‘John Favara was a man who lived in New Jersey many years ago. One day in 1980 this John Favara ran down and killed a twelve-year-old boy. This child’s name was Frank Gotti – that ring any bells, Max?’

I nodded. Now it was coming back to me.

‘Frank was the son of John Gotti,’ I said.

Paul Warboys chuckled. ‘John Gotti – the Dapper Don. The boss of the Gambino family. The last of the old school Mafia bosses. And then this John Favara knocks down and kills young Frank Gotti. You know what happened next?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘The guy – John Favara – was abducted and never seen again. And the assumption is that he was murdered for killing the boy.’

‘But Gotti and his wife were on holiday in Florida when Favara disappeared,’ Paul Warboys smiled. ‘So they were in the clear, weren’t they? Long way from Florida to New Jersey.’

‘Didn’t they also call Gotti the Teflon Don?’ Edie said. ‘Because nothing ever stuck? And didn’t Mrs Gotti attack John Favara with a baseball bat prior to his disappearance?’

‘Feels like the least she could do,’ Paul Warboys said.

He placed a scarred hand on our arms so that we could not take our leave. His knuckles were stark white against his suntan where the skin had been torn off and grown back. I had seen hands like that before but only on professional boxers.

He leaned close to our faces.

This was very important to him.

‘My point is this,’ Paul Warboys said quietly. ‘If I had killed the bastard that murdered my grandson with his car, I would have a much better alibi than the one I’ve got.’

Then he laughed.

‘And I wouldn’t have done it online,’ he said.

9

Jackson went for his run at first light.

As the sun came up around five the door to his room quietly opened and I stirred from the last stage of sleep, that shallow sleep that is full of dreams, as he padded across the loft to get Stan. By the time I got up an hour later the dog was curled up on his favourite chair, happily exhausted, and Jackson was in the kitchen, making porridge for us, his hair still wet from the shower. He already looked stronger than when we had found him.

He smiled his gap-toothed grin and nodded at the sleeping Cavalier.

‘Stan likes the ladies,’ Jackson said. ‘You’re going to have to watch that.’

‘He’s still a puppy,’ I said. ‘He’s just friendly.’ Stan was snoring. ‘You wore that dog out.’

‘I think it was the cute Labradoodle he met down by the river who wore him out,’ Jackson laughed, tipping blueberries into the porridge.

Then his face became serious.

‘Thanks for all this, Max. You know – putting me up. I appreciate it.

‘No problem.’