Before she could answer, Chuck Lazer pushed through the crowd. ‘Leaving, General?’

Nick nodded. ‘It’s been sweet, but we’ve got to go.’

‘Mind if I string along? I’ve had enough of this wake.’

Nick turned to Jean with a grin. ‘A chaperon. That just about settles everything.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure,’ she said as he held her coat for her and, when they moved towards the door, they were laughing.

Faulkner moved round the desk and kicked Craig in the side. ‘Go on, get out!’

Craig scrambled away from him, dodging another blow, got to his feet and wrenched open the door. As it closed behind him, Faulkner went to the bar and poured himself another whisky. He emptied the glass in two swallows, coughing as the liquor burned its way into his stomach.

For some strange reason, Miller reminded him of his teacher at Dock Road Elementary, old Walter Street who’d had a hard war in the trenches in the first lot and walked with a limp.

He remembered the first time he’d met Street after leaving school. He was nineteen, already living on the earnings of three women, dressed up to the nines in the best money could buy. He’d been a mug, really, trying to come the big man and old Walter in his shabby trenchcoat had looked at him as if he were a lump of dung he’d be glad to scrape off his shoe.

He hurled the glass into the fireplace, moved across to the bedroom and opened the door. Bella was standing in front of the mirror by the bed, pulling the red dress over her head. The flame coloured slip she was wearing had lifted over her rounded haunches and white flesh gleamed at the top of a dark stocking.

‘What are you doing?’ he demanded hoarsely.

‘Ringing the changes. I’m wearing the black one next. Give me a hand, will you? This damned zip has broken.’

He stood beside her, reaching to pull the dress over her head, conscious of the warmth, the sweetness. He slid his hands under the armpits, cupping the full breasts, pulling her hard against him.

‘For God’s sake, Harry,’ she said impatiently. ‘There are a hundred and twenty people out there.’

As she turned, all the rage, all the anger and frustration boiled over and he slapped her across the face. ‘Don’t tell me what to do!’ he shouted. ‘I’m Harry Faulkner, understand? And you’re my wife and you’ll do whatever I say!’

She started to back away, fear on her face, and the sight of it made the blood race through his veins like fire. He grabbed for the neck of the slip, ripping it from top to bottom and she staggered, falling back across the bed.