Peter straightened and flashed a look at Jane’s father. “Sorry, love, I think we recorded the wrong channel . . .”

“What! Oh, shit, no, you haven’t, have you?”

The ice spectacular continued. As Peter looked on, Jane threw a beaut of a tantrum, only interrupted by the ringing of the telephone.

The second part of the program reviewed the number of calls that had been received and mentioned further evidence in the Karen Howard case.

There had actually been ten calls connected with the murder, but only one was to prove worthwhile. Once the cranks and hoaxers had been weeded out, one caller remained. Helen Masters, a social worker, had seen Karen in Ladbroke Grove on the night of the murder; she had seen a man picking her up, a man who, she was sure, knew the victim.

It was almost midnight when two officers arrived at Miss Masters’ house in Clapham to take a statement. She had seen a man she was able to describe in detail, and was sure she would be able to recognize again. She described the man as five feet nine to ten, well dressed, rather handsome, with very dark hair; she described George Arthur Marlow.

Jane and Peter argued all the way home from her parents’ flat. They were still rowing when they reached their door. Peter was furious at her behavior; they had all been waiting for her to cut the birthday cake, but as soon as she had arrived she had caused a terrible argument over her father not recording the program. Her tantrum, which was how he described her tirade against her father, was disgusting, especially when she knew that they had recorded it at home anyway.

Jane refused to back down, it was important to her and her father had known it.

“Do you think he did it on purpose, for God’s sake?”

“That’s not the point! They all knew how important it was to me, but they didn’t give a fuck! The stupid old sod should have let someone else do it! He always gets it wrong!” She stormed into the bedroom.

“Of course they bloody cared!” Peter slammed the front door so hard that it sprang open again and hit him on the shoulder. “You arrive late, scream about the bloody telly, then get on the phone for the rest of the night!” He strode into the bedroom, still yelling, “I don’t know why you bothered turning up, you’re a selfish bloody cow! He’d been waiting to see you, he’s proud as punch about you!”