‘His name’s Torvic, but he’s not dead. He’s helping us with our enquiries the Regans’ way.’

Conrad nodded. ‘So I was right to release Mike Regan, then?’ He was looking for some credit.

‘Yes, you certainly were. The funny coincidence is that while I was on the same mission, I employed the help of his brother . . . A strange world, really.’

Conrad held out his hand to Lance. ‘Maybe not so strange. It seems we found the best men for the job.’

Lance shook his hand. ‘No, not men. It was Zara Ezra. She was the mastermind.’

As Conrad saw Lance to the door, he chuckled. ‘I wanted to be a train driver, really. I never wanted or expected to become the Police Commissioner. I was trying to impress my father. I won’t again, though. I’m done.’

The two men went outside and stood on the porch overlooking a copper beech tree. Lance thought he could find it in him to proffer some advice.

‘Conrad, the special unit are not so interested in how you get the job done, as long as it is, and with the Governor out of the way, the drug will be off the streets and no one will be looking at what you’re doing. I wouldn’t resign if I were you. You’ve done a good job – in fact you chose the best: Regan. That must count for good judgement.’

***

It was seven o’clock in the morning by the time Lance arrived home. He soaked up the comfort and looked at his warm, inviting hallway, with the soft woollen carpet, and then heard the sound of his girls’ gentle snoring coming from the lounge. His girls.

He tiptoed into the room to find the snoring wasn’t from his daughters but from Arty and Liam. He stared for a while, and a smile lit up his face. There was Liam, a dead ringer for his mad father, sleeping like a baby; but that being the case, how did Willie manage to end up with a boy whose personality was so different? Then he looked at Arty; even curled up under the fur throw, his legs could still be seen, on account of his tall stature. There was a resemblance to Staffie although Arty was far more handsome. He slipped away quietly so as not to wake them and tiptoed up the stairs. He reached his own bedroom and leaned against the doorframe, soaking in the cherub-like sight. His two girls were asleep in his bed. Brooke had her arm around Poppy. A lump formed in his throat; out of all the carnage in the world, there was still such innocence, and he vowed there and then that he would work hard to help keep it that way. He looked at Poppy’s bruised face, her glasses skewwhiff on her nose. Carefully, he reached down to remove them and laid them on the bedside table.