It was the nights that were the worst for Cynthia. She thought she could hear little Vincent calling for her. And he would have called for her not his mum – it was Cynthia he would have wanted. She felt the sweat as it suffused her body, and the shortening of her breath that always accompanied it. Why had she done it? She had just wanted to make it seem as if her daughter was trying to fiddle the insurance and get herself a better house to live in into the bargain. Why had she not checked the bedrooms? She felt the tears once more, the tears that were never far from the surface. That little boy, that dear, handsome little boy . . .

As Cherie came and placed herself on her nanny’s lap, Cynthia held her tightly, loving the feel of her small body, and remembering little Vince as he snuggled into her, his sweet baby smell of Johnson’s powder. Now he was gone, burned to death, bless him, though the fireman said the smoke was what finished him off. He would have been lying in that cot, choking, and calling for his nanny Cynthia. He would have expected her to come and save him, she who had loved and cared for him all his life.

She leant forward and took a large swig of her whisky; it was the only thing that afforded her even a modicum of peace. She drank it whenever she needed solace, and that was all too often this past week. She needed its strength to help her forget for a few hours what she had done. Nothing in the world could ever wipe it out completely, but the Scotch helped and she drank it like water.

All she had left was her Cherie, and she could not lose her as well.

Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Six

Vincent was devastated, and he knew that whatever he was feeling, his Gabby would be feeling it a hundredfold. Little Vincent, his namesake, was gone. It was hard to believe, because he had never really known him. But he had still been his son, the boy he watched being brought into the world, the boy he had such hopes and dreams for. His heart bled for Gabby, facing the worst that life could throw at a woman, and facing it alone, without him. It was like a nightmare.

Everyone in nick was being fantastic – even the POs had been sympathetic. One had even brought him in a bottle of Courvoisier brandy, courtesy of Bertie Warner and Derek Greene, and he had appreciated that. It was good of them to think of him, and he had been told they would stand the money for the funeral for which he was grateful. But he would pay them back every penny; the least a man could do was bury his own.