Lang went pale. The arrogant look dropped from his face so hard and fast Bowman almost heard it thud against the parquet flooring.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ His voice was small and quiet.

‘Yes, you do.’ Mallet sat back with folded arms and said, ‘What would your business partners and lieutenants think, if they found out you’ve been smuggling in underage kids for you and your Establishment mates? What would your wife say, come to think of it?’

Hatred flickered behind Lang’s eyes. The look on his face suggested he wanted to reach across the table and strangle Mallet.

‘You wouldn’t . . . you wouldn’t fucking dare,’ he stammered.

‘Want to bet on it?’

‘You can’t prove a thing.’

Bowman said, ‘What about Beth McKee?’

‘Never heard of her.’

‘She was twelve years old when she went missing.’ Bowman bristled with anger. ‘I was in the Met at the time. We looked everywhere for that kid. Her mother was heartbroken.’

‘Terrible. But what has that got to do with me?’

‘You hid the body, didn’t you, Mr Lang?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘I know for a fact that she was last seen at your mansion. Beth was the favourite of one of the lords, wasn’t she? You lured that kid inside and let some rich old bastard abuse her. And when the lord went too far, when he throttled that poor girl to death, you buried her to cover it up. That’s what happened.’

Lang’s face gave nothing away. But the narrowed eyes were filled with the threat of violence, the veins on his neck bunched tight with rage.

Mallet said, ‘Maybe we’ll get the diggers round to your place in Billericay. Start tearing up the grounds. See what we find.’

‘You can’t . . . you don’t have no proof.’

‘We don’t need any,’ the Voice said. ‘All we have to do is create a fuss, and the public will make up their own minds. We’ll seed stories in the national newspapers. We’ll populate chat rooms and social media with discussions about your sexual orientation. Our contacts will spread rumours among your friends and family. Our friends at Scotland Yard will begin an official investigation. Even if they can’t find anything, it won’t matter. By the time we’re finished, your reputation will have been dragged through the mud. No one will want to go anywhere near you, not even with a barge pole. That’ll have a ruinous effect on your businesses, of course.’

‘Your own life might be at risk, too,’ said Mallet. ‘They don’t tolerate kiddie fiddlers in your line of work. When your mob friends find out, they’ll be arguing over who gets to cut your balls off.’

A pained expression formed on Lang’s face. He swallowed hard and looked out of the window, as if searching for a sign from God. He took a deep breath.