‘One thing, Mrs Cullen. You’ve got a regular race night. It’s a while since I’ve seen that. Was there one last Tuesday?’

She nodded.

‘Who operates the machine?’

A deep knowledge of the pubs and clubs of northern England had always been a Romano speciality. Race Night: randomized simulations of horse races played on a special TV screen, with punters betting on the outcome. Back when Joe and Tony were doing the clubs it had been pretty common, just like bingo and second-rate singers doing their worst with Elvis and Glen Campbell.

‘We do. It’s not a machine these days. It’s all on DVD.’

Joe nodded and looked around for Rita, who was standing close by, waiting for him.

‘Very impressive,’ she whispered as she led him down a short corridor off the main lounge. ‘You’ve got a certain way with the ladies! French chick at the university. Now Karen? For your information, that was Karen Cullen at her warmest. I can hardly get a word out of her normally.’

‘It’s the subtle undercurrent of machismo. Anyway, what’s the League?’

She stopped, grinned like an idiot, and cleared her throat:

‘The EPL. It’s Bengali for Bunch of Dickheads. Come on.’

The door was open a couple of inches. On it a hand-written poster:

ENGLISH PATRIOT LEAGUE, MEMBERS’ MEETING, PRIVATE.

With what felt like untypical delicacy, Rita edged the door open and they slipped inside.

It was not a very large room. Four rows of chairs, about twenty people of varying ages sitting there. At the front a tall man was standing behind a table, addressing the audience. He was well built and had thick black hair with just a few streaks of grey. He wore a blue-and-white striped shirt and white braces, which gave him the air of an old-fashioned schoolteacher, the kind you wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of.

He paused as the door opened. The room fell silent. But only for a second or two.

‘That’s the problem,’ he continued. ‘They call us racist, but what kind of company employs one hundred per cent Asians? One hundred per cent Muslim?’

‘A racist one!’ someone shouted.

Murmurs of agreement arose.

‘Danny Cullen, I assume?’ Joe whispered.

Rita nodded. Her arms were now folded, and she’d assumed a position that was somewhere between arrogance and Suzi Quatro cock-rocker defiance, that pouty look that had sent him delirious as a kid.

Meanwhile, Mr Cullen was looking in their direction. He opened his arms wide.

‘Sergeant Aktar. Glad to see you. I wonder what the official police line is on an employer favouring one racial group to the exclusion of all others?’

‘Is that really your name?’ Joe whispered.

‘It’s Rita Hridi Scannon-Aktar,’ she whispered back. ‘He’s got Google. He thinks he’s clever. Thing is, I’ve got his full name and his knob size.’

‘His what!’