Patrick Kelly returned. Lunch would be ready in twenty minutes. Leaving Kate with her coffee, he slipped into the library to use the phone.

Dimitrios Brunos, a London Greek, was one of the best ‘minders’ in the West End. He was also one of the most violent.

‘Mr Kelly, how are you?’ His voice was solicitous.

‘Listen to me carefully and pass on what I say to all the others. My Mandy is dead and I’m upping the ante. There’s half a mil’ for whoever finds the ponce, right?’

Patrick heard a sharp intake of breath and smiled grimly. That should get some results.

‘Also, I’ll be looking for the slag personally, so I reckon between us we should find him. Whoever gives me his name gets the money, OK?’

‘Yes. Please accept my most sincere condolences. Your daughter was a . . .’

‘Yeah, yeah. All right, Dimitrios. I ain’t got that far myself yet. Just let the others know the score.’

Patrick put down the receiver and closed his eyes tightly. He was going to hound the slag into the ground. He would find him and pay him out if it was the last thing he ever did. Pulling himself upright, he squared his shoulders. First thing tomorrow he was going to phone the Chief Constable to request copies of everything the Old Bill found out. Patrick intended to get to the suspects first.

He went back in to Kate and sat beside her. Even though she was an Old Bill, a Filth, he trusted her somehow. She had the same quietness and serenity his Renée had had.

Patrick liked her.

George and Elaine had opened a bottle of wine. She was tipsy and they were watching a comedy film on TV. The curtains were pulled and the lamplight gave a cosy glow to the room. In fairness, George thought, Elaine was an exemplary housewife. Never in all their years together had he lacked an ironed shirt or clean underwear. His suits always went to the cleaner’s on time, and his meals were always cooked for him. Admittedly, Elaine’s cooking often left a lot to be desired, but she was at least conscientious. A good woman.

His mother, whatever her faults - and they were legion - had been the same in the housewifely stakes. Hate her or love her, the children were always well fed. She made sure they were the best dressed, the cleanest, the brainiest. Her house was the best furnished and kept spic and span. She had been proud of her Nottingham lace curtains, her wooden beds . . .

George jumped.

Elaine had placed her arm around his neck. He looked at her from the corner of his eye. She was resting her head on his shoulder.

Oh God!

‘Give us a kiss, George.’ Her voice was low and slurred.