“The training. My uncle Herbert and my father. When I was young they used to teach me self-preservation, army-style. How to kill before you were killed. I never thought I’d use such skills in earnest. But my fingers hadn’t forgotten.” He extended a pair of oarsman’s hands, and Redfyre inspected the wide span and muscular thumbs. “My thumbs knew where to go. I’m pretty strong, Inspector, and I squeezed hard. It was surprisingly quick. Uncle Herbert taught me to count to thirty, to be sure. But by twenty, Hardy was sagging weightily against me, and I knew he was dead.”

“And Dunne? What was he doing the while?”

“Trying to stop me! Shouting in my ear. When Hardy’s body slumped down on the carpet, he put an arm under my shoulders and helped me into a chair. He found the drink I’d poured for myself just before this burst over us and made me drink it down. He told me it was all right, I’d done the right thing, the only thing. That the man I’d just killed was a verminous rat who deserved what he’d got several times over. If I hadn’t done it, he would have. Either way, Hardy was not going to leave that room alive. ‘Listen, lad,’ he said, ‘I’ve a story to tell you.’ It wasn’t the story I’d heard from my father, and I didn’t believe the half of it, but after what’s just happened in London . . . I know the captain had it right.”

“What’s just happened in London?” Redfyre hardly dared ask.

“My father died yesterday. You’ll note I came as soon as I could.”

“I’ve noted that you presented yourself for questioning twenty-four days after the murder occurred,” Redfyre said coldly.

“Has it been that long? Really? Well, anyhow, I was with my father when he expired. No—don’t slow me down with condolences that are neither required nor appropriate. You knew he was dying. That’s why I went underground. I wanted to be sure that my father was dead and well beyond police attention before I spoke out. I wasn’t having him drawing his last breath in a prison cell.