Shefford had been on the go all day. Now he was preparing himself to question Marlow. His face was flushed and he was chain-smoking, cracking jokes; it was obvious that the adrenaline was still flowing.

The men on the team were clapping him on the back, calling him a lucky bastard, what a break! Several were laying bets on the outcome.

DI Burkin suddenly remembered something. “Hey, it’s his kid’s birthday tomorrow! While we’ve all got our hands in our pockets, we gonna chip in an’ buy him something? You know Otley, he’s so tightfisted the kid won’t even get an ice-cream cornet from him. What d’you say, fifty pence each?” In great humor, they all coughed up.

Before he went down to the interview room, Shefford called his home to tell Sheila, his wife, that he would be late and she shouldn’t wait up. He was too keyed up to pay much attention to what she was saying.

“You didn’t answer me this morning, John. Have you booked the clown for Tom’s party?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get it sorted . . .” He handed the phone to Bill Otley and whispered, “Talk to the missus, mate, you’re his bloody godfather, after all. I haven’t got time . . .”

He lit another cigarette and turned to the files as Otley took the phone and promised faithfully that he would dress up as a clown himself if they couldn’t get Biffo for the birthday party.

The lads had been wrong about their skipper; Otley had spent more time and money in Hamley’s toy shop that weekend than they could credit. The train sets had cost an arm and a leg, but he was prepared to dip into his savings. He and Ellen had spent hours planning what they would spend it on when he retired; now his godson would be the one to benefit. It was making the decision that took the time, as well as wandering around enjoying himself in the store.

Otley replaced the receiver and turned to Shefford. “OK, guv? Need anything else? Marlow’s brief’s on his way, be about an hour. Arnold Upcher, represented him on his last caper. Tough bastard, but he’s fair. Doesn’t scream a lot like some of the buggers.”

Shefford winked. “I want a crack at ’im before Upcher gets here. Nice one for us, eh? What a stroke of fuckin’ luck! See if we can’t sew up Paxman’s record. Get a bottle of fizz over to Forensic lot, tell ’em I love ’em, and tell Willy to stand by for all the gear from Marlow’s place. And, yeah, I’m ready, let’s go for the bastard.”