‘I don’t want to split hairs, constable, but that’s a kind of Paki, isn’t it? Not that I’m racist. It’s just an old school name. An affectionate nickname. I adore Indians.’ He surveyed his fellow mourners and sighed. ‘Christ, this place looks like a convention of Big Issue sellers.’ And then to himself, shaking his large red head: ‘What happened to you, Adam?’

‘Why aren’t the others here? The old gang.’

‘Well, Ned must be in Helmand by now. Ben’s a public figure, of course. Might not look good in the Daily Mail hanging out at the AGM of Junkies Anonymous. And I believe the Pak’s in court, probably defending some gyppo’s human rights.’

‘Excuses, excuses.’

‘I know. Dreadful, isn’t it? But as you can see from his new chums, Adam was always a bit different.’

‘Because he was a heroin addict? Cut him off, did you, Piggy?’

Philips chuckled. ‘Do you think we care about that? Some of the best families have drug issues. Dreadful word. No, Adam was always an outsider. Adam was always different. Even more than Paki Khan – who was, lest we forget, a Paki. Thing about old Pak – bloody good cricketer, the Pak. Bloody good. Opened the first eleven’s batting three years in a row. Hitting sixes gets you accepted, see. But Adam was a different creature entirely. Not because of the drugs. Because he was a scholarship boy. The rest of us, our parents paid for us to be there. Poor little Adam had to get there on merit. Strumming his banjo. Blowing his flute. Oh, I’ve offended you now. You think I’m a snob.’

‘When did you last see him, Piggy?’

‘Could you please stop calling me that? It was mildly amusing the first three or four times. But it’s what we call unearned intimacy, constable.’

‘Detective.’

‘Of course. Sorry, constable.’

‘Piggy is just an old school name,’ I said. ‘An affectionate nickname.’

‘I don’t remember you at school,’ he said. ‘Were you cleaning the lavatories?’

‘Come on, Piggy. When did you last see Adam Jones?’

‘Not for years. He came to me, begging for money. Boo hoo hoo. Poor little me. Look what a mess I’ve made of my veins. Don’t know where my next fix is coming from. All of that. I gave him what I had. And he went away.’

‘It didn’t concern you that he would spend the money on heroin?’

‘Not really. I wasn’t expecting him to spend it on low fat yoghurt.’

‘But why would anyone want to kill him? Hugo Buck I can understand. The woman-beating bastard.’

Philips gave me a sly look. ‘Not soft on our Natasha, are you? Bit rich for your blood, I reckon. Out of your pay grade.’

I gently touched his arm. ‘I’ll ask you again. Very politely. Why would anyone want to kill a homeless heroin addict, Piggy?’