“Barnes,” Rolfe said with disgust, and there had been so many other coincidences in the case that it came as no surprise. It could be no one else. “ Brian Barnes. He runs a company called Squirrel.”

“Yes,” she said. “I know. I’ve heard of it.”

“He’s a bloody millionaire,” Rolfe said. “ If it’s the last thing I do, I want him behind bars. I can’t stand him.” He nodded towards the smartly painted pavilion, where most of the spectators of the match were sitting in the shade. “Barnes gave a donation to the club to build that place,” he said. “That’s why I’m sitting out here with the sun in my eyes and why the wife makes me a flask and sandwiches for my dinner. I’ll not set foot in it.”

“Do you think Barnes still sees Rosco as a threat?”

“I do. It would suit him fine if Rosco was locked up again. While he’s out, there’s always a risk of him talking.”

“Tell me about Barnes,” she said. “Everything you know about him.”

“It’ll take a while,” he said. “I’ve been studying him for years.” She realised then that his dislike of Barnes was unreasonable, unbalanced, an obsession.

“Why do you bother?” she asked. “ You’re out of it now.”

“I needn’t be,” he said suddenly. “They threw me out because of Barnes. I’ll never prove it, but I know all the same. The deputy chief constable has been a friend of Barnes’ for years. He and the family go every year to stay in Barnes’ villa in the Algarve, and now he’s a member of that posh country club at Rashwood Hall.

They called it early retirement on health grounds, but it was the sack just the same. I was a good policeman.”

“Go on,” she said. “Tell me about him.”

When he started speaking, she was amazed by the detail of his information and the fact that he could remember it all. He had stored up the story of the man’s life, fueling his bitterness by recalling the number of Barnes’ houses, the extent of his business empire, his wealth, and his influence.

She took notes in shorthand and listened, astounded, as he painted a picture of the man he was convinced had lost him his job.