Angel smiled at him. ‘Coming,’ she said, and sashayed across the room in a long black Valentino gown with padded shoulders and a plunging V neckline to join him.

They went downstairs to mingle with their guests outside. Everyone who was anyone was here tonight, from A list pop stars to crooks to cabinet ministers. A cheer went up when Lenny and Angel appeared on the patio. Angel was still running through all the components of tonight in her mind. The cake was in the kitchen and the catering staff were working like bees in there.

Ah, the cake. It was huge – four tiers high – and decorated in marzipan with all the current themes of Lenny’s life, which were his black A Class Mercedes and his two mobile phones. Lenny was always chattering away into one of those bloody phones. There was a marzipan wodge of fifty-pound notes on the cake too, and

a slim box of Panatella cigars, which were Lenny’s poison of choice because they looked classier than cigarettes.

Appearances mattered to Angel’s husband. Lenny liked Savile Row suits, Lobb bespoke shoes and Turnbull and Asser shirts.

He liked Tiffany cufflinks, Louis Vuitton suitcases for when he travelled – and he only ever travelled first class.

Tonight was going to be big. Angel Axelford only ever did things in style. She had to sigh over it sometimes. Being Mrs Angel Axelford took considerable effort. She worked hard to keep her figure. Had regular manicures, pedicures and facials. Her hair was long and beautifully maintained. Her teeth and skin were immaculate. She dressed elegantly, teetered around in four-inch heels. Looked the business. She knew this was her part of the deal, and she honoured it, fully.

Lenny was off, circulating, laughing and chatting with his mates. Diana Ross was singing ‘Chain Reaction’. Angel spotted Cousin Tom, over by the DJ’s decks. Everyone was clutching a full glass – the catering staff were moving among them, making sure every glass was regularly replenished and that everyone had plenty to eat.

Then it was nine o’clock. It was time.

Angel took the matches and lit the sparklers on top of the cake in the kitchen. They fizzed and sputtered into life. The lights outside were dimmed, the sound system fell silent. Two of the male servers came outside, carrying the cake gingerly down to the marquee.

Don’t drop the fucking thing, prayed Angel.

They didn’t.

At the door of the marquee they paused. Angel stepped in ahead of them and clapped her hands together.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said Angel, beaming around at their assembled guests.

Someone was stepping up behind her.

‘Mrs Axelford,’ said a male voice in her ear.

Now what? wondered Angel.

She half-turned, irritated at the delay. It had all been running so smoothly . . .

The two men holding the cake edged nervously to one side as . . .

Christ!

Angel stared, aghast.

There were two uniformed police standing there, their faces grim.