He allowed himself the luxury of imagining himself on the golden beaches of Florida, watching all the girls and women. He’d watched the travel programmes, he knew what to expect. He felt a thrill of anticipation. He was flying out at seven thirty the following morning and had decided to stay overnight at the airport hotel. Start his holiday properly. He would have to check in to his flight at five thirty, so he would need a good night’s rest, a good meal, and then he could get on the plane and relax.

He checked his passport, then the one Tony Jones had procured for him. He put them in his jacket pocket. Poor Tony Jones, he had been ripped off. But, he reflected, the pornographer had deserved it.

The house was beginning to feel claustrophobic. George bent his head to one side, a look of concentration on his face. He listened avidly. Nothing. He kept thinking he could hear Elaine calling.

He shrugged. Let her call, he just wouldn’t listen. He took his bags out to his car and then had an idea. He could go and visit his mother. He would like to see her before he saw Edith. Give her a nice surprise.

He grinned. If she knew he was going out to Edith’s it would kill her. Maybe he would mention it. But then she would know where he was going. He frowned. He’d see how it went. Happy now that he had a plan in mind, he began to make himself ready in earnest. It was nice, he thought, to be busy. To be in demand. To be a . . . what did the youngsters call it nowadays? A free agent. He smiled to himself in satisfaction, that’s just what he was.

Up in the top of the house Elaine’s body shifted slightly with the pressure of the rapidly filling tank. The ballcock that had been trapped at the small of her back shifted position with her and the tank began to fill up faster.

Patrick Kelly had kissed Kate goodbye at six thirty and was on his way to see a man who had some news for him. Important news by all accounts. He clenched his fists in agitation. It had better be something concrete or he was going to explode.

The traffic into London was heavy, and Patrick’s Rolls Royce was duly stared at and discussed. Every set of traffic lights had people trying to look inside, thinking it was someone famous. Patrick Kelly smiled to himself. He was famous to an extent, only not in the way these people thought. The Rolls drew up behind a funeral cortège and Patrick frowned. He felt, rather than saw, Willy shift gears and banged on the partition, sharply shouting: ‘You bloody dare, Willy, and I’ll murder you!’