Donna was sitting on a small leather stool, her face devoid of colour and her whole body trembling. Looking at her, so fine-boned, so feminine, Laughton felt the full force of the woman’s attraction. Pushing her heavy dark hair from her face, she looked him in the eye. Tears were rolling down her cheeks, but she made no move to wipe them away.

‘This is all a ghastly mistake. My husband is somehow caught up in a ghastly mistake.’ She begged him with her eyes to tell her what she said was true. Laughton did not wish to witness her pain. Instead he said gruffly, ‘Your housekeeper is making some tea. I would advise you to put a drop of brandy in it.’

Helping her from the stool, he escorted her to the kitchen, ignoring Bunty and Harry as they passed in the hallway.

Dolly’s cockney accent could be heard even before they reached the kitchen door. ‘Get your ruddy feet off of my clean floor, and stop picking at the food! If you’re not careful . . .’

As Donna and Laughton walked into the kitchen, she looked at them and said loudly, ‘So! PC Plod has arrived back, has he? You’ve dropped the biggest bollock of your career tonight, I only hope you realise that . . .’

‘Hello, Dolly, long time no see.’

She snorted. ‘Not long enough for me, Laughton. Still fitting people up, I see.’

The three policemen in the kitchen smiled at the older woman’s choice of words. Dolly nodded at them all, her small black eyes sharp.

‘I know what I’m talking about. I had dealings with him when he was greener than the proverbial grass. Grass being the operative word with you, eh, Laughton?’

‘Shut up, Dolly. You always was a mouthy bitch and you ain’t improved with age.’

‘How’s the wife, Frank? Still turning a blind eye, is she? Mind you, looking at you now, I’d bet me last penny you don’t get much luck from the blaggers’ wives these days.’ She nodded at the three policemen and grinned widely. ‘Oh, that’s true, all right. You could set your watch by him years ago. If the old man got a twelve at three in the afternoon, Laughton would be round the house by eight-thirty, suited and booted, fish and chips under one arm and a bottle of wine in the other. No prizes for guessing what else he had for them . . .’

‘Shut up, Dolly, and give your arse a chance.’ Laughton’s voice was hard.

‘Truth hurt, does it, Frankie? You ain’t worn very well, but then your kind never do, do they?’

‘You was an old boot then, and you’re still one now. How’s your old man? Grateful for getting banged up, I imagine. Anything has to be better than living with you. Now you’re with another blagger. I might have guessed I’d find you here.’