‘Everybody called me, Detective. And they all said exactly the same thing: “Somebody just hanged the bastard who killed your grandson.” I’m paraphrasing.’ His pale blue eyes glistened with tears and he laughed, amused at himself, the old gangster who was still capable of crying. ‘That’s what they all told me. Somebody lynched the bastard who knocked down little Danny when he was crossing the road.’

Paul Warboys smiled at me again. His teeth were white and even. Most of those old London faces didn’t care too much about their dental work. I couldn’t imagine Ronnie and Reggie Kray worrying about their flossing. But Paul Warboys had spent a lot of money and time getting his teeth to look that good.

‘Did you ever meet Barry Wilder?’ I asked.

He shook his head. ‘Who? Sorry, Max. You’re going to have to give me a clue.’

‘Barry Wilder’s young daughter was a victim of Mahmud Irani’s grooming gang.’

‘Ah. Mahmud Irani. The first one they hanged.’

‘Yes, the first one. I’ll ask you again – did you ever meet Barry Wilder?’

‘No.’ He laughed. ‘You want me to take a lie detector, Detective? I’m willing.’

His lawyer shot forward. ‘Paul, I strongly advise—’

Warboys again silenced him with a raised hand.

‘It’s not necessary,’ I said. ‘But I appreciate the offer. I’m concluding this interview.’

I looked at the one-way mirror of the interview room.

And I smiled back at Paul Warboys.

Because I had someone much better than a lie detector.

*  *  *

I walked Warboys to the main entrance of West End Central.

Doll, his wife, was waiting for him under the big blue lamp that hangs outside 27 Savile Row. She came to his side and gave him a quick, fierce hug, gold chains sliding down her thin brown arms. She peered into her husband’s face.

‘You done?’

He nodded. ‘For now.’

A chauffeured Mercedes was idling by the kerb.

‘Are you going back to Essex?’ I said.

‘Spain,’ he said. ‘Just for a few days. My brief can give you our schedule.’

I nodded. ‘OK.’

He held out his hand to me and I shook it. But then he wouldn’t let go. He kept my hand in his grip, and he held my gaze with his cold blue eyes.

‘I’d like to wish you luck in your investigation,’ he said. ‘But my grandson was the best thing that ever happened to me, Max. An innocent little boy who never did anyone in this world any harm. And I really hope these chaps – the Hanging Club – get away with it.’

Up in MIR-1 Tara Jones was running voice biometrics on a recording of the Paul Warboys interview. His laconic old London accent filled the room.

‘Paul Warboys. Businessman. Retired.’