They were less chatty now, as they ascended the staircase and moved side by side along the landing to the fifth bedroom, which was their father’s study. If anything, they were nervous, but this time it was a pleasing kind of nervousness because it was tinged with anticipation.

The light filtering around his partly open door indicated that he was waiting for them. Even if he hadn’t been, and if this had been an ordinary night and they genuinely had come in late from a party, he would probably have still been awake. Of late, he’d taken to writing his memoirs, a pastime he’d quickly realised needed to be his main priority in life, not just because it was a labour of love and a huge undertaking, but because when the manuscript was completed and bound, it would be the most valuable item he could bequeath to his offspring. The Life and Times of Martin Torgau Esq would not just detail the whole of his own strange, complex and terrible existence, but would name and shame various others whom he’d been involved with over the years and would clear up a phenomenal number of unsolved crimes, as well as several the police did not even know about. There were many highly placed men in the Northwest underworld who would kill quickly and ruthlessly to get their hands on such a prize. But that wouldn’t even be an option for them. When Martin Torgau was no longer here, knowledge of the memoir’s location would reside solely with his daughters, for whom it was intended to be a shield against the Crew.

The life they were embarking on would naturally entail many risks, but at least, with this memoir in their possession, they’d be insured against the region’s deadliest syndicate ever turning on them. At the first intimation that the two girls might for any reason be in their employers’ crosshairs, the memoir’s existence would be announced, with the threat that, should anything untoward happen to them, their legal rep would forward it straight to the authorities.

They tapped on the study door and entered.

It wasn’t as grand a room as the word ‘study’ might have implied. Originally a bedroom, it still had some of that appearance: a fitted carpet, a smallish window with a Venetian blind, and a wall of wardrobes – though these stood open to reveal a bank of TV monitors displaying live video feeds, not just from the exterior of the property and the cells downstairs, but from the back-to-back lock-ups as well. Instead of a bed there was a large desk, rather ornate, topped with smooth leather and spacious enough to accommodate not only an Anglepoise lamp and desktop computer but a mountain of foolscap sheets, on which Torgau was writing his memoirs in longhand.

He turned in his swivel chair to face them.