Martin Torgau was still talking, shedding more light on his villainous life. Describing the street-gang he put together, and how it came to enjoy unparalleled success because of his ruthless leadership. How various enemies sought to tear him down. How he and his cronies responded savagely: shooting them, stabbing them, clubbing them, the bodies disposed of down derelict mine-shafts or thrown into lakes and reservoirs with concrete chained to their feet. And how, in due course, Wild Bill had persuaded Torgau that his real vocation lay not in petty crime, like selling guns, but in real problem-solving.

‘We’d just done a one-off job for Bill,’ Torgau said. ‘A Stockport gangster called Jerry Coonan was cutting in on Bill’s action. Bill didn’t want the problem solving publicly. Nevertheless, he wanted to know that Coonan had been properly punished. Me and a couple of lads, we nabbed Coonan when he came out of his local and took him to this derelict workshop. We’d already got a workbench laid out, with clamps and vices. And we had a camera set up – we had to film it, you see. Bill wanted to watch it for himself.’

Torgau half-smiled, as though it was a fond recollection.

‘We did a real number on him. Pliers, nutcrackers. Then I got this ripsaw, and I cut him up while he was still alive. Piece after piece. After it was over, we bagged him, laid him down under some new cement. He’s holding up an office block these days. Anyway, Bill watched the video, and he was so happy afterwards that he said: “Martin, you can be my personal problem-solver.” And he’s certainly kept me busy since then. Too busy really. Which is why I’ve been training up the girls.’

‘Training?’ Lucy said, trying not to show how sickened she felt.

‘In the end I did away with all my other sidekicks because I wanted it purely to be a family business. And now someone must take that business over. Anyway, your turn, detective.’ His mournful face split into an unexpected smile. ‘The game … remember.’

It was difficult for Lucy to know how she should respond. She glanced at the fire again, where the poker lay white-hot.

‘Pretty green eyes you’ve got, DC Clayburn,’ Ivana said. ‘Would be such a shame.’

My eyes … God almighty!

Lucy still didn’t know how to respond.

Quite clearly, she had to give them something. But what?