His mouth twisted with amusement. ‘I’m sure you’re right.’

I stared at him for a moment.

‘Find a headguard,’ I said.

He was a boxer not a fighter. He kept his distance, up on the balls of his feet, dancing sideways as I advanced, and for a moment I thought he had lost his nerve and did not want to fight.

Then I stuck out a left jab that fell short and he came back with a stiff counter that went straight through my guard and smacked hard against my nose. By the time I had angrily swung back, he had skipped away.

We repeated our little dance. He would wait for me to strike, then slip, block or move out of range, and come back with a fast, straight counter.

The sweat was pouring under my headguard. I had not sparred for weeks and I could feel my ring rust, that tiny loss of pace you get when you haven’t boxed for a while. I was one second too slow in everything I did, and nothing is more draining than being hit without having the chance to hit back.

A buzzer sounded. One minute gone and his confidence was growing. And that was good because I jabbed, he countered with a jab, and stayed close to smack me with a right cross. It caught me high on the headguard but not hard enough to stop me slipping inside and burying a left hook into his bottom rib.

King went down on one knee, one glove pressed against his ribs, and his face contorted with pain. A body shot sticks around in a way a head shot never does, and when he got to his feet he was less cocky, keeping his distance, happy to get in the odd counter, happy to stay away from another dig in the ribs.

The buzzer counted down from ten and it was over. We had sparred for three minutes and were both totally spent.

‘Christ,’ he said. ‘That’s harder than squash.’

Fred was smiling at us.

‘Nice spar,’ he said. And to Ben King, ‘Keep those elbows tucked in. Going to do another couple of rounds?’

‘Perhaps some other time,’ King said, still breathing hard.

Fred laughed and went off to collect the towels that were strewn around the gym. King and I sat there saying nothing, drenched in sweat, locked in the strange intimacy of two men who have just shared a boxing ring.

‘What do you want, Max?’ he said.

‘I want justice,’ I said. ‘And I want the truth. And I want it to be over.’

He fixed me with his politician’s look – that look that suddenly saw you, the look that endlessly flattered you, the look that saw you in your true light for the first time.

‘And I want what you want,’ he said.