The tiny blast of a worn-out record of The Eye of the Tiger started playing for the next bout as the buckets for donations to Shefford’s family were being passed around. Otley sat back in his chair with a grin like the Cheshire Cat; he knew Tennison was in the shit, knew it, because he also knew that Marlow’s car had not been reported stolen. To give out his registration number on live national television was going to create a nasty scene with Marlow’s legal adviser. Otley’s hands itched for his wooden spoon . . .

DC Jones was propped against the table, insisting on singing a solo, demanding to be let into the ring. His young face was flushed an extraordinary red, his shirt was undone . . . Otley chuckled; they’d got the poor lad well and truly pissed. He stood up to give Jones a helping hand and slithered beneath the table, where he remained for the rest of the evening.

Jane drove straight from the television studios to her parents’ flat. The follow-up would not go on air for another hour and a half, and she was not required to wait for the phone-in. The two officers left in charge had her number, and she was ready to act immediately on any information that came in.

Her family had waited long enough, so the champagne was open and the candles on her father’s birthday cake were lit when she rang the bell, just in time to join the chorus of Happy Birthday. She had forgotten to post his card, but presented it with a flourish with the two bottles of champagne she had picked up on the way from the television center.

Her father hugged her tightly, proud of her achievements, although he never said much about it. She kissed him while her mother looked on, surreptitiously removing the supermarket price labels from the champagne bottles, but not before she noticed they were bought locally. Jane couldn’t even spare the time to buy her dad a present!

“Well, was I OK? What do you think, did I look OK?”

She was asking generally, but her eye caught Peter’s and he gave her the thumbs-up. “Well, come on, put the video on, let me see meself!” She sat down with a glass of champagne.

Her father leaned against the back of the sofa. “What’s this Brian Hayes bloke like, then? I listened to him on the radio, you know.”

“Oh, he’s great! Did you think I was OK, Dad?”

“Course you were, love. Do you want a sandwich?”

“No, thanks, I just want to see what I looked like. The second part’ll be on soon.”

Peter started the video and ice skaters zapped across the screen in fast forward. Then came a snatch of Dallas, then back to the skating.

“Is this the video? Peter? Is it on?”