Jane’s father was sitting right in the center of the sofa opposite the television, his hand on the remote control. Her mother was settling her grandchildren for the night, or trying to. They were dashing up and down the hall of the flat, screaming their heads off. She was getting a headache.

Jane’s sister, Pam, yelled at them to be quiet and go to bed, but they paid no attention to their mother. Their father, Tony, glared at her over the evening paper and she told him to go and see to them. Peter, sitting on the arm of the sofa, gave the harassed Tony a wink and opened a bottle of wine.

“Can I give you a refill, Mr. Tennison?”

“Thanks . . . Everyone should get in here, it’s going to start in a minute.”

Peter poured the wine. The birthday cake and champagne were all on hold for Jane’s arrival. Mrs. Tennison came rushing in with more plates of sandwiches.

“Peter, check he’s got the right channel for the video, she wants us to record it.”

Her husband looked daggers at her. “Just come in and sit down, she’ll be on in a minute.”

Peter looked at the video machine. “Are you on the right channel, Mr. Tennison?

The Crime Night theme started and everyone took their seats. Mr. Tennison, ignoring Peter’s question, turned up the volume on the TV and sat back. “Right, no talking . . .”

All of John Shefford’s team were gathered around the bar, off the main hall where the benefit dinner was to take place. The MC stood in the doorway, bellowing himself hoarse.

“Take your seats for dinner, gentlemen, please! Dinner is now being served, please take your seats for dinner . . .”

No one paid him the least attention, especially Sergeant Otley, who was leaning over the bar tugging at the sleeve of the harassed barman.

“Is the TV set up in the back? I want to see the start of the program.”

Dave Jones nudged him. “Come on, let’s go and eat. Someone’ll have taped it.”

Otley shrugged him away. “Go on in, we’re on the center table. I’ll be a few seconds, go on . . . Oi, Felix! you want a quick one before we go in?”

Felix Norman had appeared in the doorway, still in his overcoat. “I can’t find a bloody parking space!” he yelled.

The MC had got hold of a microphone and his voice boomed, “Please take your seats, gentlemen, dinner is now being served!” He was obviously under pressure from a row of aged waitresses who were giving him foul looks. “Please go in to dinner!”

At last there was a slow surge into the main hall where the tables had been set up around a central boxing ring. Norman downed his double malt and grinned at DI Muddyman.