Otley exploded. “Oh, that’s bloody marvelous! By tomorrow mornin’ we’ll have every soddin’ lost bag in the London area . . . This bloody woman is a total fuckin’ idiot . . .”

On screen, Tennison was still talking. “ . . . Telecom tell us that the coinbox was out of order that night. The AA have no record of a call from Karen . . .”

The bellowing of the Master of Ceremonies cut through the singing and shouting from the main room. “Gentlemen, in the red corner we have DI Burkin, weighing in at sixteen stone fifteen pounds, let’s hear it for him . . . And in the blue corner, the Raging Bull of Reading!”

Boos and cat-calls drowned Brian Hayes and Tennison. DC Jones gave up on Otley and returned to the hall to watch the fight. This was his first benefit, being the fresh man on the team, and he was having the time of his life. He seemed unaware that the orange juice was well and truly laced with vodka, but he’d know by the end of the evening. He was well on his way to getting totally plastered for the first time in his life.

Otley did not join table six until Crime Night was over and the fight was in the fourth round. Burkin looked very much the worse for wear, his nose streaming blood and one eye nearly closed.

During the break, Felix Norman climbed into the red corner, screaming instructions as if he was Burkin’s second. “Keep your fists up! Up, man! You’re flayin’ around like a bloody oik! Hit him with a good body, then one, two, one, two . . .”

Felix hauled out of the ring as the bell rang for the next round. Men were bellowing from the back of the room for Felix to sit down, they could not see through his bulk.

Otley cheered loudly as he poured himself a large Scotch from one of the many bottles in front of him. Kernan was whistling and thumping on the table; Otley leaned across to him.

“ ’Ere, Tennison’s done ’erself in tonight, guv! Wait till you see what she bloody went on about in the telly program. How she wangled that I’d like to know!”

“Yeeessssss!” Kernan was on his feet, fists in the air, as Burkin landed a good uppercut to his opponent’s chin. The entire room erupted and chants of “Blood . . . blood . . . blood . . .” mingled with a pitiful request over the public address system for whoever had parked in front of the fire escape to move his car. The chanting mounted in a crescendo as Burkin staggered as if he was going to keel over, but he planted his elbow in the Raging Bull’s ribs, and a small but visible head butt gave an opening for his right hand. The cheers were deafening as Burkin was proclaimed the winner.