Splash.

And then his voice took on a melodious tone. ‘Sweet Thames run softly, till I end my song.’ He smiled, showing crooked teeth. ‘Poetry, Henry. Your kind of thing, I seem to recall.’

Hobbes took a step back. He tried to reconcile what he’d just heard with what he knew of the facts. George Collingworth was Jack’s son. He died in September 1962, a victim of a street brawl outside the Blind Beggar pub in Whitechapel. Beaten to death, his wallet taken. Someone spat in his face as the blood flowed. He was eighteen years old.

Collingworth was still standing there, his face turned away. Hobbes had no clue what he was thinking.

‘Jack, come on. Let’s have a sit-down, eh? Take the weight off.’

Collingworth responded, but in the strangest and most unexpected way. He turned and stepped towards Hobbes and, without any warning or sign, he attacked him. It was a pitiful assault, all told, but it came as such a surprise that Hobbes was caught off guard. There was a brief struggle, if it could be called that. It was all over in a few seconds, Collingworth’s fists flailing about, hardly hitting any target. And then he half collapsed, the wind gone out of him.

Hobbes was now holding his former boss up, his hands under the shoulders.

Without him, Collingworth would have slid to the floor.

‘Fuck it. Fuck it all to Hell and back.’

Spat out, whispered.

Not a single coin entered the swear jar.

Hobbes steered him back to the armchair. He looked around and saw a small cocktail bar in the corner of the room. He chose a brandy and poured it into a glass. Collingworth sipped, then took a bigger gulp. ‘Christ, you’re seeing me at my worst.’

‘Yeah, I know that. But you’re a strong bugger. That hasn’t changed, has it? Eh?’

Collingworth nodded. He finished the brandy in a mouthful. ‘What is it you want?’

Hobbes remained standing. He said. ‘There was a film you used to watch. Your son was in it. He was an actor.’

‘I know the one.’

‘Jack, this is going to sound weird, but do you still have that film?’

There was no response.

Hobbes went on, ‘We found it during the raid on the cinema that day, when we first met. It was stashed with a pile of porn movies.’

Collingworth winced.

‘But it wasn’t a dirty film, was it? It was something else. A proper movie. A story, a drama. But made by the same director as the skin flicks.’

A single nod in reply.

Hobbes stepped closer. ‘I know you used to watch it quite a bit. And later on, when we knew each other, you told me the story of it, and of your son.’

Collingworth stirred in his seat. ‘You think this connects to a current case?’

‘I’m sure of it, Jack. It’s a homicide. A man in his sixties, beaten to death in a park. Truth is, I’m getting nowhere. There might be another victim, an earlier death.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m just not sure.’