‘Hagworth.’ Okoro acknowledged his opponent with a curt nod, which the old silk returned before getting back to the job of trying to make his bundles stand upright – a task that Okoro surmised was being hindered by his shaking hands and milky eyes.

‘Fine morning,’ Hagworth muttered.

Okoro shrugged. ‘I thought there might be more press.’

‘There are some reporters busying themselves in the lobby. Parasites. But enough to give you some publicity, if that is what you desire.’

Okoro grunted in a way that was intended to be non-committal. Dickie Hagworth QC was one of the most experienced libel lawyers in private practice but that didn’t stop him from being an objectionable snob.

‘A fine suit,’ Hagworth observed.

Okoro looked down and inspected his eighteen stone of muscle bulging out of an Armani three-piece. He looked back up, not sure what to say. Hagworth rarely said anything for no good reason.

‘You certainly look the part, Okoro. I hope you don’t take the loss too hard.’ The QC smirked and picked up another bundle.

Okoro leant forward, the bench creaking under the movement, and rested his chin on his hand thoughtfully. Then he said, ‘It’s going to be tough for you back at the gentlemen’s club, Hagworth. Trying to explain how you got beat by a black man.’

In front of him, Hagworth’s line of files collapsed, sending papers scattering across the courtroom floor.

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The morning sun glistened off the frost-covered grass as the procession slowly trailed over the brow of the hill, the church behind them and the vista falling away ahead. Crows lined the fence like sentries, watching the proceedings with avid curiosity. The ground was damp and the day smelt of fresh dew. Only the distant rumble of traffic reminded the gathering that the burial ground was only a few miles outside of the city.

The hole was already dug, ready to accept the casket, which was now lowered into the ground. At the far end, the vicar read the familiar set of words, shivering slightly in the cold. Charlie Priest stood at the back, hands thrust deep into his pockets, trying not to be recognised, but it wasn’t easy. At six foot three with broad shoulders and a strong, athletic build, Priest wasn’t good at merging into the background. With bright blue eyes and drifts of soft brown hair, he cut a rugged and striking sight. Several people had already turned around to look, nudging each other and whispering. They knew who he was. Through the crackle of their hushed chatter, Priest caught one electrifying word drifting on the breeze: Mayfly. He was the man who Kenneth had hired to find his son’s killer. The man who had undone everything for the Ellinders.