The sound of a car pulling up outside could be heard and all three looked out of the window. The lights of a police car flashed and, as they watched, two officers climbed out and made their way up the driveway.

‘Hurts, doesn’t it?’ asked Rebecca. ‘Thinking someone likes you and realizing they’ve just been using you all along?’

Achilles nodded. ‘Yes,’ he told her. ‘But you know what they say. The trick is not minding that it hurts.’

He looked around the room despondently, recognizing that his time as a small-time con artist had drawn to an end.

‘I’m not even going to get laid, am I?’

‘Afraid not,’ said Rebecca, smiling at him. ‘The sex has been cancelled.’

EPILOGUE: CANCELLING THE CLEVERLEYS

EPILOGUE: CANCELLING THE CLEVERLEYS

On the veranda of a small wooden house on the Scoraig peninsula of western Scotland, George Cleverley sits looking across the sea in the direction of the Isle of Harris, an eight-hundred-page biography on his lap, through which he is making great progress, and feels an extraordinary sense of calm. It’s a warm summer’s day and, other than the occasional squawk of a seagull, there’s not a sound to be heard. It’s the beginning of his third week here and he wonders why more people do not come to such remote spots after periods of crisis. The nearest village is a five-mile walk away, and he has completed this twice daily, an activity that has helped him lose some weight as well as filling his mind and body with a general sense of well-being.

It’s been more than three months since his embarrassing arrest for causing total chaos at Soho House and, although charges were eventually dropped, it proved the last straw for the BBC, which made it clear that there would be absolutely no way back for him now. The corporation could not possibly allow itself to be associated with him any more. (At least for a year or so, he was assured quietly, until the dust had settled.)

That Friday had proved one of the more unusual days of his life for, early in the hours of Saturday morning, as he found himself standing before the desk sergeant being released on bail, his wife, Beverley, to his utter astonishment, was brought up from the cells too, having been charged with the murder of a tortoise. (A later autopsy on the animal would prove that its death had been induced by digestive failures, its stomach gluey with After Eights, and subsequent charges against her were also dropped.) That alone would have been a coincidence worthy of a good dinner-party story, but it was improved considerably by the fact that, one after another, each of his three children also appeared in the same position, Nelson charged with impersonating a police officer, Elizabeth with suspected terrorist activities, and Achilles with blackmail and extortion. All in all, not a great day for the Cleverley brand, and only when the ghost showed up to drive them all home did the terror building in their souls start to diminish a little.