Pissed off with Otley’s attitude, Kernan cut him short. “Records had the report all the time, Bill. It was misfiled. She’s off the hook, and so am I.” He paused to let it sink in and wagged a warning finger. “Bill, a word of advice. Make it your business to get on with her.”

Otley downed his whisky and stood up. “That an order?” he asked through clenched teeth.

Kernan didn’t reply and he walked to the door, stopped with his back to the Super. “John Shefford was the best friend I ever ’ad. When my wife died, he pulled me through. I miss him.”

Kernan said gently, “We all do, Bill.”

Otley’s back was rigid as he replied, “Good night, sir, an’ thanks for the drink.”

Outside the office, Otley stopped and shook out his old mackintosh, folded it neatly over his arm. Jesus Christ, Otley, where the fuck did you get that raincoat, when you were demobbed? I’ll start a whip-round, get you a decent one, fancy one of those Aussie draped jobs? He could hear Shefford’s voice as if it were yesterday and he ached with grief. He missed his friend more than he could ever put into words, especially to men like Kernan.

Maureen Havers tumbled through the double doors, carrying a vast stack of files, and gave him a glum smile.

“You seen what’s coming in? We need a new trestle table for this lot . . . I thought you were on nine to three, Skipper? Haven’t you got a home to go to?”

After a moment’s hesitation, he offered to give her a hand, and as they walked along the corridor he said casually, “Do me a favor, would you, Maureen? If anything comes in from Oldham, let me have a shufti first, OK?”

“Sure! You got relatives up there? You know, I was almost transferred to Manchester, but I failed my driving test . . .”

They passed through the second set of swing doors and suddenly Otley felt better, because he had something to do. He was off-duty, but had nowhere to go, not now John Shefford was gone.

It was a struggle for Jane Tennison to open the front door. The files she carried were slipping out of her arms, and she dropped her briefcase to save them. When she finally made it into the hall she shut the door behind her and leaned against it, exhausted but glad to be home.

Joey’s voice wailed from the spare bedroom, “Nooo-o-o-o! Daddy, don’t go!”

“OK, Joe, just one more story,” Peter replied patiently.

Grateful that the door was closed, Jane tip-toed past it and into her own bedroom. She was in bed before Peter had finished the last story.

“And then, what do you suppose he did then?”