’m Jack and he’s Bruno. He won’t have told you that.

She raised an eyebrow. ‘How did you know?’

‘Experience … mostly painful.’

‘We can talk in the car,’ Faulkner said. ‘Now let’s get moving.’

As they turned to the door, it opened and a young man entered, his hands pushed into the pockets of a hip-length tweed coat with a cheap fur collar. He had a narrow white face, long dark hair and a mouth that seemed to be twisted into an expression of perpetual sullenness.

He hesitated, frowning, then looked enquiringly at the girl. ‘What gives?’

Grace shrugged. ‘Sorry, Harold, you’re too late. I’ve made other arrangements.’

She took a single step forward and he grabbed her arm. ‘What’s the bloody game?’

Faulkner pulled him away with ease. ‘Hands off, sonny.’

Harold turned in blind rage and swung one wild punch that might have done some damage had it ever landed. Faulkner blocked the arm, then grabbed the young man’s hand in an aikido grip and forced him to the ground, his face remaining perfectly calm.

‘Down you go, there’s a good dog.’

Grace started to laugh and Harry Meadows came round the bar fast.

‘That’s enough, Mr Faulkner. That’s enough.’

Faulkner released him and Harold scrambled to his feet, face twisted with pain, something close to tears in his eyes.

‘Go on then, you cow,’ he shouted. ‘Get out of it. I never want to see you again.’

Grace shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’

Faulkner took her by the arm and they went out laughing. Morgan turned to Meadows, his face grave. ‘I’m sorry about that.’