Without changing the tempo, Lazer moved into ‘How High the Moon’ and Nick, challenged by the brilliant phrasing, countered with a rhythm pattern that had the American crying out in delight, head thrown back.

His hands found a richer theme and Nick balanced with an intricate series of chords, dissolving into an eight-bar break that left his arms aching. He started to slow and Lazer followed him, down to the valley after the mountaintop, the quiet places where they finally faded in a minor key.

People were applauding all around and Lazer grinned, his eyes shining feverishly. ‘You’ve been there, General. You’ve been there.’

Jean pushed through the crowd, her face glowing with surprise, and reached out to take his hand as he got to his feet. ‘One of my minor vices,’ Nick said with a grin. ‘Are you ready to go?’

There was a slight tap on his shoulder and he turned to find Craig standing there, a polite, remote smile on the craggy face.

‘Mr Faulkner’s compliments, sir. If you’d be kind enough to follow me, I’ll take you to him. He’d like a few words before you leave.’

15

Although Nick had never met Harry Faulkner personally, he had seen him at a distance on many occasions and knew that his brother met him now and then at clubs of the sort frequented by the wealthier businessmen of the town.

Respectable businessman with wide interests, philanthropist, sportsman, chairman of several charities. That was the image he liked to cultivate. Harry Faulkner had come a long way from the riverside slum where he’d first seen the light of day and he wore his possessions for all to see, like the fresh gardenia in his buttonhole daily, his house in St Martin’s Wood, his cars, his beautiful young wife.

And he had won all these things, his position in society, by breaking the law or, at least, by using it for his own ends. All his life he had worked on the fringe of the underworld, using his brains to make others do the things he wouldn’t do himself, always careful so that whatever happened, whatever went wrong, nothing could touch Harry Faulkner.

He was sitting at the desk in his study when Nick was shown in, a stockily built man of middle height who carried his sixty years lightly. Even the iron grey hair somehow gave an impression of force and vitality.

Craig withdrew and Faulkner got to his feet and came round the desk, hand outstretched, a pleasant smile on his face. ‘So you’re Nick. I’ve heard a lot about you. Play golf at the club with your brother regularly.’

‘Is that so?’ Nick said.

‘How about a drink? Whisky all right?’

‘Irish if you have it.’