A small man in a dinner suit climbed into the ring and began announcing the rules of the fight which to Kate seemed to mean only one thing: anything was allowed bar sawn-off shotguns or knives. Then both men sat in their corners while a half-naked young girl walked around the ring to whistling and cat calling, holding up a piece of cardboard with ‘Round 1’ on it. A bell went and the two men came at each other like bulls in the proverbial china shop.

Kate watched, amazed, as they began to fight. The Rasta took the initiative from the first punch. He delivered pounding blows to the Irishman’s head again and again. Kate watched in morbid fascination. The Irishman was up now. He lunged at the Rastafarian, head butting him sickeningly just below his eye. She watched the swelling rise and put her hand to her mouth. She closed her eyes tightly. This was barbaric. Two grown men pummelling the life out of one another. The atmosphere in the warehouse was charged and Kate glanced around her. She saw women standing up screaming at the two men; now that the fight was getting really violent it was as if they had been waiting for the real beating to begin. Kate’s eyes were dragged towards Frederick Flowers, who had also leapt from his seat and was shouting advice into the ring.

‘Nut the bastard back! Don’t let the Irish ponce get away with that!’

The black man in the ring seemed to heed the advice and was once more hammering the life out of the Irishman.

Kate watched Flowers as if she had never seen him before. He had made press statements about illegal boxing matches, as he had on many subjects over the years. It was one of the things he was supposed to be stamping out. Out of uniform and with too much drink in him, he looked what he was, a cheap shyster. Gone was the aura of respectability, the wise demeanour he assumed all day as the Chief Constable. In its place was just another assumed persona. The ‘I’m one of the lads really’ character. There wasn’t much to separate him and Patrick.

A dark-haired woman in her twenties brought Flowers a drink and he took it from her without acknowledging her presence. She sat in his vacated seat and pulled her skirt down ineffectively. She was definitely not Mrs Flowers. Kate had met Flowers’s wife on two separate occasions. She was a very refined woman, given to wearing sombre plaids and sensible shoes.

Why had Patrick brought her here, anyway?

Somewhere in her mind, Kate heard a bell. She looked at the ring and saw the two men swaggering back to their respective corners.

‘All right, girl?’ Patrick’s voice was concerned.

Kate stared at him. Despite all the noise and confusion around them, he seemed to sense her feelings.