“How’s our man? I hope he’s not been in here; he can’t box and drink. When I was the amateur middleweight champion of Oxford, did I tell you, I had ten bouts . . .”

Someone yelled, “How many years ago was that now, Felix?” Everyone had heard of his boxing prowess, sadly cut short by a hand injury, and no one paid any further attention in the crush as they all tried to get into the main hall at once. Superintendent Kernan was laughing at some joke, the tears rolling down his cheeks, and Otley whistled to him, pointing towards the hall.

“We’re on table six, Mike, right up against the ring!”

As the men sorted themselves out and filtered into the hall, Otley scuttled round the bar and headed for the back room, where there was a small portable TV set. A little unsteadily, Otley propped himself near the door, and was squashed against the wall as the barman came through with a crate of bottles.

Tennison was on screen. Otley squinted. “That’s her, she’s on! What’s she think she’s come as, Maggie Thatcher?”

He inched further into the room to get a better view. As he had organized the benefit night he had been propping up the bar since six-thirty, and the small screen made his eyes water. He could see six of Tennison, six of the bitch! And one was bad enough.

Tennison paused on cue for the footage of Karen’s funeral. She was in fact coping very well. She was now halfway through her discussion with Brian Hayes; she was clear, concise and very direct.

“We know Karen left the offices of the MacDonald Advertising Company soon after six-thirty on the evening of the thirteenth of January this year. She told the people she was working with that she was going home to her flat in Kensington. No one was seen to meet her. She turned left into Ladbroke Grove, towards the side street where she had parked her white Mini.”

The picture cut to Brian. “Karen Howard never returned to her flat. Were you in Ladbroke Grove that night, Saturday the thirteenth of January, at around six-thirty? Did you see Karen?”

Again the picture cut. The screen showed WPC Barbara Morgan, dressed in the dead girl’s clothes, walking away from the film company’s offices.

As Jane was no longer the center of attention, her mother got up from her seat to get a glass of wine. She was told to sit down again and not interrupt the program. She gave Peter a look and pointed to the video machine, whispering, “Is it on the right channel, Peter?”

Mr. Tennison pounded on the arm of the sofa. “Be quiet!”

“Jane’s not on, and I was just asking if you’d checked it’s on the right channel.”

“I have! Now be quiet!”