“Good thought! Hardy would quickly notice that Chiqui carried a knife in his belt. The work of a moment to wait until you reach the Fitzwilliam then nick his knife, plunge it into exactly the right spot, as he’d been trained, wipe the handle and string the body up in the place you’d chosen. Wait until daylight—which would be early in, what was it? June? And nip back with your pocket Kodak. The resulting shot would swiftly make its way by post to the general, releasing the second half of the payment. The body remains unremarked until an inquisitive nurse on her way to work decides there’s a pulse that ought to be taken.”

“And when Ernest Jessup makes a nuisance of himself, the Fox-Gisbournes scratch their heads and say, ‘What was that number again? Let’s leave this to able Abel, shall we?’” MacFarlane speculated. “He became the useful tool, the recourse for the elimination of the rest of the group. Dickie was on the list, all right. Ratty would have followed.”

“Hardy didn’t flinch at the notion of killing his old mates.” Redfyre’s voice was not questioning; it was pronouncing judgement. A heavy judgement.

“Contracted killers don’t suffer from soft hearts, nostalgia or loyalty, lad.”

“No. I do rather wonder why he’s getting special attention from us, sir? Clearly a villain. Numberless crimes to his account. But all we have is his corpse. We can’t even hang him once, let alone a dozen times for his misdeeds.”

“You can only be a victim once, and it’s in this capacity that he’s of interest to me. Someone had his hands round his neck and squeezed. He may have deserved it, but I want to know whose hands they were and to be able to prove it. A confession will do.”

“All the same—an utter scoundrel and doubly shameful behaviour towards men he’d fought alongside! I’d say he got off lightly.” Redfyre’s voice was tight with indignation.

“And all to preserve the secret of whatever wickedness or shame Sydney Fox had been mired in during his posting in South Africa. His presumably ill-gotten cash was spent on acquiring further wealth, but also to launch his one and only precious son Digby onto an unsuspecting world. Politics! Every aspect of the lad’s life would be put under the microscope, and he’d be constantly in the public eye. He stood no chance—he’d be ruined if ever the story got out.”

“We only have Ratty’s word on that, sir. And when you spoke in Yorkshire, he didn’t claim to know the whole story. It must have been bad, wouldn’t you say, to have reverberations on another generation twenty-five years later?”

“Dickie Dunne will know.”

“And where the hell is he?” Redfyre asked, shrugging hopelessly.

“No sightings yet?”