There was a second sheet promoting an upcoming poker game called the ‘Las Vegas Platinum Tournament’: the buy-in was £1,000 per player and the minimum guaranteed first prize was £35,000. The sheet showed an attractive young blonde dealer in a low-cut top, leaning over a poker table where stacked bundles of ten pound notes were piled up. She was flanked on either side by hard-eyed bouncers in tuxedos, protecting the money.

Beth said: ‘Surely he’s not going back home to play poker at a time like this?’

‘Your husband’s a very good player. Calm, sharp, great instincts. He reads people brilliantly.’ Including me. I looked at the picture for a long moment before handing the letter back to her. ‘But no, I don’t think he’s gone back to play poker.’

‘What do you mean?’

I took out my wallet and unfolded the Post-it note from Ben’s study.

STEB?

Only it wasn’t one word. Now that I looked at it again, more closely, the space between the third and fourth letters was slightly larger than the rest.

STE B?

Not one word. A first name and an initial.

The world froze for a second as I made the connection.

Two is one, one is none.

An old story in the Sunderland Echo.

‘This guy,’ I tapped the picture of the larger bouncer in the picture, Celtic tattoos climbing up his neck, ‘is called Steven Beecham. Ben knew him of old, from when he went back to the Mirage Casino in Sunderland to play in his old home town. Beecham was charged with GBH a few years ago – he was paid to beat some bloke half to death with an iron bar – but got off on a technicality. Ben’s name came up in court because Beecham had his number in his phone, and Ben admitted to a reporter that he knew him.’

Beth looked confused.

‘So he is going to play poker?’

‘You know that piece of black marble he’s got on the desk in his study?’

‘Vaguely.’

‘Its inscription says, ‘Two is one, one is none’. I googled it after I saw it on his desk: it’s a saying they have in the US special forces. It means having just one plan is not enough, it’s as good as having no plan at all.’

‘I’m sorry, Joe. I don’t follow.’

‘I think Steven Beecham is Ben’s back up plan. In case plan A – to frame me – doesn’t work out. He’s going to Sunderland to make Beecham an offer: to teach me a lesson I’ll never forget.’

Knees, ankles and elbows, all shattered with an iron bar. That was what Beecham had been accused of.

‘Ben wouldn’t do that,’ she said in a small voice.

‘No, Ben wouldn’t. He’d pay someone else to do it for him.’

She shook her head in disbelief.

‘I don’t believe it,’ she said.