But tonight when Geraldine came back downstairs changed, her husband was still in his work clothes and sitting stiffly in one of the armchairs. He looked pale-faced and distracted, and even though watching the day’s second instalment of Coronation Street, he clearly wasn’t following the events on screen; his eyes were almost glazed. When Geraldine tried to speak to him, he was curt to the point of being dismissive. A few minutes later he apologised, explaining that he’d had a tough day and that there were some difficult decisions to make in the department. She perched on the chair’s armrest and tried to cuddle him, cooing that it would be all right, that he was a good departmental boss and that he knew what was best for everyone. She even tried to massage his shoulders through the back of his suit jacket, but he remained rigid as a board, his eyes locked on the TV screen despite not seeing anything that was happening there.

‘It’s just, I wish …’

He’d been about to say: ‘I wish things were as normal as that. That all I had to do was either sack someone or put them on a warning, or something.’

But even if he had said that, it would have been a lie. Because deep down he didn’t wish for normality at all. He wanted his dukedom back; he didn’t want to suddenly be a servant again.

Which started him on a new train of thought: How much of a servant would he actually be?

The Crew must see some value in him, otherwise they’d have – what was it McCracken had said? – had the meeting ‘out back’. That encounter could have been a lot more frightening, and perhaps considerably more painful. Maybe this meant that an equal partnership still awaited him somewhere up the line? Assuming he proved his worth.

But how far up the line? How much would he have to demean himself to make this happen?

How much more humiliation could he go through when he’d thought he was past all that?

But then, did he even have a choice? It wasn’t as if Frank McCracken had been negotiating. If anything, he’d been laying down ground rules. And how had McCracken even known that Lazenby would be in Hogarth’s, or who he was for that matter? Had they been following him?

Lazenby’s anxiety grew exponentially, his shoulders stiffening even more under his wife’s fingers.

‘My God, Joe … you really need to try and relax,’ she said.

Lazenby couldn’t answer; his mouth was dry, his teeth locked.

They clearly knew everything about him. How else would they have closed in on his business affairs so quickly? But there was still no need to panic. This was the Crew, after all, not some bunch of drugged-up nutcases. But even so, why make it easy for them?

Abruptly, he stood up.