As for Alfie Clarke, that fucker had only got what was coming to him and Daniel had been thrilled to be the one to finally give him his comeuppance. And he had no real care for Alfie Clarke’s son, he was collateral damage, that’s all. True, he could have waited for Alfie to put the child down, but he didn’t have the patience to fart-arse about all day. He had known when he had pulled up beside the Merc that he was going to take the child out too. It was his way of letting everyone know that he was capable of literally anything.

He looked around his front room; it was too quiet without little Tania careering all over the place. He looked fondly at her toys, packed neatly into a wicker basket. Lena had always been good like that, she had never let the kids take over the living room. She always said that once they were in bed, the toys were to be put away, and it was the grown-ups’ time.

He hoped they were OK and that their flight had been on time. She was a nervous flier, his Lena. She was always convinced they were going to crash! He smiled at her foolishness; she was a real worrier, but that was part of her charm as far as he was concerned.

He went into the kitchen, and poured himself a large Scotch. The back door opened and he turned quickly, expecting his brother, but it was his mother.

‘You filthy bastard.’

Daniel could feel the animosity emanating from his mother; she was looking at him as if he was a piece of dog shit she had just found on the bottom of her shoe.

‘You are a wicked fecking man, Daniel. A murdering bastard. I wish I had never set eyes on you.’

Daniel let her have her say, knew from years of experience that it was pointless to interrupt her – the best way to deal with her was to let her vent her spleen.

‘A fecking little child! An infant. Jaysus, Daniel, how could you? An innocent little child. Imagine if it was little Tania? And as for the poor child’s mother! She must be off her fecking head with the grief.’

She was crying now, and Daniel made a suitably contrite face. ‘Listen, Mum, I hold my hand up to taking Clarke out, but he was the one who used the kid as a shield. I couldn’t believe it . . .’

Theresa Bailey stared at her youngest child, her Daniel, and she knew he was lying to her. He could lie to your face, this one – even as a child he’d told bold-faced lies always. She had laughed at him then, never dreaming that she was rearing a man who would one day be capable of a crime such as this.