Narcia Place lay in an area that provided the local police force with one of its biggest headaches. The streets followed each other upon a pattern that was so exact as to be almost macabre. Sooty plane trees and solid terrace houses, once the homes of the lower middle classes on their way up, but now in multiple occupation due to an influx of immigrants since the war. Most of the whites had left. Those who found it impossible stayed and hated.

It was almost 12.15 when Jack Brady arrived in a Panda car provided by the local station. The whole street was dark and still in the heavy rain and when he rapped the old-fashioned cast-iron knocker on the door of number ten there was no immediate response. The driver of the Panda car vanished into the entry that led to the back yard without a word and Brady tried again.

It was at least five minutes before a window was pushed up above his head and a voice called, ‘What the hell you think you’re playing at this time in the morning?’

‘Police,’ Brady replied. ‘Open up and be sharp about it. I haven’t got all night.’

The window went down and the driver of the Panda car emerged from the entry. ‘Any joy?’

‘Just stuck his head out of the window,’ Brady said. ‘Get round to the back yard, just in case he tries to scarper.’

But there was no need for at that moment, the bolt was drawn and the front door opened. Brady pushed it back quickly and went in. ‘Harold Phillips?’

‘That’s me – what is this?’

His feet were bare and he wore an old raincoat. Brady looked him over in silence and Harold swallowed, his black eyes flickering restlessly. He looked hunted and was very obviously scared.

Brady smiled in an avuncular manner and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you, son. I understand you’re engaged to be married to a Miss Grace Packard?’

‘That’s right.’ Harold went very still. ‘What’s happened? She been in an accident or something?’

‘Worse than that, son. She was found dead earlier tonight in an alley called Dob Court on the other side of Jubilee Park.’

Harold stared at him for a long moment, then started to puke. He got a hand to his mouth, turned and fled into the kitchen. Brady found him leaning over the sink, a hand on the cold water tap.

After a while Harold turned, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand. ‘How did it happen?’

‘We’re not certain. At the moment it looks as if her neck was broken.’

‘The Rainlover?’ The words were almost a whisper.

‘Could be.’

‘Oh, my God.’ Harold clenched a fist convulsively. ‘I had a date with her tonight. We were supposed to be going dancing.’

‘What went wrong?’