While making their coffees she glanced over and could see them leaning towards each other, as if discussing something in private. She looked over at Rachel, who had a hardback novel open on the tabletop and was writing in a notebook as if making notes for an essay, while looking out of the corner of her eye to try and lip-read what George was saying.

When the Ripleys’ full Englishes were ready she took the food over to them.

‘I like your boxing gloves pendant,’ she said as she put the plate down in front of Tommy.

‘It’s eighteen carat gold and worth a few bob,’ he boasted.

‘Did you win it in a fight?’

He laughed. ‘No, me girlfriend Maria bought it for me. We just won tin cups or a belt when I was boxing.’

‘My dad did a bit of boxing.’

‘Where was his club?’ Tommy asked.

‘Above the Thomas A Becket pub in the Old Kent Road,’ she said, remembering it from when she worked in the CID at Peckham.

He looked impressed. ‘That’s a well-known club – it’s produced some famous boxers. Henry Cooper trained there six days a week for fourteen years, and Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier sparred there.’

‘My dad wasn’t that good. He told me he spent more time on the canvas than on his feet.’

Tommy laughed. ‘I know the feeling. My old club produced a few amateur champions, but I wasn’t one of them.’

‘Where was your club?’ she asked.

‘Chingford, at the TA drill hall.’

She felt her stomach churn as she remembered the photograph of Kingston in his office, with CHINGFORD AMATEUR BOXING CLUB 1958 on it, and him telling her the club was at the Territorial Army drill hall.

‘Get us some more brown sauce, darlin’, this ’un’s empty,’ George said, handing her the bottle.

*

Teflon watched as Carl got in the Transit van and a plume of black smoke spluttered out of the exhaust as he started the engine.

‘All units from OP4, Target 5 is on the move in white Transit van.’

‘Received by Central five six, we will follow with a solo.’

A few minutes later Bax was on the radio.

‘Target 5 parking Transit outside hall and out on foot towards cafe.’

*

George looked out of the window and spoke with a mouthful of sausage.

‘We better change the subject. Carl’s on his way.’

‘Have you never thought about getting him on a job?’ Tommy asked.

‘Nah, he’s a fucking mummy’s boy.’

George took a mouthful of coffee to wash his food down.

‘Why you always so hard on him?’

‘’Cause he’s a retard and ain’t from my loins.’

‘It’s not his fault he’s backward,’ Tommy said, looking serious.

George’s eyes narrowed. ‘What you mean by that?’

‘Nothing, forget it—’

‘Come on, spit it out – don’t be a wimp like Carl,’ he said aggressively.