‘Jack.’

‘Let’s have a look at you. Yes, indeed, every inch the chief inspector.’

‘I’m not chief.’

‘I know that. Yer daft ape. I’m shoving my oar in early on, like.’

‘What can I say, Jack?’

Collingworth had to turn his head sideways to favour his right ear.

‘It’s a disgrace, that’s what it is! Not making chief! What the fuck happened? Sorry. Just let me …’ He fished in his pocket and pulled out 50p, which he tossed into a jar on the coffee-table. ‘Rita doesn’t like me swearing.’ The jar was more than half full.

‘Ah, you know me, Jack.’

‘Pigheaded?’

‘I never could play the game.’

‘Aye, the one thing I could never teach you. Well, come on, sit, sit, sit!’

Hobbes was guided to the settee. Collingworth returned to his armchair. It gave Hobbes a chance to appraise him. He was thin. The weight he used to carry around, the belly he used as a weapon of intimidation, was more or less all gone. He now looked empty of air, wrinkled around the jowls and cheeks. The fat had simply dissolved, leaving pockets of loose skin. Only his hair remained as it was in memory, still as thick, not one speck of a recede.

‘Don’t look at me like that, Henry. I know I look ill.’

Before Hobbes could respond, Rita came in carrying a tray with cups and a plate of cakes and biscuits.

‘Here she is, the love of my life. Did you know I got remarried?’

‘No, not at all. I’m happy for you. For you both.’

‘Best thing that ever happened to me.’

He pulled Rita to him and she perched on the arm of his chair. She was ten years younger than her husband, a good-looking woman with that ready smile, a dash of make-up and immaculately groomed hands. They looked perfectly matched. And Hobbes was suddenly aware that they’d dolled themselves up for his visit. The flat was spotless. Collingworth’s face gleamed fresh and pink from a recent shave. His hair glistened.

Hobbes sat there in his creased shirt and his threadbare socks. There was a hole in one of them.

Rita poured the tea and served refreshments. Hobbes’s slice of fruit cake was half the size he was used to. If he wasn’t careful, he’d swallow it in one.

‘Thank you. This is very nice.’

Collingworth slurped at his tea. ‘Did you have a good journey? How was the A299?’

‘I didn’t—’

‘You know we call it the Thanet Way? I’m guessing it was quiet, this time of year?’

‘I got the train, Jack.’

‘The train? No, no. I thought you’d have a driver, some keen detective constable out to prove himself.’

‘I had to read on the way.’

‘Do you remember I used to have you driving me everywhere? Especially when I’d had a few too many, eh.’

Collingworth laughed heartily. It took over his entire upper body and soon transformed itself into a racking cough. His tea spilled on to the carpet. Rita rubbed her husband’s back gently. ‘Now Jack, you know what the doctor said.’