Grace nodded. He’d always hated corrupt police officers and was intrigued to know more as to why Guy Batchelor had become corrupt himself. He was now paying a terrible price. Life gave you second chances for most screw-ups you made. But killing a fellow human being was crossing the Rubicon.

Then an old saying he had once read came to his mind: Before you judge a man, walk a mile in his shoes.

Pulling up a chair opposite Guy, he sat down.

‘Honestly, boss, I’m gobsmacked you actually came.’

Grace shrugged. ‘Guy, I’m not condoning anything you’ve done, by this visit. But I do know shit can happen to any of us, at any time. Who was it who said that we are all just one pay cheque away from being homeless? Anyway, it took a while to organize but I’m here now.’

It was good to see Guy smile, he thought. And that smile momentarily dropped the decade from his face.

Batchelor raised his arms expansively. ‘Sorry I can’t offer you a drink, boss. Sort of got limited facilities here.’

It was Grace’s turn to smile. Then, serious, he said, ‘So, tell me? Good cryptic clue by the way.’

‘Figured you would get it.’

‘Actually, Cleo did.’

Batchelor tilted his head and said wryly, ‘Not losing your touch, are you?’

‘Want to end up in a Cat A prison or do you want to tell me about my good friend, Mr Church Bench?’ Grace said, with mock severity.

‘I’ll go for the second option.’

‘Thought you might.’

‘OK – when I was in Lewes prison, in a tastefully furnished double room with en-suite bog, last redecorated circa 1890, I had a cellmate who, like myself, had never been inside before. He was a very charming Indian man, a stockbroker with a small London City firm. As you can imagine, we had many hours, especially because of staff shortages, in which we were locked in the cell with nothing to do except read, watch television or chinwag.’

Grace nodded.

‘He liked to talk. When I went in, I’d tried to keep it quiet that I’d been in the police, obviously, but it was common knowledge before I’d even arrived. My cell buddy – I won’t give you his full name, let’s just call him Raj – told me he’d become friendly with a senior copper in the Met a few years back. At the time this officer had been with the Serious Fraud Office and they were investigating a wealthy client of Raj’s firm who had alleged links with organized crime. Anyhow, those links turned out to be unprovable and the investigation was dropped. But, in the interim, Raj had struck up a friendship with the Met detective.’

‘Whose name I might possibly know?’

‘Quite possibly.’ Guy gave a thin smile. ‘Raj slipped a few insider-trading tips to said officer, enabling him to amass considerable personal wealth. Quite illegally. Raj’s firm, a relative minnow by City standards, had outperformed the stock market for their clients for several years – through this insider trading practice.’